H ERE'S TO THE MEN who lose!
What though their work be e'er so nobly planned,
And watched with zealous care,
No glorious halo crowns their efforts grand;
Contempt is failure's share.

Here's to the men who lose!
If triumph's easy smile our struggles greet,
Courage is easy then;
The king is he who, after fierce defeat,
Can up and fight again.

Here's to the men who lose!
The ready plaudits of a fawning world
Ring sweet in victor's ears;
The vanquished's banners never are unfurled;
For them sound no cheers.

Here's to the blood, in his mettle and pride,
To the hunter who takes every fence in his stride,
And here's to the hounds and a straight running fox,
And I'll drain off my glass to the fighting game-cocks.

Let us drink all night till the dawn of the day,
Then you back the crow wing and I'll back the grey.
Such courage and beauty none other can claim,
For the pride of my heart is a cock of the game.

Long years ago on the old village green
At Easter and Whitsun great battles were seen,
When the cocks in their fury made feathers to fly,

I

Here's shade and comfort by this towering tree,
Dear Phaedrus, and a breeze to lull our rest.
Here let our thoughts flow undisturbed and free
As flows Laloki. Many sands have run
Since by Ilissus you and I reclined;
And many comrades journeyed to the sun
With whom we have shared everything but death.

II

I could not speak of them on my return;
I could not bare the wound so closely wrapped
Against corruption by the spoken word;
My smile the dreamer's shield held up to guard
A sense of impotence, a deep despair

Here's good wind, here's sweet wind,
Here's good wind and my woman calls me!
Straight she stands there by the pine-tree,
Faithful waits she by the cedar,
She will smile and reach her hands
When she sees my thousand salmon!
Here's good wind and my woman calls me.

Here's clear water, here's swift water,
Here's bright water and my woman waits me!
She will call me from the sea's mouth —
Sweet her pine-bed when the morning
Lights my canoe and the river ends!
Here's good wind, here's swift water,
Strong as love when my woman calls me!

Here's an old lady, almost ninety-one.
Fragile in dark blue velvet, from her chair
She talks to me about Lord Palmerston,
With whom her father " often took the air".
I watch her tiny black-lace-mittened hands —
When tea-time's ended — slowly crumble a rusk
For feeding peacocks with. Reflective stands
My memory-mirror in the autumn dusk.

Memory records the scene; and straightway plays
One of its dream-like unexpected tricks;
Transports me forty years to summer days
On time's first page, when I was only six . . .

Here's an example from
A Butterfly;
That on a rough, hard rock
Happy can lie;
Friendless and all alone
On this unsweetened stone.

Now let my bed be hard,
No care take I;
I'll make my joy like this
Small Butterfly;
Whose happy heart has power
To make a stone a flower.

Here's a land where all are equal—
Of high or lowly birth—
A land where men make millions,
Dug from the dreary earth.
Here the meek and mild-eyed burro
On mineral mountains feed—
It's day all day, in the day-time,
And there is no night in Creede.

The cliffs are solid silver,
With wond'rous wealth untold;
And the beds of running rivers
Are lined with glittering gold.
While the world is filled with sorrow,
And hearts must break and bleed—
It's day all day in the day-time,
And there is no night in Creede.

Here 's a health unto his Majesty!
With a fa, la, la, &c.
Conversion to his enemies!
With a fa, la, la, &c.
And he that will not pledge this health,
I wish him neither wit, nor wealth;
Nor yet a rope to hang himself!
With a fa, la, la, &c.

Here 's a health unto his Majesty!
With a fa, la, la, &c.
Conversion to his enemies!
With a fa, la, la, &c.
And he that will not pledge this health,
I wish him neither wit, nor wealth;
Nor yet a rope to hang himself!
With a fa, la, la, &c.

Here's a health to the Tackers, my boys,
But mine arse for the Tackers about,
May the brave English spirits come in,
And the knaves and fanatics turn out:
Since the magpies of late are confounding the state,
And would pull our establishments down,
Let us make 'em a jest, for they shit in their nest,
And be true to the church and the crown.

Let us choose such Parliament men
As have stuck to their principles tight,
And would not their country betray
In the story of Ashby and White,
Who care not a turd for a Whig or a lord

H ERE'S A HAND to the boy who has courage
To do what he knows to be right;
When he falls in the way of temptation,
He has a hard battle to fight.
Who strives against self and his comrades
Will find a most powerful foe.
All honor to him if he conquers.
A cheer for the boy who says " No! "

There's many a battle fought daily
The world knows nothing about;
There's many a brave little soldier
Whose strength puts a legion to rout.
And he who fights sin singlehanded
Is more of a hero, I say,