Humour of the North — Poems

THE BLUE NOSE

Let the Student of Nature in rapture descant, On the Heaven's cerulean hue;

Let the Lover indulge in poetical rant, When the eyes of his Mistress are blue.

But fill high your glasses--fill, fill to the brim, I've a different toast to propose: While such eyes, and such skies, still are beaming for him, Here's a health to the jolly Blue Nose.

Let the Frenchman delight in his vine-covered vales, Let the Greek toast his old classic ground;

Here's the land where the bracing Northwester prevails, And where jolly Blue Noses abound.

Long--long may it flourish, to all of us dear, Loved and honoured by hearts that are true;

But, should ever a foe chance his nose to show here He shall find all our Noses true Blue.

TO MARY

Oh!

blame me not, Mary, for gazing at you, Nor suppose that my thoughts from the Preacher were straying, Tho' I stole a few glances--believe me 'tis true-- They were sweet illustrations of what he was saying.

For, when he observed that Perfection was not To be found upon Earth--for a moment I bent A look upon you--and could swear on the spot That perfection in Beauty was not what he meant.

And when, with emotion, the worthy Divine On the doctrine of loving our neighbours insisted, I felt, if their forms were as faultless as thine, I could love every soul of them while I existed.

And Mary, I'm sure 'twas the fault of those eyes-- 'Twas the lustre of them to the error gave birth-- That, while he spoke of Angels that dwelt in the Skies, I was gazing with rapture at one upon Earth.

A TOAST

Here's a health to thee, Tom: a bright bumper we drain To the friends that our bosoms hold dear, As the bottle goes round, and again and again We whisper, "We wish _he_ were here."

Here's a health to thee, Tom: may the mists of this earth Never shadow the light of that soul Which so often has lent the mild flashes of mirth To illumine the depths of the Bowl.

With a world full of beauty and fun for a theme, And a glass of good wine to inspire, E'en without thee we sometimes are bless'd with a gleam That resembles thy spirit's own fire.

Yet still, in our gayest and merriest mood, Our pleasures are tasteless and dim, For the thoughts of the past and of Tom that intrude Make us feel we're but happy with him.

Like the Triumph of old where the _absent one_ threw A cloud o'er the glorious scene, Are our feasts, my dear Tom, when we meet without you, And think of the nights that have been.

When thy genius, assuming all hues of delight Fled away with the rapturous hours, And when wisdom and wit, to enliven the night, Scattered freely their fruits and their flowers.

When thy eloquence played round each topic in turn, Shedding lustre and life where it fell, As the sunlight, in which the tall mountain tops burn, Paints each bud in the lowliest dell.

When that eye, before which the pale Senate once quailed With humour and deviltry shone, And the voice which the heart of the patriot hailed, Had mirth in its every tone.

Then a health to thee, Tom: ev'ry bumper we drain But renders thy image more dear, As the bottle goes round, and again and again, We wish, from our hearts, you were here.