POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2248, 16 June 1881, Page 4

POETRY.

TAB/ HIM AWA’, LORD.

(“ Queenslander.”) Tak’ him awa/ Lord, tak’ him awa’, Tho poor little felloy’s so bad, And to see him lig here while we cannot do

mout, It mak’s us both dreadfully sad. The doctor has oa’d, and he leaves him to

Thee, For he’s out of the reach o’ his power ; And he says we mun watch for the angel o' death, , For he’s coming to steal our flower.

Thou’rt good, and Thou’rt woise, or we wadna’ luv Thee, And what Thou doest is weel; But we seem as though we could grummel a bit For the pains that both o’ us feel.

We’d b; on together for mony a year, And a’ that we lacked wnr a boy ; And when his poor muther first toll’d me he’d ooom Our hearts they were breakup for joy. How we luved to look on his bonny round face, And play wi’ his tiny hands. Till we thowght that a simple smile o’ his Was better than golden lands.

A prouder mon there couldn’t ha’been When aw donced him on my knee. And the little chap dimpled his cheeks and crowed, In his lovely obildiih'glee. The neebers said we both wnr mod To mak’ so much ov a bairn, Though aw guess they’d ha done the varry same thing If they cou’d ha called him theirn.

There never stept out o’ the gates o’ heaven A cherub so bright and fair ; No wonder the angels art wantin’ him back, Por wi’out him it’s lonely there.

The parson coom in, and he chattered awa’, As if he wur woise as Thee : He coul’d tell me the varry reason why Thou'rt takin’ my boy from me. He says Thoa’et been watching ns all along From Thy windows np above, And he slanders Thee pretty well, aw think. Though he calls Thee a God of luv. He says we ha’ gi’ven our bairn the lay] Wo ought to ha’ gi’en to Thee, But we luv Thee a deal sight moor than we did 'For ho came t® his muther and me. Jealous o’ us ! Aw tells Thee what; If a war true what he says, Aw’d turn my back on heaven and a’ And go on my own wilful ways. But he’s nobbut a parson, nowt no moor, Tho’ he thinks he's very woise ; Yet aw guess he’ll alter his notions a bit When he meets Thee up in the skies. Thou’rt sendin’ this trouble aw knows yarry weel* But it isn’t out o’ spite ; If we con’d see it just like Thysel’ We should say it were fair and right. Oh God, oh God, we’ll trust Thee still, Tho’ we’re both of us wild wi’ grief, And we’ll thank and bless Thee again and again If thou’lt give our boy relief. We should like to keep him along wi’ us, For we’re getting old and gray, And we’ll need him often enough, aw know, As wo come to the end of onr day. But he’s had no sleep formore’n a week, The pain in his bally’s so bad, And to see him lig here whoilo we cannot do nowt, Oh God, it is drivin’ us mad. Tak’ him awa’, Lord, tak’ him awa’, 'Twere better that he were dead ; Put Thy great strong arm around him now, And tak’ him npstairs to bed. And we’ll totter along as well as we oon Till tho day when we mnn dee ; Then let him coom ont to the golden gate To welcome his mother and me. Walike J. Matthaus.