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Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant

To the Rev. Canon Fisher

To the Rev. Canon Fisher
Pretoria
The night before we're shot
We shot the Boers who killed and mutilated
our friend (the best mate I had on Earth)
Harry Harbord Morant
Peter Joseph Handcock

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Two Gossips

One fox-faced virgin, word for word,
Repeats each sland'rous thing she's heard,
And sourly smiles as scandal slips
With gusto from her thin white lips.

She's bad enough! but list a minute.
Beside her mate she isn't in it.
This latter lady, 'pon my word,
Repeats things . . . . she has never heard.

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Envoi

When the last rousing gallop is ended,
And the last post-and-rall has been jumped,
And a cracked neck that cannot be mended
Shall have under the yew-tree been 'dumped',
Just you leave him alone-in God's acre -
And drink, in wine, whisky or beer:
'May the saints tip above send 'The Breaker'
A horse like good old Cavalier!

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Much a Little While

'Love me little, love me long' -
Laggard lover penn'd such song.
Rather, Neil! - In other style -
Love me much, a little while.


If that minstrel ever knew
Maid so kissable as you -
(Like you? - There wa snever such)
He'd have written, 'Love me much.'


Other loves have pass'd away!
Sprintimes never last alway!
'Twill be better - will it not
To think that once we lov'd 'a lot.'

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Sir Walter (Revised)

0 woman, in man's hour of ease
And plenty, how you strive to please!
To win his heart - and purse - you try
With ogle, whisper, smile, and sigh.


But when he's short of cash, you find,
You change your tactics and your mind;
And from a fellow lacking 'oof'
You deem it well to hold aloof -


Tip-tilt your nose and curve your lip,
And let the impecunious R.I.P.,
To find some other, wealthier, new man:
All this you do because - you're Woman.

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A Song

The sun may shine, the rain may fall,
And the world roll round about, -
The king's men and king's horses all
Can never rub one thing out.

Skies may darken - clouds will flit -
Troubles may gather and go:
For my sweetheart loves me "just a bit!
And, oh! I love her so.

The vapour vanishes in the sun!
So pass cures, doubts, and pains -
For I'm "loved a bit" by the dearest one,
And the best the world contains.

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Behind the Bar - a Desecration of Tennyson

Gray eyes and gamboge hair!
One barmaid of 'The Crown'!
Ah, will that beaming siren still be there
When I go next to town? -
When over-night much spirit I had quaffed,
How I was wont to bless
That nymph who, smiling, mixed my morning draught
Of B. and S.!


That holiday has gone!
Now wintry breezes blow
In fitful gusts about my hut upon
The Warrego.
Hard times foretell that for a 'down-South' spree
The day is distant far;
And I no more, in Sydney town, may see
That girl behind the bar.

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Love Outlasteth All

Could I borrow the laverock's lifting note,
Or the silvery song from the blackbird's throat,
Then would I warble the whole day long,
Telling, in floods of passionate song,
How worlds might tremble, or skies might fall.
But Love, true Love, outlasteth all.

Or, with picturesque words, in phrases neat,
With ringing rhymes, and in sonnets sweet,
Had I the skill of the schoolman's craft
My song the murmurous breeze should waft,
And tell to her whom my heart loves best,
How Love outlasteth all the rest.

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Corn Medicine

'A well-bred horse! but he won't get fat,
Though I've done the best 1 can;
He keeps as poor as a blessed rat!'
Said the sorrowful stable-man.


'I've bled and I've blistered him-and to-day
I bought him a monster ball;
But, blow the horse! let me do what 1 may,
He won't get fat at all.


'I've given him medicines galore,
And linseed oil and bran,
And yet the brute looks awfully poor,'
Said the woebegone stable-man.


One glance the intelligent stranger threw
At the ribs of the hollow weed,

[...] Read more

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His Masterpiece

Never before was daughter of Eve endow'd with a face so fair,
There be none of God's holy angels with a beauty half so rare
As thine, nor dreamer has ever dreamed the loveliness you wear.
There's a gleam in your golden tress, Lieb! a light in your melting eye!
There is witchery in your smile, Lieb! and a magic in your sigh
That may lure the strong ones to your shrine to worship and - to die.
And I - when you whispered softly, Lleb - perchance would have worshipped, too,
Had bowed to the spell of your beauty-an' it were not that I knew
The Devil had wrought his masterpiece what time he fashioned you.

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