A line-o'-verse or two Part 14

Said he: "A moving picture show."

THE CORONATION

_Lang Syne._

Twas a holy mystery In the days of chivalry.

More than pageant was the Rite In the sight of clod and knight.

Sword and Scepter, Orb and Rod, Faith in self and faith in G.o.d; Oaths of Homage fiercely flung, Faith in heart and faith in tongue;-- Gone the things that meaning gave "With the old world to the grave."

1911.

Knightly faith was born to fade: Now the Rite is masquerade.

Now a c.o.c.kney paladin Winds a penny horn of tin.

Where in reverence heads were bowed Surges now a careless crowd; "Muddied oafs" and "flanneled fools"

Jostle "Yanks" with camping stools;-- Gone the things that meaning gave "With the old world to the grave."

SONS OF BATTLE

Let us have peace, and Thy blessing, Lord of the Wind and the Rain, When we shall cease from oppressing, From all injustice refrain; When we hate falsehood and spurn it; When we are men among men.

Let us have peace when we earn it-- Never an hour till then.

Let us have rest in Thy garden, Lord of the Rock and the Green, When there is nothing to pardon, When we are whitened and clean.

Purge us of skulking and treason, Help us to put them away.

We shall have rest in Thy season; Till then the heat of the fray.

Let us have peace in Thy pleasure, Lord of the Cloud and the Sun; Grant to us aeons of leisure When the long battle is done.

Now we have only begun it; Stead us!--we ask nothing more.

Peace--rest--but not till we've won it-- Never an hour before.

MY LADY NEW YORK

O siren of tresses peroxide, And heart that is hard as a flint, Blue orbs of complacency ox-eyed, That light at the mark of the mint, Ears only for jingle of joybells, A conscience as light as a cork-- You are wedded to follies and foibles, My Lady New York.

True, you have (not enough, tho', to hurt you) Your moods and your manners austere; You have visions and vapors of virtue, And "reform" for a time has your ear; But of chaste Puritanic embraces You soon have enough and to spare, And then you kick over the traces, And virtue forswear.

So go it, milady! Foot fleetly The paths that are primrose and gay; Abandon your fancy completely To follies and fads of the day.

"Reform" is a something that throttles The joys of the pace that's intense-- Smash hearts, reputations, and bottles, And ding the expense!

BALLADE OF THE PIPESMOKE CARRY

The Ancient Wood is white and still, Over the pines the bleak wind blows, Voiceless the brook and mute the rill, Silence too where the river flows.

Still I catch the scent of the rose And hear the white-throat's roundelay, Footing the trail that Memory knows, Over the hills and far away.

I have only a pipe to fill: Weaving, wreathing rings disclose A trail that flings straight up the hill, Straight as an arrow's flight. For those Who fare by night the pole star glows Above the mountain top. By day A blasted pine the pathway shows Over the hills and far away.

The Ancient Wood is white and chill, But what know I of wintry woes?

The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will-- Naught may hinder and none oppose.

Such the power the pipe bestows, When the wilderness calls I may Tramping go, as I smoke and doze, Over the hills and far away.

_L'Envoi_

Deep in the canyons lie the snows: They shall vanish if I but say-- If my fancy a-roving goes Over the hills and far away.

POST-VACATIONAL

You have heard that mildewed story, That tradition horned and h.o.a.ry, That it wearies one to roam, Past a doubt; That one vainly on vacation Tries to find recuperation, Till he hunts his happy home Tuckered out.

That abroad there is no comfort, That a man must journey home for 't-- You have heard that whiskered wheeze, Have you not?

'Tis a commonplace to cavil At the "luxuries of travel,"

For in travel lack of ease Is your lot.

You have heard that gag historic; It was often sprung by Yorick; It's as old as Noah's ark And its crew.

It's the commonest (at basis) Of all common commonplaces;-- So I merely would remark That--it's true.

THE BARDS WE QUOTE

Whene'er I quote I seldom take From bards whom angel hosts environ; But usually some d.a.m.ned rake Like Byron.

Of Whittier I think a lot, My fancy to him often turns; But when I quote 'tis some such sot As Burns.

I'm very fond of Bryant, too, He brings to me the woodland smelly; Why should I quote that "village roo,"

P. Sh.e.l.ley?