MR BUXTON AND THE BARD OF MYROSS.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 13, 24 June 1893, Page 7

MR BUXTON AND THE BARD OF MYROSS.

TO THE EDITOR. Sib, —I noticed that the columns of your last week’s paper were graced wi th some lines from the pen of Mr Kinross, made for a special occasion. In reading those lines I find they are dedicated to the bottle and glass. It grieves me not a little so see so excellent a man and gifted a poet as Mr Kinross devoting such rare talents to a thing that biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder, when he might serve his fellow-men and sooth life’s shocks by knitting socks ; and more still that he should lay the origin of this enemy of mankind to the giver of all good in saying that mountain dew was sent for men. One of these verses runs thus : “For friendship’s sake we meet this night, To have a chat and drink a toast; We’ll kindly think it is all right If some of us should chance to boast.” If that last word had been “burst” instead of boast I should not have had one word to say against this verse, but kindly think it was all right. That there would be boasting is a foregone conclusion. Mountain dew is the thing to bring that to the top. “ Now, fuddling in liquor their friendship grew dry, They boast of their merits and try to outvie ; Now warmer and warmer their argument grows— What words cannot settle, they settle with blows.” I don’t suppose any of these gentlemen were visible for some days after this celebration. That word “boast” reveals the poet’s weak point and brought on the row. The next verse says, “We’ll leave our troubles far behind.” Yes, for their poor wives to battle with at home, while they brewed a fresh lot. “This night we’ll all be full of glee.” Fancy that for men who are approaching their three score years and ten! Turned into children again. That tells you about mountain dew. “ Then here’s to every friend that’s true, and here’s to every lass that’s kind.” The poet never forgets the lasses in his cups, and so “ this night our friendship we renew.” I don’t suppose the poet went home that night. “And Auld Lang Syne bring back to mind.” It’s a thousand pities that ever “ Lang Syne ” was born, and if he has any sons living, the sooner somebody tomahawks them the better it will be for the world, for they have been the cause of many a drunken spree. —I am, etc., T. Buxtov.