The gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose on in a knowing way
As one that knots his necktie for a ball;
But just as all the neighbours — on the wall —
Are drawing a long breath to shout " Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me . . . After all
I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay —
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall —
I see a little cloud all pink and grey —
Perhaps the Rector's mother will not call —
I fancy that I heard from Mr Gall

Gallants attend, and hear a friend
Trill forth harmonious ditty;
Strange things I'll tell, which late befel
In Philadelphia city.

'Twas early day, as Poets say,
Just when the sun was rising;
A soldier stood on a log of wood
And saw a sight surprising.

As in a maze he stood to gaze,
The truth can't be deny'd, Sir;
He spy'd a score of kegs, or more,
Come floating down the tide, Sir.

The gallant laird of Lamington
Cam frae the North Countree
To court a gallant gay lady,
And wi presents entered he.

He neither stood for gould nor gear —
For she was a well-fared may —
And whan he got her friends' consent
He set the wedding-day.

She 's sent unto her first fere love,
Gin he would come to see,
And he has sent word back again
Weel ans were d should she be.

A white well
In a black cave;
A bright shell
In a dark wave.

A white rose
Black brambles hood;
Smooth bright snows
In a dark wood.

A flung white glove
In a dark fight;
A white dove
On a wild black night.

A white door
In a dark lane;
A bright core
To bitter black pain.

A white hand
Waved from dark walls;
In a burnt black land
Bright waterfalls.

A bright spark
Where black ashes are;
In the smothering dark
One white star.

Gabriel, fram Hevene King
Sent to the maide swete,
Broughte hire blisful tiding,
And faire he gan hire grete:
"Heil! be thu, full of grace aright,
For Godes sone, this Hevene light,
For mannes loven
Wile man becomen,
And taken
Fleas of the maiden bright,
Manken fre for to maken
Of senne and Devles might.'

Mildeliche him gan andsweren
The milde maiden thanne:
"Whiche wise sold ich beren
Child withuten manne?'
Th'angle seide, "Ne dred thee nought!
Thurw th'Holy Gast shall ben iwrought
This ilche thing,

The furnace tolls the knell of falling steam,
The coal supply is virtually done,
And at this price, indeed it does not seem
As though we could afford another ton.

Now fades the glossy, cherished anthracite;
The radiators lose their temperature:
How ill avail, on such a frosty night,
The " short and simple flannels of the poor. "

Though in the icebox, fresh and newly laid,
The rude forefathers of the omelet sleep,
No eggs for breakfast till the bill is paid:
We cannot cook again till coal is cheap.

Furl that Banner, for 't is weary;
Round its staff 't is drooping dreary:
Furl it, fold it, — it is best;
For there 's not a man to wave it,
And there 's not a sword to save it,
And there's not one left to lave it
In the blood which heroes gave it,
And its foes now scorn and brave it:
Furl it, hide it, — let it rest!

Take that Banner down! 't is tattered;
Broken is its staff and shattered;
And the valiant hosts are scattered,
Over whom it floated high.
Oh, 't is hard for us to fold it,

Funny the way
Different cars start.
Some with a chunk and a jerk,
Some with a cough and a puff of smoke
Out of the back,
Some with only a little click — with hardly any noise.

Funny the way
Different cars run.
Some rattle and bang,
Some whirrr,
Some knock and knock.
Some purr
And hummmmm
Smoothly on with hardly any noise.

Funny, how Felicia Ropps
Always handles things in shops!
Always pinching, always poking,
Always feeling, always stroking
Things she has no right to touch!
Goops like that annoy me much!

What solace would those books afford,
In gold and vellum cover,
Could men but say them word for word
Who never turn them over!

Books that must know themselves by heart
As by endowment vital,
Could they their truths to us impart
Not stopping with the title!

Line after line their wisdom flows,
Page after page repeating;
Yet never on our ears bestows
A single sound of greeting.

As thus they lie upon the shelves,
Such wisdom in their pages,
Do they rehearse it to themselves,
Or rest like silent sages?