So hits off human nature,
That I at times almost forget
He's but a dog in feature.
Between his tail and bright old eye
The swift communications
Outstrip the messages which fly
From telegraphic stations.
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And, ah! that tail's rich eloquence
Conveys too clear a moral,
For men who have a grain of sense
About its drift to quarrel.
At night, his voice is only heard
When it is wanted badly;
For Rover is too cute a bird
To follow shadows madly.
The pup and Carlo in the dark
Will start at crickets chirring;
But when we hear the old dog bark
We know there's something stirring.
He knows a gun, does Rover here;
And if I cock a trigger,
He makes himself from tail to ear
An
admirable figure.
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For, once the fowling piece is out,
And game is on the tapis,
The set upon my hero's snout
Would make a cockle happy.
And as for horses, why, betwixt
Our
chestnut mare and Rover
The
mutual friendship is as fixed
As any love of lover.
And when his master's hand resigns
The
bridle for the paddle,
His dogship on the grass reclines,
And stays and minds the saddle.
Of other friends he has no lack;
Grey pussy is his crony,
And kittens mount upon his back,
As youngsters mount a pony.
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They talk of man's superior sense,
And
charge the few with treason
Who think a dog's intelligence
Is very like our reason.
But though Philosophy has tried
A score of definitions,
'Twixt man and dog it can't decide
The
relative positions.
And I believe upon the whole
(Though you my creed deny, sir),
That Rove's entitled to a soul
As much as you or I, sir!
Indeed, I fail to see the force
Of your derisive laughter
Because I will not say my horse
Has not some horse-hereafter.
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A fig for dogmas - let them pass!
There's much in life to
grieve us;
And what most
grieves is this, alas!
That all our best friends leave us.
And when I sip my
nightly grog,
And watch old Rover blinking,
This royal ruin of a dog
Calls forth some serious thinking.
For, though he's
lightly touched by Fate,
I cannot help remarking
The step of age is in his gait,
Its hoarseness in his barking.
He still goes on his rounds at night
To keep off forest prowlers;
But, ah! he has no teeth to bite
The cunning-hearted howlers.
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Not like the Rover that, erewhile,
Gave droves of dingoes battle,
And dashed through flood and
fiercedefile -
The friend, but dread, of cattle.
Not like to him that, in past years,
Won fight by fight, and scattered
Whole tribes of dogs with rags of ears
And tail-ends torn and tattered.
But while time tells upon our pet,
And makes him greyer daily,
He is a noble fellow yet,
And wears his old age gaily.
Still, dogs must die; and in the end,
When he is past caressing,
We'll mourn him like some human friend
Whose presence was a
blessing.
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Till then, be bread and peace his lot -
A life of calm and clover!
The pup may sleep outside with Spot -
We'll keep the nook for Rover.
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THE MELBOURNE INTERNATIONAL
EXHIBITION
WRITTEN FOR MUSIC
I.
BROTHERS from far-away lands,
Sons of the fathers of fame,
Here are our hearts and our hands -
This is our song of acclaim.
Lords from
magnificent zones,
Shores of superlative sway,
Awful with lustre of thrones,
This is our greeting to-day.
Page: 184
Europe and Asia are here -
Shining they enter our ports!
She that is half of the sphere
Beams like a sun in our courts.
Children of elders whose day
Shone to the planet's white ends,
Meet, in the noble old way,
Sons of your forefather's friends.
II.
Dressed is the beautiful city - the spires of it
Burn in the
firmamentstately and still;
Forest has vanished - the wood and the lyres of it,
Lutes of the sea-wind and harps of the hill.
This is the region, and here is the bay by it,
Collins, the deathless,
beheld in a dream:
Flinders and Fawkner, our forefathers grey, by it
Paused in the hush of a season supreme.
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Here, on the waters of
majesty near to us,
Lingered the leaders by towers of flame:
Elders who turn from the
lordly old year to us
Crowned with the lights of ineffable fame.
III.
Nine and seventy years ago,
Up the blaze of yonder bay,
On a great exalted day,
Came from seas
august with snow -
Waters where the whirlwinds blow -
First of England's sons who stood
By the deep green, bygone wood
Where the wild song used to flow
Nine and seventy years ago.
Five and forty years ago,
On a grand auspicious morn
Page: 186
When the South Wind blew his horn,
Where the splendid mountains glow -
Peaks that God and Sunrise know -
Came the
fearless, famous band,
Founders of our
radiant land,
From the lawns where roses grow,
Five and forty years ago.
IV.
By
gracious slopes of fair green hills,
In shadows cool and deep,
Where floats the psalm of many rills,
The noble elders sleep.
But while their children's children last,
While seed from
seedling springs,
The print and
perfume of their past
Will be as deathless things.
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Their voices are with vanished years,
With other days and hours;
Their homes are sanctified by tears -
They sleep
amongst the flowers.
They do not walk by street or stream,
Or tread by grove or shore,
But, in the nation's highest dream,
They shine for evermore.
V.
By lawny slope and lucent strand
Are singing flags of every land;
On streams of splendour - bays impearled -
The keels are here of all the world.
With lutes of light and cymbals clear
We waft
goodwill to every sphere.
The links of love to-day are thrown
From sea to sea - from zone to zone;
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And, lo! we greet, in glory drest,
The lords that come from east and west,
And march like noble children forth
To meet our fathers from the North!
VI.
To Thee be the glory, All-Bountiful Giver!
The song that we sing is an
anthem to Thee,
Whose
blessing is shed on Thy people for ever,
Whose love is like beautiful light on the sea.
Behold, with high sense of Thy mercy unsleeping,
We come to Thee, kneel to Thee, praise Thee, and pray,
O Lord, in whose hand is the strength that is keeping
The storm from the wave and the night from the day!
Page: 189
BY THE CLIFFS OF THE SEA
IN MEMORY OF SAMUEL BENNETT
IN a far-away glen of the hills,
Where the bird of the night is at rest,
Shut in from the
thunder that fills
The fog-hidden caves of the west -