The world is full of kindness —
And not the poor alone;
We Christians in our blindness
Bow down to hearts of stone;
The clever, bitter cynic,
Whose poisoned " soul " is dead,
And, like the rotten clinic,
Raves, helpless, on his bed.

The world is full of kindness —
But not the White alone;
" The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone; "
But all men are his brothers,

Lean racers had your blust'ring chat,
While I relate a race on fat :
For wagers now are turn'd so common,
'Tween London city and Loch-Lomond,
That racing never will decline,
While we have either pigs or swine.

The racers were two Epicures ,
The umpires were two Embro' whores;
Now the whole beauty of the wager,
The fattest bore me like a cadger;
He was allow'd a mile advance,
Which gave him still an equal chance:
Swift had much need, — his side held ham
More than Ned Bright, or yet Big Sam;
While like an Atlas mov'd Escape ,

A SONG OF THE TELEPHONE

It is one long ring for Kiah; it is two rings for Green Cape;
It is three for Gabo Island; and, to have it all ship-shape,
One for Eden. Four rings quicken Mallacoota's interest;
And a long ring and a short one gives you Mallacoota West.

O the folk are never lonely that the telephone can reach!
There are three undreamed of places with a telephone at each,
'Twixt the bedroom and the kitchen, to be handy night or day,
For the women mostly tend it while the men folk are away,

It watched me in the cradle laid, and from my boyhood's home
It glared above my shoulder-blade when I wrote my first " pome " ;
It's sidled by me ever since, with greeny eyes aslant —
It is the thing (O Priest and Prince!) that wants to write, but can't.

It yells and slobbers, mows and whines, It follows everywhere;
'Tis gloating on these very lines with red and baleful glare.
It murders friendship, love and truth (It makes the " reader " pant),
It ruins editorial youth, the Wantaritencant.

Its slime is ever on my work, and ever on my name;

Curve of beaches like a horse-shoe, with a glimpse of grazing stock,
To the left the Gabo Lighthouse, to the right the Bastion Rock;
Upper Lake where no one dwelleth — scenery like Italy,
Lower Lake of seven islets and six houses near the sea;
'Twixt the lake and sea a sandbank, where the shifting channels are,
And a break where white-capped rollers bow to Mallacoota Bar.

Gabo, of the reddest granite, cut off from the mainland now —
" Gabo " , nearest that the black tongue ever could get round " Cape Howe " ;

Heroic virtue deigns for to engross
My muse, to keep the good in memory:
Then it shall be of famous L OCKHART R OSS ,
When his name gilds, my strains can never die.

H OWARD and Drake did bless E LIZA'S reign.
And R ALEIGH pour'd destruction on our foes.
R USSEL and R OOKE were both the scourge of Spain.
Yet none more so than our immortal Ross.

He with his little Tartar did more good

Thy true Nobility, of antient bloud,
How it draws most men to thee that love good!
Oh that is true Nobility, which well
Most lively shines, in actions that excell;
Admired vertues evermore affecting,
Shewing indeed that they are worth selecting.

HA! such an one your Noble self I see:
Oh that's the reason most draw then to thee,
Well viewing of thy vertues, seldom seen
Attain'd in age, in thee had though but green.
Rightly indeed they may with admiration
Draw most to thee, and joy thy exultation.

Here rest the great and good. Here they repose
After their generous toil. A sacred band,
They take their sleep together, while the year
Comes with its early flowers to deck their graves,
And gathers them again, as Winter frowns.
Theirs is no vulgar sepulchre, — green sods
Are all their monument, and yet it tells
A nobler history than pillared piles,
Or the eternal pyramids. They need
No statue nor inscription to reveal
Their greatness. It is round them; and the joy
With which their children tread the hallowed ground

Memoir of Parliament for the Burgh of Stirling, &c.

All haill thoubranch of fam'd D UNDONALD'S house,
Great C OCHRAN , now our burrows they have chuse,
The thought of which each loyal burgher cheers,
When thus allied in friendship with our peers.
Long may you shine among th' illustrious few,
For Scotia she relies on men like you.

Now, while my Muse sings on triumphant wing,
To Hopeton house a tribute due I'll bring.
Propitious Hopeton ne'er withheld his aid
From those who wish'd to rear up Scotia's head.

I sat beside the pillow of a child, —
His dying pillow, — and I watched the ebb
Of his last fluttering breath. All tranquilly
He passed away, and not a murmur came
From his white lips. A film crept o'er his eye,
But did not all conceal it, and at times
The darkness stole away, and he looked out
Serenely, with an innocent smile, as if
Pleased with an infant's toy; and there was then
A very delicate flush upon his cheek,
Like the new edging of a damask-rose,
When first the bud uncloses. As I watched,
I caught at these awakenings better hope,