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North where the bergs careen,

The spray of seas unseen
Smokes round my head and freezes in the fall-

ing;
South where the corals breed,

The footless, floating weed
Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawl-

ing.

I that was clean to run

My race against the sun
Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster-

Whipped forth by night to meet

My sister's careless feet,
And with a kiss betray her to my master!

Man made me, and my will

Is to my maker still
To him and his, our peoples at their pier:

Lifting in hope to spy

Trailed smoke along the sky; Falling afraid lest any keel come near!

THE SONG OF THE BANJO.

You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile

You mustn't leave a fiddle in the dampYou couldn't raft an organ up the Nile,

And play it in an Equatorial swamp. I travel with the cooking-pots and pails— I'm sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the

pork— And when the dusty column checks and tails, You should hear me spur the rearguard to a

walk!

With my Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!
[O it's any tune that comes into my

head!]
So I keep 'em moving forward till they

drop;
So I play 'em up to water and to bed.

In the silence of the camp before the fight,
When it's good to make your will and say

your prayer,

You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight

Explaining ten to one was always fair. I'm the prophet of the Utterly Absurd,

Of the Patently Impossible and VainAnd when the thing that Couldn't has occurred,

Give me time to change my leg and go again.

With my Tumpa - tumpa - tumpa- tum - pa

tump!In the desert where the dung-fed camp

smoke curled There was never voice before us till I led

our lonely chorus, Ithe war-drum of the White Man round

the world!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,

Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,

In the silence of the herder's hut aloneIn the twilight, on a bucket upside down, Hear me babble what the weakest won't con

fess— I am Memory and Torment-I am Town!

I am all that ever went with evening dress!

With myTunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka

tunk ![So the lights—the London lights-grow

near and plain!] So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and

the Flesh,

Till I bring my broken rankers home again. In desire of many marvels over sea, Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and

roars, I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger

shores. He is blooded to the open and the sky,

He is taken in a snare that shall not fail, He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,

Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.

With my Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah!

Haul !" [O the green that thunders aft along the

deck!] Are you sick o' towns and men ? You

must sign and sail again, For it's “Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit

and trek!”

Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon

day clearUp the pass that packs the scud beneath our

wheelRound the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom

sheerDown the valley with our guttering brakes

asqueal: Where the trestle groans and quivers in the

snow, Where the many-shedded levels loop and

twine, So I lead my reckless children from below

Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.

With my Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink !. [And the axe has cleared the mountain,

croup and crest!] So we ride the iron stallions down to drink, Through the cañons to the waters of the

West!

And the tunes that mean so much to you

alone Common tunes that make you choke and

blow your nose,

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