Christmas has a charm so dear,
Coming once for every year,
Bringing Christ in thought anew
With my greeting true to you.

For the everlasting truths
Men may differ in their views;
Still, at Xmas, it's all right
" Merry Christmas " to recite.

A few stones in the grass,
A few shards in the green,
And broken chips of glass,
And rusted iron seen
All cover'd by creeper and shrouded in sand,
Where the home of man has been.

Soon to the hiding waste,
Swift to the utter wild,
Sudden in shamed haste
Like a shy maid beguil'd,
The work of the years fades back, as fades to the sea
The work of a little child.

The thatch goes whence it came,
The bricks melt to the soil,
And, in the winter flame,
The woodwork flares like oil;

Alone in the hot sun,
On the hot sand in the sun,
Alone at the edge of the kraal,
In the dust of the dance-ground
Near the raised tobacco patch; —
The women have gone to the fields,
The children have gone to play,
And the blind Maker of Songs
Sits here, alone, all day.

The dogs sniff'd him and went.
The kraal-rats peer and go,
So very still he sits
Day long, and moon to moon,
His hands slack on the sand; —
And he was just the same,
This maker of tribal songs,
Before the White Men came.

I

Dzua the Sun is dead,
Mwoto the Flame burns low,
The shadows come and go,
And the rats fight overhead
And shriek in the soot-hung thatch â?¦

The Hands are on the latch â?¦
Ha! I am not alone â?¦
Outside the Dead are free —
They squeak, the Dead; and the Dead wait for me;
They whisper through the cracks, their sly hands scratch
The daga; and they moan!

Let them remain,
And I will join them soon.
Without, they have the moon;
Without, they have the rain —
Ha! But they hate the rain!

O My Children, do you hear your elders sighing?
Do you wonder that senility should find
Your encyclopædic knowledge somewhat trying
To the ordinary mind?
In the heyday of a former generation,
Some respect for our intelligence was shown;
And it's hard for us to cotton
To the fact that you've forgotten
More than we have ever known!

O my Children, do you hear your elders snoring,
When the — chassis — of your motors you discuss?
Do you wonder that your — shop — is rather boring
To such simple souls as us?

O weary son of sorrow great!
How apt art thou to bow and grieve,
And count all things thy solemn fate,
As if thou canst not self retrieve!

May I not tell the story true
Of that Eternal Force that is —
The Force that makes the world and you;
The Force that rules and ever lives?

Thou art the living force in part,
The Spirit of the Mighty I;
The God of Heaven and your heart
Is Spirit that can never die.

You're what you are in heart and mind,
Because you will it so to be;
The man who tries himself to find,

The white man held the blacks as slaves,
And bled their souls in living death;
Bishops and priests, and kings themselves,
Preached that the law was right and just;
And so the people worked and died,
And crumbled into material dust.
Good God! The scheme is just the same
Today, between the black and white
Races of men, who gallop after fame.
Can'st Thou not change this bloody thing,
And make white people see the truth
That over blacks must be their king,
Not white, but of their somber hue,
To rule a nation of themselves?

" Go! Sound the fire alarm! " she cried.
" My house is all ablaze inside!
The flames are spreading far and wide;
The air with smoke is laden!
My darling's in an upper room!
Oh, save him from a fiery tomb! "
Straight, as she spoke, through sparks and fume
Came brave Lieutenant Sladen.
Quoth he: " The horsed-escape is here, ma'am;

We'll save your husband, never fear, ma'am! "
" My husband ? " she replied. " Nay, nay!
Don't waste your time on him , I pray,

" Well-Dressed, " and well-fed, and well-meaning (God knows!),
They arrive when the play is half ended;
As they pass to their stalls, through the tightly-packed rows,
They beruffle your hair and they tread on your toes,
Quite unconscious of having offended!
Then they argue a bit as to how they shall sit,
And uncloak in a leisurely fashion,
While they act as a blind to the people behind
Who grow perfectly purple with passion;
Till at last, by the time they are seated and settled,
Their neighbours all round them are thoroughly nettled!

When Worth and Paquin plan and plot
Designs and fashion-plates fantastic,
Heedless of those whose forms are not
Particularly plastic,
They little know what pain they cause
By disregarding Nature's laws.

Huge hats upon my head repose,
A whalebone collar cramps my throttle,
My patient shoulders slope, like those
Of any Perrier bottle;
And now, to please Parisian taste,
I've got to sacrifice my waist!

To suit a tailor's idle whim,
My helpless frame is shaped and moulded;
With silken fetters every limb