Humour

Southern Cross, Volume 2, Issue 19, 4 August 1894, Page 5

Humour

TO VOX. Spring is once more with us, and so is the spring poet. One of the fratbrnity, subscribingi himself “ Bush Poet,” sends along the following Oh Vox, my dear Vox, come down from your I box, . , j And lock the door of your tower. Ip this-lone hen-pecked nation, the lords of j -j ..creation | Stand shorAof their locks and their power. Our fathers shell -blood in field and in flood f That their sons like themselves might hold - ; sway. • Oh tongue of the brave, curse not in your j grave s ! ’Cause our birthright we’ve bartered away. Mari’s trust ever blinds him, in deceit women ! , bind him ; Like deceitful Delilah of old— They hang burdens on him, they steal treasures | : from him ; I It is thus he ever ,is told: It’s cards you must play not, in the streets you must stay not, | Nor puff at the weed that gives pleasure ; The bright drink must flow not, and racing | tips know not, ; Nor seek friends your souls ever treasure. -Aind flirt, oh you must not, and then you must \ curse not, | But smile the sweet smile of deception ; Ijt’s the truth you must speak not, for you • know it is meet not i To tell what you think at reception. You may smirk, you may smile, you may | quirk, you may wile, ! They’ll applaud the sweet scheming fellow ; 'You may talk like an ass, for a gentleman I pass, j If you still are eternally proper. All this I could stand, but now in the land | 1 kings are run at their beck and their nod. As oJd Pope would say, they have taken the I sway—- ! Holding scales between Satan and Grod. So Vox, my dear Vox, come down from your box — | Let us wail o’er the days of man’s glory. Let us scrape at our sores, for, alas, evermore | We must sit’mongst the ashes of sorrow.