The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 8, Issue 1 (May 1, 1933)

New Zealand Verse

New Zealand Verse

“Ambition.”

I'm going to be a butcher,
And drive a horse and cart;
I'll have long strings of sausages,
And bits of bullock's heart.
I'll give the stray dogs each a bone,
Not “shoo!” them all away;
I'll give the poor just lots of meat,
And will not let them pay.
I'll let boys hold my horse, while I
Go round from door to door;
I'll have a big striped apron on—
What could a boy want more?
I'll knock at each door, and cry “Butcher!”
As loudly as ever I can.
Yes, that's what I'll be when I'm grown up,
A great big butcher man!

* * *

The Mystery Train Romance.

The mantle of romance cannot be shaken from Mystery Trains, travel they ever so speedily; but here we have a rail romance, turned into a song as simple as “Maggie Murphy's Home” and as direct as the “Limited.”—Ed.

Song.

Mary wanted a sweetheart, Daniel wanted a girl.
They met with each other, thro' Mary's young brother,
And two hearts were set in a swirl.
Mary starts silently dreaming, Daniel goes roaming alone.
He'd call in to see, when he passed No. 3,
If Mary's young brother was home.
Mary peeped thro' the window; Daniel knocked at the door.
Mother would open and say: “Please come in,
You're ever so welcome, I'm sure.”
Daniel told Mary he loved her; Mary said “Boy, that is fine.”
'Twas a Mystery Train ride made these lovers decide
For a honeymoon spent on the Line.

Chorus:

Now they ride gay in a Mystery Train,
Spending their honeymoon down on the Main.
When they return they'll start over again
As Mr. and Mrs. O'Neill.

* * *

Spring in the Moutere Valley.

The greenness that springs from the root of things,
And carpets the earth, and clothes the trees,
Will gladden the heart of the one who sings
While striding along, bared head to breeze.
His song let him take to the Moutere Hills;
Once there he has but to turn his head;
The scene to an artist is one that thrills—
That many-hued carpet, brightly spread.
The pattern is woven in coloured squares,
Divided by hedges—golden aflame;
A shining bright river, gorse that glares,
A vein of such gold no quartz could shame.
Gay lupins that roll like the wind-tossed seas,
A note give of blue in the carpet theme;
While masses of blossom on apple trees
Are like fallen clouds in an angel's dream.
'Tis a magic carpet of which we sing,
Changing its colours, gold, blue and white;
But the green endures and it still will bring
Assurance of ends that are good and right.

Mount St. John, Auckland, N.Z.

Six little sister willows
Sat round the crater bed,
And chattered, chattered merrily,
Like many a wiser head.

One swung her silken bonnet-strings
In the green young springtime breeze,
And one her dainty slippered foot—
And everyone agrees

That there's nothing like a willow
To look lovely in the Spring,
And there's nothing like soft emerald sheen
To make the heart to sing.

So one told of emerald bull-frogs
A-leaping to the sun;
And one of shy young nestling ferns;
Of simple shamrock one—

And they all flung out their laughter
On the rippling spring-time breeze,
And—what a pretty sight it is,
Sure everyone agrees,

When six little sister willows
Sit round a crater bed,
And chatter, chatter merrily,
Like many a wiser head!

—M. A. Innes.

The Crocodile.

When I was young it fell to me
To doubt my own identity.
I doubted, in a murky mist,
Whether I really did exist;
But sharper than a two-edged sword
Came self-awareness, and I smile
To think how Ego was restored
Whene'er I met a crocodile.

That sounds as if I set my sail
Upon the Ganges; but I fear
I offer you no Traveller's Tale.
This crocodile shed not a tear,
Unless from some communal spring
Tears flow into a common pool.
The beast of my adventuring
Came forth from a young ladies' school.

Hard by a nascent hawthorn hedge
That girlies' school was situate.
I veered towards the pavement's edge
As did become my man's estate.
I did not wink, I did not stare,
But I vouchsafed a sickly smile,
Of inhibitions well aware,
Whene'er I met a crocodile.

Now I am old and weak and blind,
And walk abroad on sufferance
The erstwhile toy of womenkind,
The fugitive of circumstance.
But this is odd. Whate'er my fears
Of Nemesis I do not smile,
But thoughts arise too deep for tears
When e'er I meet a crocodile.

C. R. Allen.