Victor Daley

I learnt the language of the birds, A new St. Francis I would be; But, when I understood their words — The birds were preaching unto me.

Long ago I did discover It was fine to be a lover, But the heartache and the worry spoil the game: Now I think, like an old vandal, That the game's not worth the candle— And I know some other vandals think the same.

When I hear a politician Speak of honours and position, And the time to come when he will sit on high, Then I feel a sovran pity For this species of banditti, Raising trouble while the golden time goes by.

Life is a web with many broken ends: Then why, O friend, be sad? Good is not near so good as it pretends; Bad is not half so bad.

If beings of Mythology Could live at my commands I'd choose to be, Who had a hundred hands: And every hand of mine Would hold a pint of wine.

I'd sooner talk to a man than a woman any day. Ten minutes exhausts them.

There's rest and peace in plenty here, and eggs and milk to spare; The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the air; The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto me ... But please the Lord, on Monday morn, I'm leaving Arcady.

Must we all in grovel wallow Like to bisons in a bog — Must we call him an Apollo If he is not quite a hog?

Six days he does no work, and The seventh takes for rest.

The Missionary labours With zeal, and pious art, And rice, and cabin biscuit, In hope to change his heart;And dear old British ladies The Lord would fain cajole, And humbly crave that He will save

Other Bards I envy not — Room there is for all, God wot — All I ask is room for me On the top branch of the tree.

The narrow, thorny path he trod. "Enter into My joy," said God. The sad ascetic shook his head; "I've lost all taste for joy," he said.

Ah apple caused man's fall, as some believe; But that old Snake, malevolently wise, A deadlier snare set when he left to Eve His tongue of honey and mesmeric eyes.