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XIV

In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet.

It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet.

In public Her face is averted, with anger She nameth thy

name.

It is well.

Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the

game?

XV

If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed, And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed.

If She have written a letter, delay not an instant but burn it. Tear it in pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it!

If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,

Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.

XVI

My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give

o'er,

Yet lip meets with lip at the lastward. Get out! She has

been there before.

They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore.

XVII

If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred

on the course.

Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth for ever

Remorse.

XVIII

"By all I am misunderstood!" if the Matron shall say, or the Maid:

"Alas! I do not understand," my son, be thou nowise afraid.

In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed.

XIX

My son, if I, Hafiz, thy father, take hold of thy knees in my pain,

Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour-refrain.

Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man's chain?

THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS

BENEATH the deep verandah's shade,
When bats begin to fly,

I sit me down and watch-alas!
Another evening die.
Blood-red behind the sere ferash1

She rises through the haze.

Sainted Diana! can that be

The Moon of Other Days!

Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,
Sweet Saint of Kensington!
Say, was it ever thus at Home
The Moon of August shone,
When arm in arm we wandered long
Through Putney's evening haze,

And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath
The Moon of Other Days?

'Tamarisk.

But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now,

And Putney's evening haze
The dust that half a hundred kine
Before my window raise.
Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist
The seething city looms,

In place of Putney's golden gorse
The sickly babul blooms.

Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust, And bid the pie-dog yell,

Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ,

From each bazaar its smell;

Yea, suck the fever from the tank

And sap my strength therewith:

Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face
To little Kitty Smith!

THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE

THIS fell when dinner-time was done

"Twixt the first an' the second rubThat oor mon Jock cam' hame again To his rooms ahint the Club.

An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang,
An' syne we thocht him fou,
An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,
An' garred his partner rue.

Then up and spake an elder mon,

That held the Spade its Ace

"God save the lad! Whence comes the licht

"That wimples on his face?"

An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled,
An' ower the card-brim wunk:-
"I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,
"May be that I am drunk."

"There's whusky brewed in Galashiels

"An' L. L. L. forbye;

"But never liquor lit the lowe

"That keeks fra' oot your eye.

"There's a thrid o' hair on your dress-coat breast, "Aboon the heart a wee?"

"Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye

"That slobbers ower me."

"Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts,

"An' terrier dogs are fair,

"But never yet was terrier born,

"Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!

"There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast, "Below the left lappel?"

"Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar,

"Whenas the stump-end fell."

"Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse,

"For ye are short o' cash,

"An' best Havanas couldna leave

"Sae white an' pure an ash.

"This nicht ye stopped a story braid, "An' stopped it wi' a curse.

"Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'— "An' capped it wi' a worse!

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"Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou! "But plainly we can ken "Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band "O' cantie single men!"

An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere,
An' the nichts were lang and mirk,
In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,
Oor Jockie gaed to the Kirk!

WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID

Queen Victoria's Jubilee.

JUNE 21ST, 1887

BY THE well, where the bullocks go

Silent and blind and slow

By the field, where the young corn dies In the face of the sultry skies,

They have heard, as the dull Earth hears The voice of the wind of an hour,

The sound of the Great Queen's voice:"My God hath given me years, "Hath granted dominion and power: "And I bid you, O Land, rejoice."

And the Ploughman settles the share
More deep in the grudging clod;
For he saith:-"The wheat is my care,
"And the rest is the will of God.
"He sent the Mahratta spear
"As He sendeth the rain,

"And the Mlech,1 in the fated year,
"Broke the spear in twain,

1The foreigner.

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