Rhymes Rudely Strungtag:www.middlemiss.org,2010-11-25:/rhymes_rudely_strung//22012-05-15T22:05:27ZMovable Type 4.23-enThe Tin-Pot Mill by Edward Dysontag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43972012-05-15T22:05:51Z2012-05-15T22:05:27ZPerry Middlemiss
Since he built his crazy mill upon the rise, An' he stands there in the gully, chewin' backer, With a sleepy sort of comfort in his eyes, Gazin' up to where the antiquated jigger Is a-wheezin' an' a-hoppin' on the hill, An' up here me lord the Guvner isn't bigger Than the owner of the Federation Mill.
She goes biff, puff, bang, bump, clitter-clatter, smash, An' she rattles on fer half a shift, an' lets up with a crash, An' then silence reigns a little while, an' all the land is still While they're tinkerin' awkward patches on the tin-pot mill.
It's a five-head plant, an' mostly built of lumber; 'Twas erected by a man who didn't know, An' we've never had a decentt spell of slumber Since that battery of Finn's was got to go; For she raises jest the most infernal clatter, An' we guessed the Day of Judgment had come down When the tin-pot mill began to bang and batter Like a earthquake in a boiler-metal town.
All the heads are different sizes,'an' the horses Are so crazy that the whole caboodle rocks, An' each time a stamper thunders down it forces Little spirtin's through the crannies in the box. Then the feed-pipe's mostly plugged an' aggravatin', An' the pump it suffers badly from a cough; Every hour or so they bust a bloomin' gratin', An' the shoes are nearly always comin' off.
Mickey drives her with a portable, a ruin That they used fer donkeyin' cargo in the Ark. Thunder! when she's got some way on, an' is doin', You should hear that spavined coffee-grinder bark. She is loose in all her jints, an', through corrosion, Half her plates 're not a sixteenth in the thick. We're expectin' a sensational explosion, An' a subserquent excursion after Mick.
From the feed --- which chokes --- to quite the smallest ripple, From the bed-logs to the guides, she's mighty queer, An' she joggles like an agitated cripple With St. Viter's darnce intensified by beer. She stops short, an' starts with most unearthly rumbles, An', distracted by the silence an' the din, Through the sleepless night the weary miner grumbles, An' eaps curses on the family of Finn.
But the owner's much too cute a man to wrangle. He is crushin' fer the public, understand, An' each ton of stuff that's hammered through the mangle Adds its tribet to the value of his land. For she leaks the raw amalgam, an' he's able To see daylight 'twixt the ripples an' the plates, An' below the an' 'neath the shakin'-table There are nest-eggs 'cumulatin' while he waits.
She goes biff, puff, bang, bump, clitter-clatter, smash, An' she rattles on fer half a shift, an' lets up with a crash, An' then silence reigns a little while, an' all the land is still While they're tinkerin' awkward patches on the tin-pot mill.
First published in The Bulletin, 16 May 1896, and again in the same magazine on 23-30 December 1980; and later in Rhymes from the Mines and Other Lines by Edward Dyson, 1896.
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Waters of Wellington by Ethel Turnertag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43572012-05-14T20:46:14Z2012-05-14T20:46:59ZPerry Middlemiss
We splendid broke a way. Faint on the ocean's farthest edge A smear of purple lay.
A smear of purple, warmed with rose And wine ran o'er the sea. "Now feel I as Columbus felt," Laughed low my heart to me.
Who first of very first time sees A new land far ahead. Drinks of the fiery sailor's cup, And breaks his yeasty bread.
Wine-red the seas a little space, Then sudden shot with grey; And lilac veiled the fringy coast, Light lilac washed each bay.
Silent we slipped along the sea, And now the shores swim near, Stern guards at arms around their land, Still, secret, and austere.
And red-roofed round the water's edge The sprinkled townships lay. Or red-roofed climbed the sheerest bills, And clung 'twixt sky and bay.
O, not as other hills the hills That rose both near and far, All crumpled in a thousand shapes, And creased with water-scar.
And so I came to Wellington, Piled round its opal sea. "Now feel I as Columbus felt," Laughed low my heart to me.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 15 May 1926
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Love's Coming by John Shaw Neilsontag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43492012-05-13T21:26:11Z2012-05-13T21:26:18ZPerry Middlemiss
Talk to thin air, Love came so lightly I knew not he was there.
Quietly as lovers Creep at the middle noon, Softly as players tremble In the tears of a tune;
Quietly as lilies Their faint vows declare, Came the shy pilgrim: I knew not he was there.
Quietly as tears fall On a warm sin, Softly as griefs call In a violin;
Without hail or tempest, Blue sword or flame, Love came so lightly I knew not that he came.
First published in The Sun [Sydney], 14 May 1911; and later in The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse edited by Walter Murdoch, 1918; An Australasian Anthology: Australian and New Zealand Poems edited by Percival Serle, R.H. Croll and Frank Wilmot, 1927; New Song in an Old Land edited by Rex Ingamells, 1948; The Penguin Book of Australian Verse edited by John Thompson, Kenneth Slessor and R.G. Howarth, 1958; From the Ballads to Brennan edited by T. Inglis Moore, 1964; Makar, May 1965; Green Days and Cherries: the early verses of Shaw Neilson edited by Hugh Anderson and Leslie James Blake, 1981; Cross-Country: A Book of Australian Verse edited by John Barnes, 1984; The Illustrated Treasury of Australian Verse edited by Beatrice Davis, 1984; My Country: Australian Poetry and Short Stories, Two Hundred Years edited by Leonie Kramer, 1985; Love Came So Lightly: Australian Love Sonnets and Such, 1990; John Shaw Neilson: Poetry, Autobiography and Correspondence edited by Cliff Hanna, 1991; The Language of Love: An Anthology of Australian Love Letters, Poetry and Prose edited by Pamela Allardice, 1991; The Oxford Book of Australian Love Poems edited by Jennifer Strauss, 1993; Selected Poems edited by Robert Gray, 1993; Hell and After: Four Early English Language Poets of Australia edited by Les Murray, 2005; Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007; The Penguin Anthology of Australian Poetry edited by John Kinsella, 2009; and 100 Australian Poems of Love and Loss edited by Jamie Grant, 2011.
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Life's Song by Emily Coungeautag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43332012-05-13T00:19:51Z2012-05-13T00:19:04ZPerry Middlemiss
Which heralds the birth of the fragrant morn, And beareth a chalice which sheddeth showers Of crystal dew o'er the dreaming flowers.
My love is the king with the torch of gold, Whose flambent rays doth dear earth enfold, Who kissed the amorous, waiting west, And gildeth a path o'er the ocean's breast.
My love is that queenly vision meek, With pale fires quenched, and a paler cheek, Who walketh so softly and regal, yet sad, But who wreathed in such beauty doth make me glad.
My love is that temple with dome so blue, Where those gleaming jewels the stars peep through, With the swinging earth a cushion where we May behold the celestial pageantry.
My love is life's music-the deep rich chords Hath the soul for a reed, though it breathe no words, Like a string of gems in a holy shrine, And each gem a pure note on a lute divine.
Oh, love! Life's song which is sweetest flows To the stately measure the dreamer knows, With a thrilling cadenza in mortal ears. Where life's song endeth there are no tears.
First published in The Brisbane Courier, 13 May 1914; and later in Rustling Leaves: Selected Poems by Emily Coungeau, 1920.
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An Octogenarian's Autumn by Hedley Barron Millertag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43562012-05-11T21:56:31Z2012-05-11T21:56:31ZPerry Middlemiss
Now autumn's fitful brooding laps the bay; And, haunting sea and land, fogs meet halfway And quail before a briefer day's decree. Not yet the rimey dew is off the lea, Where lacing hoar-frost binds the grass with grey, And curls the rusty leaf. Dank shadows play On mildewed pomegranates through the tree. Shorter the cool days grow and from the east Grave shadows fling a deeper longer band Across departed summers dying feast, Life's autumn, too, draws on. Old shadows stand On buried years with patient eyes turned west, Where opal twilight screens the promised land.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 12 May 1934
Author: nothing is known about the author of this poem.
Author reference site:Austlit ]]>
Cast Adrift by Clarinda Parkestag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43852012-05-10T22:58:31Z2012-05-10T22:58:34ZPerry Middlemiss
On the wild waves afloat; Never a sail in sight, Day darkling into night -- Stormy and stern,
So tossed my soul adrift, High on doubt's waves uplift; Vainly I sought for aid, Boundless the billows played Round me, in anger!
Hoarsely the deep seas moaned, Roughly the wild winds groaned; Cold cloyed the sailor's haart, -- Oh, God, from earth to part, And from the loving!
So saw I horrors round, So heard I terrors sound; Helpless, I lay and wept, Dreaming all succour slept, Wide waked destruction.
Lo! on the orient verge Is it the breakers' surge? No, but a coming sail -- God, shall their senses fail, Maddened by hope!
So, through my dark despair, What struggling light is there? Dimly my cross uprears Him that will ease all fears, The Dying, the Deathless!
Hark to the thankful cry! Mark you the upturned eye! Snatched from an ocean grave, Look how great tear-drops lave The sailors' smilings.
Lo, I, with trust on high, Cling to that Cross for aye, So doth my worship burst Out into song at first, Deep'ning to weeping.
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Harbour Magic by Arthur H. Adamstag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43472012-05-09T22:59:50Z2012-05-09T22:59:52ZOn these autumnal mornings, when the bay Lies somnolent, as if the world were Into a magic maze of amethyst,Waiting for beauty of the coming day.There dawns a peaceful picture far away, As if a weary old astrologistHad conjured up...Perry Middlemiss
Lies somnolent, as if the world were Into a magic maze of amethyst, Waiting for beauty of the coming day. There dawns a peaceful picture far away, As if a weary old astrologist Had conjured up from out the thinning mist A shining beauty like a bride's array.
Across the solemn water, dumb, opaque, The city seems a girl in silver-grey; A ripple runs across the placid lake; The dawn expectant in her white array Goes proudly forth to meet the bridegroom day; Across the harbour rips a ferry's wake!
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 10 May 1930
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War by George Essex Evanstag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43552012-05-08T22:59:49Z2012-05-08T22:59:48ZImperious Goddess! proud Bellona! stay, So I may strive to read thy secret heart; Tear from thy cruel face the mask away; Come --- let men see thee as thou really art.That lofty air, that brave yet scornful smile, But...Perry Middlemiss
So I may strive to read thy secret heart; Tear from thy cruel face the mask away; Come --- let men see thee as thou really art. That lofty air, that brave yet scornful smile, But hides the pitiless stern features 'neath The mask by which thou dost men's hearts beguile To risk their lives to win thy laurel-wreath. Thy gorgeous pageantry, thy nodding plumes, The martial music's glorious stirring swell, Are but the shrouds for twice a thousand tombs --- For twice a thousand but Death's solemn knell. Two hostile hosts ablaze with glittering steel; The thunder of artillery; the shock Of charging squadrons; the proud bugle-peal --- Clear, loud, yet silvery, as tho' to mock Some dying soldier's agonised appeal To Heaven for mercy; then the tiny square, Lost in the dense gray haze of battle-cloud While charging hordes press round it everywhere, Still sternly stubborn--and us sternly proud, Defiant, and immovable--and like the rock O'er which old Ocean's mountain billows tear, Break, burst in thunder, yet can not Move from its native fastnesses one jot. And men --- with quickened senses as they hear The bugle-call, the clash as steel meets steel, And see their native banner's crest uprear High o'er them--then can only feel, As the battalions of the foe appear In columned grandeur nearer and more near. Their pulses throb, and the warm life-blood glow, And care for nought save victory, and the foe. Thus ever, Goddess! when with naked sword Thou standest crying "Glory --- onward go!" Men have been ready to obey thy word, Nor count the odds, nor heed that blood must flow. And so it is, has been, will be thy plan So long as earth is earth and man is man.
That is one side the picture; but I would --- If so be that I can a landscape draw -- Depict both light and shade, as artist should, And paint the shades of awful glorious war. I see the moonlight on the battle-field When all is silent and the fight is o'er. And there Death's harvest! Tis a mighty yield; Yet hath he reaped such yields full oft before. And there they lie --- not singly, but in heaps; In ghastly heaps; the dying with the dead All intermingled--while the cold wind sweeps Across and moans their requiem overhead. And this is War! Great, glorious, awful War! -- Whose praises poets still are wont to sing --- With all its pomp, and majesty, and awe! Yet, to my mind, it seems a gruesome thing To think that for each wretch maimed, wounded, torn By shot, and left stark dead upon the plain Some loving hearts (tho' far away) must mourn -- Must weep in bitterness --= must weep in vain. " He dies with honour who doth fall in war," They say, and count the heroes of the strife. Can this the loved one to his home restore, Or fill his nostrils with the breath of life? A warrior's grave they deck with laurel leaf, And honour him whose honour knew no stain, But to his nearest (in their hopeless grief) The laurel fades-the cypress will remain. Imperious Goddess! when it is thy plan With martial majesty to set the task For man to battle with his brother man, Show each thy countenance - without the mask.
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Condamine Bluffs, Killarney by Alice Hamtag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43362012-05-07T23:54:52Z2012-05-07T23:54:16ZSo old! So hoar! Who knows how old they are --These crags of Eld, that front the Evening Star? From silver mists they rear their heads sublime, Furrowed by miles and tears of ancient Time.Yet at their feet in veiling...Perry Middlemiss
These crags of Eld, that front the Evening Star?
From silver mists they rear their heads sublime, Furrowed by miles and tears of ancient Time.
Yet at their feet in veiling foliage set, Gay bloom the gorse and faint blue violet.
And as we ride, beyond the ferny screen The bell-bird's note falls clear our words between.
The river winds with many a sinuous turn, Of dreams in hollows green with moss and fern.
Our horses' hoof-beats, echoing from the walls, Discordant break the music of the Falls.
Against the granite background gray and cold Autumn, the artist, paints the poplar gold.
Ah! azure world God makes so fair to see, I go. Thy beauty stays, unchanged, with me.
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Australia by Henry Hallorantag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43462012-05-06T22:57:26Z2012-05-06T22:57:17ZIt is not that our heaven is brightWith stars, which through the fragrant night, Shine, like uncounted worshippers Of the great Source of Light. It is not that our balmy airMakes it a vital joy, to shareIn the sweet breathing...Perry Middlemiss
With stars, which through the fragrant night, Shine, like uncounted worshippers Of the great Source of Light.
It is not that our balmy air Makes it a vital joy, to share In the sweet breathing of the hills, As of a world in prayer;--
It is not that our valleys hold The means of life, for manifold And various creatures-man and beast-- Or the red-treasured gold;--
It is not that rapt Beauty seems, As in a world of fairy dreams, To mould the Daughters of the land For bards' and painters' themes;--
Nor that our sons, would they disdain The soul-corroding thirst of gain, And look on glory, as on heaven, Would never look in vain;
That we this favoured land should prize, Or walk with proud and grateful eyes, Blessing the Great All-Bountiful For this new Paradise;
But for a guerdon, free from ill, That we, with just and righteous will, May frame a state of things to win-- The Soul of Freedom still;
That far above, the clamorous cry Of an insane Democracy,-- Or Tyranny, more monstrous still,-- Utopia may try;
May so adjust the wheels and weights, And balance all the mixed estates, That each shall share with equal pride, The freedom that elates;--
That makes man, with an upright heart, Take in the world his lofty part,-- The Christian walking through the flames, And dreading not the dart!
Oh, God ! if one, a castaway From hope-almost from heaven-may pray; His first, his last, one prayer would be From morn to evening grey,--
That his adopted land may be, Great in her glory-wise and free-- God-fearing, just, and terrible Alike by land and sea.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 7 May 1864
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"The Mallee Fire" by Charles Henry Soutertag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43612012-05-05T23:49:13Z2012-05-05T23:49:39ZI suppose it just depends on where you're raised.Once I met a cove as swore by green belar!Couldn't sight the good old mallee-stump I praised:Well -- I couldn't sight belar, and there you are!But the faces in the fire where...Perry Middlemiss
Once I met a cove as swore by green belar! Couldn't sight the good old mallee-stump I praised: Well -- I couldn't sight belar, and there you are! But the faces in the fire where the mallee-stump's a-blinking Are the friendliest I ever seen, to my way o' thinking!
In the city where the fires is mostly coal -- There! I can't abear to go and warm my feet! Spitting, fizzing things as hasn't got no soul! Things as puffs out yaller smoke instead of heat! But at home -- well, it is home when the mallee-stump's a-burning And the evening's drawing chilly and the season is a-turning!
And there's some as runs them down because they're tough. Well? And what's the good of anythink as ain't? No. It's nary use to serve 'em any bluff, For they'd use up all the patience of a saint. But they'll split as sweet as sugar if you know the way to take 'em. If you don't, there isn't nothink in the world as'll make 'em!
They're tremenjus hard to kindle, tho', at first: Like a friendship of the kind as comes to stay. You can blow and blow and blow until you burst, And when they won't, they won't burn, anyway! But once they gets a start, tho' they make no showy flashes, Well, they'll serve you true and honest to the last pinch of ashes!
First published in The Bulletin, 6 May 1899; and later in The Oxford Book of Australasian Verse edited by Walter Murdoch, 1918; Favourite Australian Poems edited by Ian Mudie, 1963; and Two Centuries of Australian Poetry edited by Kathrine Bell, 2007.
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The Captive's Complaint by Henry Parkestag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43482012-05-04T23:44:10Z2012-05-04T23:44:25ZPerry Middlemiss
My boys are with the slain; My heart is cold as lifeless clay; My tears but rust my chain.
The mansion of my forefathers Is in the foe's possession; My country -- ah! each home of hers Is subject to oppression.
My lady -- she may still survive, Our children all departed; Perchance we both remain alive, Alike both broken-hearted.
But never more may I behold My beautiful oppressed, The country of the warrior bold, Where Freedom's martyrs rest!
Ev'n to my wandering soul in dreams, Along my native mountains, Th' invaders standard, startling, gleams, And carnage chokes the fountains!
Oh God! I would not live to see To-morrow's sun ascending, Might I to-night but perish free, My country still defending!
First published in The Australasian Chronicle, 5 May 1840; and later in Stolen Moments: A Short Series of Poems by Henry Parkes, 1842.
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Song of the Black Nights by Louise Macktag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43712012-05-04T00:25:56Z2012-05-04T00:26:19ZSome sing Hymns to the Dawn;Let the sing, I will not bringMy harp to keep accompaniment.Some make Music of Moons;Ah, pale Nocturne, my pulses spurnYour liquid silver, your dim, wet gold.I worship you, Moon, but you shall not holdMy soul...Perry Middlemiss
Let the sing, I will not bring My harp to keep accompaniment. Some make Music of Moons; Ah, pale Nocturne, my pulses spurn Your liquid silver, your dim, wet gold. I worship you, Moon, but you shall not hold My soul in your hands, and the Sun's red poem Shall pass me by like a hidden cithern.
Moon, is it fault of mine that I do not set Your tender crystal high in my heart? Moon, is it shame to me that I will not let Your fragile shining light me to Heaven? Fault or shame, I will keep my name To set at the end of the only song I ever will sing, my whole life long.
Sun, is it written down in your red, red book How I was faithless, who love you so well? Then is it written, too, that my false eyes look Up to your face, Sun, and all's forgiven? Faith or fall, I must keep my all To swell the sound of the only song I ever will sing, my whole life long.
Dawn, shall I weep that the youth of the world from me Has passed and left me lonely and old. Blind to the perfect rose that I would not see Your beckoning blossom, tenderly calling. Blind with tears, I have turned the years To swell the tides of the only song I will ever sing, my whole life long.
Night, will you bear as I lie at your shadowy gate, And silent, silent, wait for your perfect breast. Night, will you know, though my Wandering Heart is late, It is yours at last, and is yours for ever. Little Dawn and the Middle Morn, And Moon and Sun, I have left them all For the tireless peace of your passionless thrall.
Listen, listen my Heart, Let us lay the white Moon here asleep, Kiss her, and say a low good-bye. Cover her face with the vines that creep Through sunny places. Ah, do not weep, Let us lay her here, asleep.
Listen, listen my Heart! Let us clasp the red Sun once and then Leave Him and utter no good-bye. Cover his limbs with eglantine Too heavy and honeyed for mortal men, Let us clasp him once, and then --
Then to the Night, And good-bye to light, For ever, and ever, and ever. Oh tender, noble, imperioUs, black, Best and bravest, shield that I lack, And lacking, fail in the fight out there, Wrap me round in your long back hair, Cover me close with your tender arms, Blot out the memory of the stars and morn. Wrap me close in your long back hair, Warm and fragrant, and when I stare Up through its masses to where the trees Mutter above me their Symphonies, I shall see no trees, and the Symphonies Will persuade my beliefless, vagrant soul That she is the only music-maker, Only law giver, condoner, law-breaker... And wrapped in your shdow, so close, so strong, Lying silent, perhaps ere long I shall make, or capture one perfect song.
Wrapped in the Night! Ah, the wild delight Of the great fresh world that creeps down and near. Wrapped in the Night, Shut out from the light. At last I can listen, at last I can hear. At last I have caught the meaning That haunted me always, but always fled Just as I gained it. Now, living or dead I shall never be haunted any more, For the black, black night has revealed the shore Of the furthrest sea in any world, Has carried me up to the highest steep, Has borne me under the under-deep, And lying silent I know, ere long, I shall catch and capture my perfect song. My splendid, passionate scythe-like song, Blown of the dark as a soul is blown Out of the black unknown.
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I Love Him So by Charles Harpurtag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43582012-05-02T22:46:39Z2012-05-02T22:46:29ZI love Him so,That though his face I ne'er might see, In the assurance that he so loved me, My happy heart would glowWith pulses sweeter than the sweetest beThat colder ones can know.I love Him so,That to my thought...Perry Middlemiss
That though his face I ne'er might see, In the assurance that he so loved me, My happy heart would glow With pulses sweeter than the sweetest be That colder ones can know.
I love Him so, That to my thought 'twere sweet to sleep Even in death, believing he would keep, With solemn steps and slow, In sabbath memory my Grave, and weep For Her who slept below.
I love Him so, That all desires when he is by, Shrink even from the import of a sigh; As flowers unseen that grow, Being mute, must so remain; as in the sky Are stars that none may know.
First published in The Weekly Register of Politics, Facts and General Literature, 3 May 1845; and later in The Maitland Mercury and Hunter River General Advertiser, 11 July 1846; The Bushrangers, a Play in Five Acts, and Other Poems by Charles Harpur, 1853; and The Poetical Works of Charles Harpur edited by Elizabeth Perkins, 1984
Note: this poem is also known by the title "Virginal Love".
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Fate by Robert Crawfordtag:www.middlemiss.org,2012:/rhymes_rudely_strung//2.43502012-05-01T22:57:04Z2012-05-01T22:57:57ZPerry Middlemiss
Endow a moment with the mood of Man, When my wan moment like a dream is gone, Destroy or take me then where I began.
If it be in the moment I have err'd A thousand times, remember I'm a word That Thou hast spoken, its echoes have All from Thine own intensity occurr'd.
I am no other than what Thou hast made, Apprenticed to Thy purpose, like a trade, I know not why; and if I care or no, 'Tis to Thy purpose, too, how I am paid!