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From the Orkneys to the Horn,
All round the world (and a little loop to pull

it by), All round the world (and a little strap to buckle

it),

A health to the Native-born !

THE KING.

“FAREWELL, Romance!" the Cave-men said;

“With bone well carved he went away, Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead,

And jasper tips the spear to-day. Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance, And he with these. Farewell, Romance!”

“Farewell, Romance!” the Lake-folk sighed;

“We lift the weight of flatling years; The caverns of the mountain side

Hold him who scorns our hutted piers. Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell, Guard ye his rest. Romance, farewell!"

“Farewell, Romance!” the Soldier spoke;

“By sleight of sword we may not win, But scuffle 'mid uncleanly smoke

Of arquebus and culverin. Honour is lost, and none may tell Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!” “Farewell, Romance!” the Traders cried;

“Our keels ha' lain with every sea; The dull-returning wind and tide

Heave up the wharf where we would be;
The known and noted breezes swell
Our trudging sail. Romance, farewell!”

“Good-bye, Romance!” the Skipper said;

“He vanished with the coal we burn; Our dial marks full steam ahead,

Our speed is timed to half a turn. Sure as the tidal trains we ply 'Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye ! ”

“Romance!” the Season-tickets mourn,

He never ran to catch his train,
But passed with coach and guard and horn-

And left the local—late again!”
Confound Romance!”... And all unseen
Romance brought up the nine-fifteen.

His hand was on the lever laid,

His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks, His whistle waked the snowbound grade,

His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks; In dock and deep and mine and mill The Boy-god reckless laboured still

Robed, crowned and throned, he wove his

spell, Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke

curled, With unconsidered miracle,

Hedged in a backward-gazing world; Then taught his chosen bard to say: “The King was with us—yesterday!”

THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS.

Away by the lands of the Japanee,

When the paper lanterns glow
And the crews of all the shipping drink

In the house of Blood Street Joe,
At twilight, when the landward breeze

Brings up the harbour noise, And ebb of Yokohama Bay

Swigs chattering through the buoys, In Cisco's Dewdrop Dining Rooms

They tell the tale anew Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight, When the Baltic ran from the Northern Light

And the Stralsund fought the two !

Now this is the Law of the Muscovite, that he

proves with shot and steel, When ye come by his isles in the Smoky Sea ye

must not take the seal, Where the gray sea goes nakedly between the

weed-hung shelves,

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