SELECT POETRY.

Tuapeka Times, Volume V, Issue 232, 11 July 1872, Page 9

SELECT POETRY.

THE SONG OF THE SCKIBE. • TFith fingers inky and sore, ♦ ■\\ ith eyelids heavy and ml," "S** * journalist cribbed in his cheerless den, karnmg his daily bread. /tt evu " w * s waiting for copy helow ' a *? ow of fcen ne ' fl blessed their tribe) •, And then, as he filled up the foolscap sheets He Bang the •' Song of the Scribe." «Write ! Write ! IVrfte ! • ' ■h-From morning till set of sun ; ! Write ! Write ! Though never my work be done. Write ! Write ! Write ! With a wet cloth round my head : Wiite ! Write ! Write ! While others are snoring in bed. Write.! Write ! Write ! First on some railway extension ; Theu I've a popular parson to do, And a '• par " on some looal election. Now its a puff on some new-fangled pill, Then the sine of a jolly big pumpkin ; With a -wipe at a music-hall not the thing. And the " easing " of some silly bumpkin. Write ! ATrite ! Write ! Extracting the wheat from the chaff, While the pulpit denounces the "hirleing press" I even squeeze out a laugh. Oh ! it's better to be a slave, Or the smallest roaid-of -all-work, With a dfz-ju "to do for," and no Sunday out, And the missis a regular Tufk. Write ! Write ! Write ! With eyelids h»»avy and rsd, Sat a journalist cribbed in his cheerless cell, Earning lm daily bread. Write ! Write ! Write ! Of some member taking a bribe ; ' Then review a new book that's been sent to my (ten. A case of wife-beating— here's the '' devil " again / So ends the " Song of the Scribe." — "'Melbourne Punch." SOMEBODY'S DARL^G. In the ghostly light of the winter's morn, A boatman, having some task to do, . ' Found, with the spaweed in his hair, Somebody's darling- G%d knows who ! Pallid lips, that are dumb and cold, Who eter pressed swi'^t kisses there ? Or, who has enwssed with loving hand. Those beautiful cuvls of sur.ny.lwlr? What fair fingers h;^ve toyed with their gold, Brushing it back from the laughing brow, That the tummer sunshine loved to bronze? — Alas { it ia solemn and white enough now. Rigid limbs, that are wet and cold, Though yr>u lu«e waudered in paths of woe, There are lips f.ouiewhere th.it used to smile .At yoar icstless pattei to and fio. Idle hands that are calmly crossed, Wheve. in the beautiful loog ago, DM you gather diisies fltid viote^, Aud pinks, and daffodils white as snow? Drooping lid.s, that aie veiled for e'er Over the f ender, glorious eyes, Where is the heart that lived in your smile ? Whose is the terrible sacrifice ? UoViody knows on the busy qnay, NoV-ody knows in the crowded street, Neifeody knows at the station-house, Nobody knows on the watchman's beat. All they can tell is, that stark and white, Hs drifted in on the rising tide ? Bury him tenderly out of sight, Somebody's darling — somebody's pride? Tenderly fold the -poor pulseless hands, Thrre is no more wojk for th(Mn to do ; Kias him softly with solemn lips, K« waa somebody's darling— Ggd knows who: