With a limpid tear in her eyes of blue,
But I’ll stroke her hair of a flaxen hue,
And I’ll kiss her lips of a rosebud red
And, harness and all, I will flop to bed
And dream of the promise I made to Sue!
[181]
]CHURNING “COPY” FOR THE PRESS.
Men are rushing through the level, or are delving in the shaft,
Or a-belting like the devil at a moil—
With a bitter curse for Adam, as the pioneer of graft
And the bloke who took a patent out for toil.