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The only Man that eer I knew
Who did not make me almost spew
Was Fuseli he was both Turk & Jew
And so dear Christian Friends how do you do
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I had ridden over hurdles up the country once or twice,
By the side of Snowy River with a horse they called "The Ace".
And we brought him down to Sydney, and our rider, Jimmy Rice,
Got a fall and broke his shoulder, so they nabbed me in a trice --
Me, that never wore the colours, for the open Steeplechase.
"...Opinion is a flitting thing,
But Truth, outlasts the Sun —
If then we cannot own them both —
Possess the oldest one —1843 edition
Note
1872 edition
Brief CommentaryOur bonny Scots lads, in their green tartan plaids.
Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw,
Rank'd up on the green were fair to be seen,
But my bonny young laddie was fairest of a'.
His cheeks were as red as the sweet heather-bell.
Or the red western cloud looking down on the snaw.
His lang...Our journey had advanced —
Our feet were almost come
To that odd Fork in Being's Road —
Eternity — by Term —
Our pace took sudden awe —
Our feet — reluctant — led —
Before — were Cities — but Between —
The Forest of the Dead —
Retreat — was out of Hope —
...Our little Kinsmen — after Rain
In plenty may be seen,
A Pink and Pulpy multitude
The tepid Ground upon.
A needless life, it seemed to me
Until a little Bird
As to a Hospitality
Advanced and breakfasted.
As I of He, so God of Me
I pondered, may have judged...Our little secrets slink away —
Beside God's shall not tell —
He kept his word a Trillion years
And might we not as well —
But for the niggardly delight
To make each other stare
Is there no sweet beneath the sun
With this that may compare —Our lives are Swiss —
So still — so Cool —
Till some odd afternoon
The Alps neglect their Curtains
And we look farther on!
Italy stands the other side!
While like a guard between —
The solemn Alps —
The siren Alps
Forever intervene!It came from the prison this morning,
Close-twisted, neat-lettered, and flat;
It lies the hall doorway adorning,
A very good style of a mat.
Prison-made! how the spirit is moven
As we think of its story of dread --
What wiles of the wicked are woven
And spun in its intricate thread!...