Poems List
My Father-in-Law and I
My Father-in-Law and I
MY father-in-law is a careworn man,
And a silent man is he;
But he summons a smile as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
The sign we make with a silent shake
That speaks of the days gone by—
Like men who meet at a funeral—
My father-in-law and I.
My father-in-law is a sober man
(And a virtuous man, I think);
But we spare a shilling whenever we can,
And we both drop in for a drink.
Our pints they fill, and we say, “Ah, well!”
With the sound of the world-old sigh—
Like the drink that comes after a funeral—
My father-in-law and I.
My father-in-law is a kindly man—
A domestic man is he.
He tries to look cheerful as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
But we stand and think till the second drink
In a silence that might imply
That we’d both get over a funeral,
My father-in-law and I.
MY father-in-law is a careworn man,
And a silent man is he;
But he summons a smile as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
The sign we make with a silent shake
That speaks of the days gone by—
Like men who meet at a funeral—
My father-in-law and I.
My father-in-law is a sober man
(And a virtuous man, I think);
But we spare a shilling whenever we can,
And we both drop in for a drink.
Our pints they fill, and we say, “Ah, well!”
With the sound of the world-old sigh—
Like the drink that comes after a funeral—
My father-in-law and I.
My father-in-law is a kindly man—
A domestic man is he.
He tries to look cheerful as well as he can
Whenever he meets with me.
But we stand and think till the second drink
In a silence that might imply
That we’d both get over a funeral,
My father-in-law and I.
👁️ 262
Mount Bukaroo
Mount Bukaroo
Only one old post is standing -Solid
yet, but only one --
Where the milking, and the branding,
And the slaughtering were done.
Later years have brought dejection,
Care, and sorrow; but we knew
Happy days on that selection
Underneath old Bukaroo.
Then the light of day commencing
Found us at the gully's head,
Splitting timber for the fencing,
Stripping bark to roof the shed.
Hands and hearts the labour strengthened;
Weariness we never knew,
Even when the shadows lengthened
Round the base of Bukaroo.
There for days below the paddock
How the wilderness would yield
To the spade, and pick, and mattock,
While we toiled to win the field.
Bronzed hands we used to sully
Till they were of darkest hue,
`Burning off' down in the gully
At the back of Bukaroo.
When we came the baby brother
Left in haste his broken toys,
Shouted to the busy mother:
`Here is dadda and the boys!'
Strange it seems that she was able
For the work that she would do;
How she'd bustle round the table
In the hut 'neath Bukaroo!
When the cows were safely yarded,
And the calves were in the pen,
All the cares of day discarded,
Closed we round the hut-fire then.
Rang the roof with boyish laughter
While the flames o'er-topped the flue;
Happy days remembered after -Far
away from Bukaroo.
But the years were full of changes,
And a sorrow found us there;
For our home amid the ranges
Was not safe from searching Care.
On he came, a silent creeper;
And another mountain threw
O'er our lives a shadow deeper
Than the shade of Bukaroo.
All the farm is disappearing;
For the home has vanished now,
Mountain scrub has choked the clearing,
Hid the furrows of the plough.
Nearer still the scrub is creeping
Where the little garden grew;
And the old folks now are sleeping
At the foot of Bukaroo.
Only one old post is standing -Solid
yet, but only one --
Where the milking, and the branding,
And the slaughtering were done.
Later years have brought dejection,
Care, and sorrow; but we knew
Happy days on that selection
Underneath old Bukaroo.
Then the light of day commencing
Found us at the gully's head,
Splitting timber for the fencing,
Stripping bark to roof the shed.
Hands and hearts the labour strengthened;
Weariness we never knew,
Even when the shadows lengthened
Round the base of Bukaroo.
There for days below the paddock
How the wilderness would yield
To the spade, and pick, and mattock,
While we toiled to win the field.
Bronzed hands we used to sully
Till they were of darkest hue,
`Burning off' down in the gully
At the back of Bukaroo.
When we came the baby brother
Left in haste his broken toys,
Shouted to the busy mother:
`Here is dadda and the boys!'
Strange it seems that she was able
For the work that she would do;
How she'd bustle round the table
In the hut 'neath Bukaroo!
When the cows were safely yarded,
And the calves were in the pen,
All the cares of day discarded,
Closed we round the hut-fire then.
Rang the roof with boyish laughter
While the flames o'er-topped the flue;
Happy days remembered after -Far
away from Bukaroo.
But the years were full of changes,
And a sorrow found us there;
For our home amid the ranges
Was not safe from searching Care.
On he came, a silent creeper;
And another mountain threw
O'er our lives a shadow deeper
Than the shade of Bukaroo.
All the farm is disappearing;
For the home has vanished now,
Mountain scrub has choked the clearing,
Hid the furrows of the plough.
Nearer still the scrub is creeping
Where the little garden grew;
And the old folks now are sleeping
At the foot of Bukaroo.
👁️ 219
Middleton's Rouseabout
Middleton's Rouseabout
Tall and freckled and sandy,
Face of a country lout;
This was the picture of Andy,
Middleton's Rouseabout.
Type of a coming nation,
In the land of cattle and sheep,
Worked on Middleton's station,
`Pound a week and his keep.'
On Middleton's wide dominions
Plied the stockwhip and shears;
Hadn't any opinions,
Hadn't any `idears'.
Swiftly the years went over,
Liquor and drought prevailed;
Middleton went as a drover,
After his station had failed.
Type of a careless nation,
Men who are soon played out,
Middleton was: -- and his station
Was bought by the Rouseabout.
Flourishing beard and sandy,
Tall and robust and stout;
This is the picture of Andy,
Middleton's Rouseabout.
Now on his own dominions
Works with his overseers;
Hasn't any opinions,
Hasn't any `idears'.
Tall and freckled and sandy,
Face of a country lout;
This was the picture of Andy,
Middleton's Rouseabout.
Type of a coming nation,
In the land of cattle and sheep,
Worked on Middleton's station,
`Pound a week and his keep.'
On Middleton's wide dominions
Plied the stockwhip and shears;
Hadn't any opinions,
Hadn't any `idears'.
Swiftly the years went over,
Liquor and drought prevailed;
Middleton went as a drover,
After his station had failed.
Type of a careless nation,
Men who are soon played out,
Middleton was: -- and his station
Was bought by the Rouseabout.
Flourishing beard and sandy,
Tall and robust and stout;
This is the picture of Andy,
Middleton's Rouseabout.
Now on his own dominions
Works with his overseers;
Hasn't any opinions,
Hasn't any `idears'.
👁️ 274
Mary Called Him 'Mister'
Mary Called Him 'Mister'
They'd parted but a year before—she never thought he’d come,
She stammer’d, blushed, held out her hand, and called him ‘Mister Gum.’
How could he know that all the while she longed to murmur ‘John.’
He called her ‘Miss le Brook,’ and asked how she was getting on.
They’d parted but a year before; they’d loved each other well,
But he’d been to the city, and he came back such a swell.
They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss—
But Mary called him ‘Mister,’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.’
He stood and lean’d against the door—a stupid chap was he—
And, when she asked if he’d come in and have a cup of tea,
He looked to left, he looked to right, and then he glanced behind,
And slowly doffed his cabbage-tree, and said he ‘didn’t mind.’
She made a shy apology because the meat was tough,
And then she asked if he was sure his tea was sweet enough;
He stirred the tea and sipped it twice, and answer’d ‘plenty, quite;’
And cut the smallest piece of beef and said that it was ‘right.’
She glanced at him at times and cough’d an awkward little cough;
He stared at anything but her and said, ‘I must be off.’
That evening he went riding north—a sad and lonely ride—
She locked herself inside her room, and there sat down and cried.
They’d parted but a year before, they loved each other well—
But she was such a country girl and he was such a swell ;
They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss—
But Mary called him ‘Mister’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.
They'd parted but a year before—she never thought he’d come,
She stammer’d, blushed, held out her hand, and called him ‘Mister Gum.’
How could he know that all the while she longed to murmur ‘John.’
He called her ‘Miss le Brook,’ and asked how she was getting on.
They’d parted but a year before; they’d loved each other well,
But he’d been to the city, and he came back such a swell.
They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss—
But Mary called him ‘Mister,’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.’
He stood and lean’d against the door—a stupid chap was he—
And, when she asked if he’d come in and have a cup of tea,
He looked to left, he looked to right, and then he glanced behind,
And slowly doffed his cabbage-tree, and said he ‘didn’t mind.’
She made a shy apology because the meat was tough,
And then she asked if he was sure his tea was sweet enough;
He stirred the tea and sipped it twice, and answer’d ‘plenty, quite;’
And cut the smallest piece of beef and said that it was ‘right.’
She glanced at him at times and cough’d an awkward little cough;
He stared at anything but her and said, ‘I must be off.’
That evening he went riding north—a sad and lonely ride—
She locked herself inside her room, and there sat down and cried.
They’d parted but a year before, they loved each other well—
But she was such a country girl and he was such a swell ;
They longed to meet in fond embrace, they hungered for a kiss—
But Mary called him ‘Mister’ and the idiot called her ‘Miss.
👁️ 258
Macleay Street and Red Rock Lane
Macleay Street and Red Rock Lane
Macleay Street looks to Mosman,
Across the other side,
With brave asphalted pavements
And roadway clean and wide.
Macleay Street hath its mansions,
Its grounds and greenery;
Macleay Street hath its terraces
As terraces should be.
Red Rock Lane looks to nowhere,
With pockets into hell;
Red Rock Lane is a horror
Of heat and dirt and smell.
Red Rock Lane hath its brothels,
Of houses one in three;
Red Rock Lane hath its corner pubs
As fourth-rate pubs should be.
Macleay Street, cool and quiet,
Is marked off from the town,
And standing in the centre
The tall arc lamps look down.
The jealous closed cabs vanish
That stole from out the row,
Fair women stroll bareheaded,
And theatre parties go.
Red Rock Lane, hot with riot,
Hides things that none should know;
The furtive couples vanish
Through doorways dark and low.
Lust, thievery, drink and madness
In one infernal stew—
And Mrs Johnson, raving,
Walks out—bareheaded too.
Macleay Street hath its swindles,
But on a public scale;
Macleay Street hath its razzles
Until the night grows pale.
Macleay Street hath its scandals,
But—only this is plain,
That nothing is a scandal
Down there in Red Rock Lane.
Macleay Street looks to Mosman
In morning’s rosy glow,
And freshly to the city
The summer-suited go
While wild-eyed, foul and shaking,
Red Rock Lane wakes again.
This morning at the Central
They’re fining Red Rock Lane.
The Central says “the risin’”,
“Seven days”, or what you will;
Macleay Street says, “Drive slowly”
When any one is ill.
The law sends Black Maria
When Red Rock Lane is dead.
But doctors come in motor cars
When Macleay Street’s got a head.
The grey-faced, weedy parents
Sunk in Red Rock Lane holes—
They worry, pinch, and perish
To save their children’s souls.
The fairy of Macleay Street
Shall never soil her hands—
Her Pa is independent,
Or high up in “the Lands”.
And—well, there seems no moral,
And nothing more to tell,
But because of that fierce sympathy
Of souls to souls in hell;
And because of that wild kindness
To souls in sordid pain,
My soul I’d rather venture
With some in Red Rock Lane.
Macleay Street looks to Mosman,
Across the other side,
With brave asphalted pavements
And roadway clean and wide.
Macleay Street hath its mansions,
Its grounds and greenery;
Macleay Street hath its terraces
As terraces should be.
Red Rock Lane looks to nowhere,
With pockets into hell;
Red Rock Lane is a horror
Of heat and dirt and smell.
Red Rock Lane hath its brothels,
Of houses one in three;
Red Rock Lane hath its corner pubs
As fourth-rate pubs should be.
Macleay Street, cool and quiet,
Is marked off from the town,
And standing in the centre
The tall arc lamps look down.
The jealous closed cabs vanish
That stole from out the row,
Fair women stroll bareheaded,
And theatre parties go.
Red Rock Lane, hot with riot,
Hides things that none should know;
The furtive couples vanish
Through doorways dark and low.
Lust, thievery, drink and madness
In one infernal stew—
And Mrs Johnson, raving,
Walks out—bareheaded too.
Macleay Street hath its swindles,
But on a public scale;
Macleay Street hath its razzles
Until the night grows pale.
Macleay Street hath its scandals,
But—only this is plain,
That nothing is a scandal
Down there in Red Rock Lane.
Macleay Street looks to Mosman
In morning’s rosy glow,
And freshly to the city
The summer-suited go
While wild-eyed, foul and shaking,
Red Rock Lane wakes again.
This morning at the Central
They’re fining Red Rock Lane.
The Central says “the risin’”,
“Seven days”, or what you will;
Macleay Street says, “Drive slowly”
When any one is ill.
The law sends Black Maria
When Red Rock Lane is dead.
But doctors come in motor cars
When Macleay Street’s got a head.
The grey-faced, weedy parents
Sunk in Red Rock Lane holes—
They worry, pinch, and perish
To save their children’s souls.
The fairy of Macleay Street
Shall never soil her hands—
Her Pa is independent,
Or high up in “the Lands”.
And—well, there seems no moral,
And nothing more to tell,
But because of that fierce sympathy
Of souls to souls in hell;
And because of that wild kindness
To souls in sordid pain,
My soul I’d rather venture
With some in Red Rock Lane.
👁️ 171
Let’s Be Fools To-Night
Let’s Be Fools To-Night
We, three men of commerce,
Striving wealth to raise,
See but little promise
In the coming days;
Though our hearts are brittle,
Hardened near to stone,
We can think a little
Of the seasons flown.
Lily days and rose days:
Youthful days so bright;
We were fools in those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.
We, three men of commerce,
Men of business we,
Gave but little promise
Of what we would be
When we wandered urchins—
Foes of law and rule—
Fearing only birchings
And the village school.
Lily days and rose days,
Boyhood’s days so bright;
We were fools in those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.
We, three men of commerce,
Men of business we,
Gave but little promise
Of ability
When we lived in riot;
Never drew the line,
Hating peace and quiet,
Loving maids and wine.
Days when money goes—days
When men’s hearts are right;
We were fools in those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.
We must wear to-morrow
All our worldly marks,
Calm looks for our sorrow,
Stern looks for our clerks,
Who, from trouble shrinking,
Tasting earthly joys,
Hate us, little thinking
Ever we were boys.
Days when kindness flows—days
When men’s hearts are white;
We’ve been wise since those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.
We, three men of commerce,
Striving wealth to raise,
See but little promise
In the coming days;
Though our hearts are brittle,
Hardened near to stone,
We can think a little
Of the seasons flown.
Lily days and rose days:
Youthful days so bright;
We were fools in those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.
We, three men of commerce,
Men of business we,
Gave but little promise
Of what we would be
When we wandered urchins—
Foes of law and rule—
Fearing only birchings
And the village school.
Lily days and rose days,
Boyhood’s days so bright;
We were fools in those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.
We, three men of commerce,
Men of business we,
Gave but little promise
Of ability
When we lived in riot;
Never drew the line,
Hating peace and quiet,
Loving maids and wine.
Days when money goes—days
When men’s hearts are right;
We were fools in those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.
We must wear to-morrow
All our worldly marks,
Calm looks for our sorrow,
Stern looks for our clerks,
Who, from trouble shrinking,
Tasting earthly joys,
Hate us, little thinking
Ever we were boys.
Days when kindness flows—days
When men’s hearts are white;
We’ve been wise since those days,
Let’s be fools to-night.
👁️ 207
Laughing and Sneering
Laughing and Sneering
WHAT tho' the world does me ill turns
And cares my life environ;
I’d sooner laugh with Bobbie Burns
Than sneer with titl'd Byron.
The smile has always been the best;
’Tis stronger than the frown, sirs:
And Venus smiled the waves to rest;
She didn’t sneer them down, sirs.
WHAT tho' the world does me ill turns
And cares my life environ;
I’d sooner laugh with Bobbie Burns
Than sneer with titl'd Byron.
The smile has always been the best;
’Tis stronger than the frown, sirs:
And Venus smiled the waves to rest;
She didn’t sneer them down, sirs.
👁️ 241
Lachlan Side
Lachlan Side
REGION of damper and junk and tea,
Region of pastures wide!
The fairest spots in the world to me
Are out on the Lachlan Side.
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side,
Where the bright lagoons are wide;
I long for river and grass and tree,
And someone dearer than all to me,
Far out on the Lachlan Side.
My heart was hardened against advice
And reason I would not see,
For by the ocean a paradise
The city appeared to me.
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side, etc.
“Not I for a bumpkin’s fate,” I cried,
“I’ll not be a country clown!
A life’s too slow on the Lachlan Side;
I’ll go to the shining town!”
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side, etc.
I’ve lost the battle, I strike the flag,
The town may sink in the tide;
A wiser head and a lighter swag
I take to the Lachlan Side.
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side, etc.
When crops of wool on the plains shall grow,
Shall flourish in drought or rain,
And when the shearers begin to mow
I’ll come to the town again.
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side, etc.
But now I go to a kinder fate,
If her love still conquers pride;
Her heart was true when she sobbed, “I’ll wait
For you on the Lachlan Side.”
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side,
Where the bright lagoons are wide;
I long for river and grass and tree,
And someone dearer than all to me,
Far out on the Lachlan Side.
REGION of damper and junk and tea,
Region of pastures wide!
The fairest spots in the world to me
Are out on the Lachlan Side.
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side,
Where the bright lagoons are wide;
I long for river and grass and tree,
And someone dearer than all to me,
Far out on the Lachlan Side.
My heart was hardened against advice
And reason I would not see,
For by the ocean a paradise
The city appeared to me.
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side, etc.
“Not I for a bumpkin’s fate,” I cried,
“I’ll not be a country clown!
A life’s too slow on the Lachlan Side;
I’ll go to the shining town!”
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side, etc.
I’ve lost the battle, I strike the flag,
The town may sink in the tide;
A wiser head and a lighter swag
I take to the Lachlan Side.
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side, etc.
When crops of wool on the plains shall grow,
Shall flourish in drought or rain,
And when the shearers begin to mow
I’ll come to the town again.
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side, etc.
But now I go to a kinder fate,
If her love still conquers pride;
Her heart was true when she sobbed, “I’ll wait
For you on the Lachlan Side.”
CHORUS:
I’m off to the Lachlan Side,
Where the bright lagoons are wide;
I long for river and grass and tree,
And someone dearer than all to me,
Far out on the Lachlan Side.
👁️ 209
Knocked Up
Knocked Up
I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought,
And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out;
I've got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin' brow -I'm
too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.
Oh it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin', in flies an' dust an' heat,
Or it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-a-mpin'
through mud and slush 'n sleet;
It's tramp an' tramp for tucker -- one everlastin' strife,
An' wearin' out yer boots an' heart in the wastin' of yer life.
They whine o' lost an' wasted lives in idleness and crime -I've
wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time
And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore --
But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.
A long dry stretch of thirty miles I've tramped this broilin' day,
All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away;
There's twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year,
An' fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin' here.
The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot -- 'n that's the truth;
I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth;
I'm stung between my shoulder-blades -- my blessed back seems broke;
I'm too knocked out to eat a bite -- I'm too knocked up to smoke.
The blessed rain is comin' too -- there's oceans in the sky,
An' I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly;
The heat is bad, the water's bad, the flies a crimson curse,
The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned -- but rheumatism's worse.
I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath,
Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin' after death;
But though Eternity be cursed with God's almighty curse --
What ever that same somethin' is I swear it can't be worse.
For it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin' thro' hell across the plain,
And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' slush 'n mud 'n rain -A
livin' worse than any dog -- without a home 'n wife,
A-wearin' out yer heart 'n soul in the wastin' of yer life.
I'm lyin' on the barren ground that's baked and cracked with drought,
And dunno if my legs or back or heart is most wore out;
I've got no spirits left to rise and smooth me achin' brow -I'm
too knocked up to light a fire and bile the billy now.
Oh it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin', in flies an' dust an' heat,
Or it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-a-mpin'
through mud and slush 'n sleet;
It's tramp an' tramp for tucker -- one everlastin' strife,
An' wearin' out yer boots an' heart in the wastin' of yer life.
They whine o' lost an' wasted lives in idleness and crime -I've
wasted mine for twenty years, and grafted all the time
And never drunk the stuff I earned, nor gambled when I shore --
But somehow when yer on the track yer life seems wasted more.
A long dry stretch of thirty miles I've tramped this broilin' day,
All for the off-chance of a job a hundred miles away;
There's twenty hungry beggars wild for any job this year,
An' fifty might be at the shed while I am lyin' here.
The sinews in my legs seem drawn, red-hot -- 'n that's the truth;
I seem to weigh a ton, and ache like one tremendous tooth;
I'm stung between my shoulder-blades -- my blessed back seems broke;
I'm too knocked out to eat a bite -- I'm too knocked up to smoke.
The blessed rain is comin' too -- there's oceans in the sky,
An' I suppose I must get up and rig the blessed fly;
The heat is bad, the water's bad, the flies a crimson curse,
The grub is bad, mosquitoes damned -- but rheumatism's worse.
I wonder why poor blokes like me will stick so fast ter breath,
Though Shakespeare says it is the fear of somethin' after death;
But though Eternity be cursed with God's almighty curse --
What ever that same somethin' is I swear it can't be worse.
For it's trampin', trampin', tra-a-mpin' thro' hell across the plain,
And it's trampin' trampin' tra-a-mpin' thro' slush 'n mud 'n rain -A
livin' worse than any dog -- without a home 'n wife,
A-wearin' out yer heart 'n soul in the wastin' of yer life.
👁️ 229
Keeping His First Wife Now
Keeping His First Wife Now
IT’S OH! for a rivet in marriage bonds,
And a splice in the knot untied—
The sanctity of the marriage tie
Is growing more sanctified!
They’re getting mixed up in society,
There’s an awful family row,
For Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is “keeping” his first wife now!
Oh! she belonged to the smart, smart set
(Where reasons are far to seek)—
And the wedding and “crush” are remembered yet
As the “smart” things of the week.
Never an atom of love had she,
But they had a child somehow—
And Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Has the love of his first wife now.
Mad for “notice” and “talk” was she—
A butterfly blind as a bat—
She would flaunt for a season a divorcee,
Or divorce him, failing that.
He played his part and she held his heart
As light as her marriage vow—
But Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Has a hold on his first wife now.
She swore in Court what the world knew false,
With never a thought of shame—
She was free to flaunt to her heart’s content,
But she found it mighty tame:
The talk of the “town” for a week or two—
The gush, the smirk and the bow—
But Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is the God of his first wife now!
Her soul grew sick of the smart, smart set,
Or her conscience drove her wild—
Or she craved for “notice” and “talk” once more—
Or perhaps because of the child;
But they met at last and they met again—
No matter the where or how—
And Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is in love with his first wife now.
’Tis a “terrible life” for the second young wife,
But she married him too for “place”;
And she mustn’t forget that a smarting set
Belongs to the human race.
They say it’s fixed up in camera,
And, if that is the case, I’ll vow,
That Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Will marry his first wife now.
And there is a song of the English world
And a song for the English race:
The second husband and second wife
Must ever take second place.
So cherish the best that you find in the first,
And a margin of width allow:
The future looks after itself too well!
Look after the first ones now.
IT’S OH! for a rivet in marriage bonds,
And a splice in the knot untied—
The sanctity of the marriage tie
Is growing more sanctified!
They’re getting mixed up in society,
There’s an awful family row,
For Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is “keeping” his first wife now!
Oh! she belonged to the smart, smart set
(Where reasons are far to seek)—
And the wedding and “crush” are remembered yet
As the “smart” things of the week.
Never an atom of love had she,
But they had a child somehow—
And Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Has the love of his first wife now.
Mad for “notice” and “talk” was she—
A butterfly blind as a bat—
She would flaunt for a season a divorcee,
Or divorce him, failing that.
He played his part and she held his heart
As light as her marriage vow—
But Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Has a hold on his first wife now.
She swore in Court what the world knew false,
With never a thought of shame—
She was free to flaunt to her heart’s content,
But she found it mighty tame:
The talk of the “town” for a week or two—
The gush, the smirk and the bow—
But Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is the God of his first wife now!
Her soul grew sick of the smart, smart set,
Or her conscience drove her wild—
Or she craved for “notice” and “talk” once more—
Or perhaps because of the child;
But they met at last and they met again—
No matter the where or how—
And Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Is in love with his first wife now.
’Tis a “terrible life” for the second young wife,
But she married him too for “place”;
And she mustn’t forget that a smarting set
Belongs to the human race.
They say it’s fixed up in camera,
And, if that is the case, I’ll vow,
That Reginald Jones of “The Fernery”
Will marry his first wife now.
And there is a song of the English world
And a song for the English race:
The second husband and second wife
Must ever take second place.
So cherish the best that you find in the first,
And a margin of width allow:
The future looks after itself too well!
Look after the first ones now.
👁️ 239
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