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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 8, Issue 10 (February 1, 1934)

New Zealand Verse

page 20

New Zealand Verse

Song of Thanksgiving.

The rains that nourished England fell once upon
our sires, Whose hearts, in exile, must have dreamed of
spring in English shires; And they bequeathed to us the blood which at
that mother's name Moves in our breast till all our pride of race
leaps into flame.
'Tis then we think of England—her woods and
trees and skies, Of all the ancient loveliness that in her cool
heart lies; Of every spring that films her lanes and
burgeons her slim trees, And stirs her slow historic earth to birth's new
mysteries.
The very name of England is home to those
who've heard Sleepily stirring through their dreams songs of
an English bird, And there has chimed within our minds many a
time the notes Of larks that herald golden day with dew across
their throats.
And yet our hearts own fiercer love to this
young eager land, Where damp and sweet with smells of earth the
virgin forests stand, And, tumbling through the lace of rimus, snowy
cascades pour A flash of waterfall on ferns that bend to their
soft roar.
The gentle fields of England are drowsy with
old dreams. And bright with waves of buttercups that glow
beside her streams.
But English skies have never seen the rata
droop to lean Her scarlet mouth against a lake's smooth breast
of placid green.
Her winds lift shining apple-blossom from
flushed orchards where The droning bees make sleepy thunder through
the flowered air;
But ours know snow-fed rivers leaping from a
mountain head To score out gorges for a wall and beaten rock
for bed
Yet not in simple things like these the subtle difference lies
For all our springs may be as sweet, and just as soft our skies.
But through the veins of England's earth the storied centuries beat,
And he who treads on English dust treads history’ neath his feet.
Here where the years are hardly touched, the
story scarce begun, The imprint of the pioneers lies warm on all
that's won; We thank each tool that, wielded well within
their patient hands, Beat us slim spires from stubborn rock: from
barren hills, fair lands…
For they have given us the task—the graver task—to make
Out of the untried Now a future great for England's sake.
We may not tread an ancient soil stamped with old songs and tears,
But we must build and hew our tale out of the rock of years.
We must take up the dreams, the tools, and,
pioneering still,
Carve the swift-changing years in noble purpose to our will,
Giving our deep, exultant thanks for this exacting trust,
Since our hands’ work may serve our race when we are mute in dust.

* * *

The Lad.

The lad is eight, and partial to The talkie moving pictures,
And copies all the slang from these, Despite severest strictures.

page 21

“Say, Julius Caesar, he was ‘tough,'”
He said. “Do you know why? Well, he had a slave to carry his books
When he went to school, that guy.”
“And how are you getting on at school?”
I asked; “Oh! I'm all set; I can fight any boy in the class, and gee!
I can wrestle too, you bet!”
He owns a pair of cowboy pants;
He washed them yesterday In the clean, white bath, and almost wore
My facial soap away!
His bedroom is a dumping ground
For bits of wood and string—
Boats half made and aeroplanes And parts of everything.
All his boy friends seem to have
The self-same Christian name;
“Fatty” he calls each one, although His own's no puny frame.
“What's influenza, Mum?” he asked;
I said ‘it was the name for’ Flu.
He thought ‘it was a wall round England, built
To stop the sea coming through!
His future's not quite settled yet;
He thinks he'd like to be A railway guard, a fireman, or
An airman like “Smithy.”
One day I saw his ears unwashed;
I spoke impressively, Or so I thought—but when I'd done,
“Sez you!” said he to me.
“You must not speak to me like that,”
I said, “and please remember,
Don't use slang.” His answer was “O.K. Mum, I'll remember!”

* * *

The Fly in the Ointment.

It was over a year since he'd met her
And fallen a prey to her charms;
His attentions could not have been better,
She received him with welcoming arms.
He plied her with chocolates and ices,
He took her to dances and shows,
But the matter had come to no crisis,
And he made no attempt to propose.
Said he, “I'm a good looking feller,
My income and prospects are good;
Of my fondness I really should tell her,
And—but for one drawback—I would.
I'd make the espousal suggestion,
But it's this that impels me to stop—
It's not so much popping the question.
As the matter of questioning ‘pop.'”

The Signal.

There's a rushing and a roar,
And the little houses shake,
When the northbound express goes shrieking by.
As it hurtles past in thunder The whole earth seems to quake,
And its echoes flare up crashing to the sky.
We are crowded here and poor,
We who live along the line,
We wage a losing war with smoke and smut;
Yet I wouldn't change to-morrow If the choice were really mine,
I'd want to stay, if only in a hut.
For there's someone on the engine—
(No I would not be away!)
Who waves to me as flashing he goes past. That signal spreads a brightness,
A sunshine on the day,
That never smut nor smoke can overcast.
So I wouldn't leave my cottage For the palace of the queen;
Each morning I must wave my swift reply. We are watching, he and I.
And the message flies between,
As the northbound express goes dashing by.

* * *

Hop-picker's Lay.

If you wish for scenes that are bright and gay,
With plenty of laughter and fun;
Then in Motueka you must stay,
When the harvest of hops has begun.
A hot sun slants through tall green aisles, Where the pickers at bins are working;
There's colour, and chatter, and happy smiles, But, nevertheless no shirking.
“String!” cries a voice o'er the scented air, Which is full of the tang of hops;
And the string-puller brings his long knife there, Cuts o'erhead, and a hop vine drops.
The vine is laid across the bin,
Then quick hands flash and pull,
While the soft green hops fall gently in, And you hope it will soon be full.
At last the long day comes to an end, And you're waiting for the measure;
Then scores are told, and you're free to suspend Your work, for an evening of leisure.
It's pleasant to sit at the whare door, In the light of a picker's camp fire,
While songs are sung, and stories galore, Are told till it's time to retire.

page 22