Page 1 Advertisements Column 5

Gisborne Times, Volume VI, Issue 219, 21 September 1901, Page 1

A Southern poet has got off a poem rn Conciliation,” which is cast in a somewhat pessimistic strain, entitled “Called out of its Name ”: — Of trade disputes that never stop What stimulates the bristling crop In mill, mine, factory, and shop ? Conciliation. What makes the labor unions gay With shorter hours for higher pay; But turns the employer old and grey ? Conciliation. For when to haul him up they choose, What arms them with the fatal noose Of “Heads, we win, and, tails, you lose ? Conciliation. What brings us all to ruin's brink, Running up prices—food and drink, And clothes and rent —though profits shrink? Conciliation. What leaves all industries the worse, Depletes the housewife’s frugal purse, And earns the farmer’s heartfest curse ? Conciliation. “No strikesi” and yet, for ends the same, What plays—and wins—the striker’s game? This strike with the ironic name— Conciliation. New Zealand was not going to let Old England call in vain, Together they the foemen met, And side by side were slain. Tis said “ disease kills more than war," And nothing can be truer; When coughs and colds knock at the door, Take Wooes’ Great Peppermint Cure.