POETRY.
OLD LOB-LIE-BY-THE-FIRE.
HENCEFORTH old Lob shall sweat for no man's hire
On winter nights knee-deep in snow or mire, Split no hard logs, nor shoulder no huge burden, Since he has seen his nightly favours harden To obligation, his cream-brimming vat Thin to more whey, scarce quarter filled at that.
From god to blackleg labourer being sunk, Instead of reverent dues, old Lob has drunk Sour grudging minimum-wage, working so hard, And farmer's wife keeps her warm kitchen barred; Then weary Lob, his job complete, may stand In the muckyard.
Oh, goodbye to this changed land I To Canada or New Zealand or the Cape He works his passage easily in the shape
Of a Dago stoker, or perhaps he hides His matted shapelessness in a bale of hides.
Once over, he hopes cream and by some fire To doze, yet shall he sweat for no man's hire,.
Nor for ingratitude chore now never more.
ROBERT CRAVES.
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