Lack of work and lack of victuals,

A debauch of smuggled whisky,
And his children in the workhouse,

Made the world so black a riddle

That he plunged for a solution;

And, although his knife was edgeless,

He was sinking fast toward one,

When they came, and found, and saved him.

Stupid now with shame and sorrow,

In the night I hear him sobbing.
But sometimes he talks a little,
He has told me all his troubles.

In his face, so tanned and bloodless,
White and vide his eyeballs glitter;
And his smile, occult and tragic,
Makes you shudder when you see it.

XXV

APPARITION

HIN-LEGGED, thin-chested, slight unspeakably,

THIN

Neat-footed, and weak-fingered: in his face

Lean, large-boned, curved of beak, and touched with race,
Bold-lipped, rich-tinted, mutable as the sea,

The brown eyes radiant with vivacity—
There shines a brilliant and romantic grace,

A spirit intense and rare, with trace on trace
Of passion, impudence, and energy.
Valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck,
Most vain, most generous, sternly critical,
Buffoon and poet, lover and sensualist:
A deal of Ariel, just a streak of Puck,
Much Antony, of Hamlet most of all,
And something of the Shorter-Catechist.

XXVI

ANTEROTICS

AUGHS the happy April morn

Lo my grimany, little window.

And a shaft of sunshine pushes
Thro' the shadows in the square.

Dogs are romping thro' the grass,

Crows are cawing round the chimneys,
And among the bleaching linen

Goes the west at hide-and-seek.

Loud and cheerful clangs the bell.
Here the nurses troop to breakfast.
Handsome, ugly, all are women

O the Spring-the Spring-the Spring!

XXVII

NOCTURN

T the barren heart of midnight,

When the shadow shuts and opens

As the loud flames pulse and flutter,

I can hear a cistern leaking.

Dripping, dropping, in a rhythm

Rough, unequal, half-melodious,
Like the measures aped from nature
In the infancy of music;

Like the buzzing of an insect,
Still, irrational, persistent,
I must listen, listen, listen
In a passion of attention;

Till it taps upon my heartstrings,
And my very life goes dripping,
Dropping, dripping, drip-drip-dropping,
In the drip-drop of the cistern.

XXVIII

DISCHARGED

ARRY me out

CARE

Into the wind and the sunshine, Into the beautiful world.

O the wonder, the spell of the streets!
The stature and strength of the horses,
The rustle and echo of footfalls,

The flat roar and rattle of wheels!

A swift tram floats huge on us
It's a dream?

The smell of the mud in my nostrils
Is brave like a breath of the sea!

As of old,

Ambulant, undulant drapery,

Vaguely and strangely provocative,
Flutters and beckons. O yonder-
Scarlet!-the glint of a stocking!
Sudden a spire,

Wedged in the mist! O the houses,
The long lines of lofty, gray houses!
Cross-hatched with shadow and light,
These are the streets.

Each is an avenue leading

Whither I will!

Dizzy, hysterical, faint,

I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me

Into the wonderful world.

-THE OLD INFIRMARY, EDINDURGH, 1873-75.

Envoy

TO CHARLES BAXTER

O you remember

That afternoon-that Sunday afternoon !— When, as the kirks were ringing in

And the gray city teemed

With Sabbath feelings and aspects,

Lewis-our Lewis then,

Now the whole world's!—and you

Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came,
Laden with BALZACS

(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French)
The first of many times,

To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay
So long, so many centuries-
Or years, is it!—ago?

Dear Charles, since then

We have been friends, Lewis and you and I,

(How good it sounds, "Lewis and you and I!"):

Such friends, I like to think

That in us three, Lewis and me and you,

Is something of that gallant dream

Which old DUMAS-the generous, the humane, The seven-and-seventy times to be forgiven!— Dreamed for a blessing to the race.

The immortal MUSKETEERS.

Our Athos rests-the wise, the kind,

The liberal and august, his fault atoned,

Rests in the crowded yard

There at the west of Princes Street. We three

You, I, and Lewis!-still afoot,

Are still together, and our lives,

In chime so long, may keep

(God bless the thought!)

Unjangled till the end.

-WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.

O

Ole Docteur Fiset

LE Docteur Fiset of Saint Anicet
Saprè tonnerre! he was leev' long tam,
I s'pose he's got ninety year or so,

Beat all on de parish 'cept Pierre Courteau,

An' day affer day he work all de sam'!

Dat house on de hill, you can see it still,

She's sam' place he buil' de firs' tam he come,
Behin' it dere's wan leetle small jardin,

Got plaintee de bes tabac Canayen,

Wit' fameuse apple, an' beeg blue plum—

An' dey're all right dere, for de small boys' scare,

No matter de apple look nice an' red,
For de small boy know if he's stealin' some,
Den Docteur Fiset on dark night he come
An' cut leetle feller right off hees head!

But w'en dey was rap, an' tak' off de cap,
M'sieu' le Docteur he will say "Entrez!"
Den all de boy pass on jardin behind,'

W'ere dey eat mos' ev'ryt'ing good dey fin'

Till dey can't go on school nearly two, t'ree day!—

But Docteur Fiset, not moche fonne he get

Drivin' all over de whole contree;

If de road she's bad, if de road she's good

W'en ev'ryt'ings drown on de Spring-tam flood,
An' workin' for not'ing half-tam, mebbe!

Let her rain or snow, all he want to know

Is jus' if anywan's feelin' sick,

For Docteur Fiset's de ole fashion kin',
Doin' good was de only t'ing on hees min',
So he got no use for de politique.