Baby? Oh, he's chirpy, thank ye--been baptised--his name is Bill. It's weeks and weeks since parson came an' put him through the mill; An' his mother's mighty vain upon the subjick of his weight, An' reg'lar cock-a-hoop about his sperritual state. So now you'll take the tenner. Oh, confound the bloomin' change! Lord, had Billy died!--but, doctor, don't you think it summut strange That them as keeps the gate would have refused to let him in Because a fool mistook a drop of Adam's ale for gin? _THE MARTYR._ BY VICTOR J. DALEY. (_From "At Dawn and Dusk" poems, by kind permission of Angus and Robertson, Publishers, Sydney and Melbourne._) Not only on cross and gibbet, By sword, and fire, and flood, Have perished the world's sad martyrs Whose names are writ in blood. A woman lay in a hovel Mean, dismal, gasping for breath; One friend alone was beside her: The name of him was--Death. For the sake of her orphan children, For money to buy them food, She had slaved in the dismal hovel And wasted her womanhood. Winter and spring and summer Came each with a load of cares; And autumn to her brought only A harvest of grey hairs. Far out in the blessed country, Beyond the smoky town, The winds of God were blowing Evermore up and down; The trees were waving signals Of joy from the bush beyond; The gum its blue-green banner, The fern its dark-green frond; Flower called to flower in whispers By sweet caressing names, And young gum shoots sprang upward Like woodland altar-flames; And, deep in the distant ranges The magpie's fluting song Roused musical, mocking echoes In the woods of Dandenong; And riders were galloping gaily, With loose-held flowing reins, Through dim and shadowy gullies, Across broad, treeless plains; And winds through the Heads came wafting A breath of life from the sea, And over the blue horizon The ships sailed silently; And out of the sea at morning The sun rose, golden bright, And in crimson, and gold, and purple Sank in the sea at night; But in dreams alone she saw them, Her hours of toil between; For life to her was only A heartless dead machine. _Her_ heart was in the graveyard Where lay her children three; Nor work nor prayer could save them, Nor tears of agony. On the lips of her last and dearest Pressing a farewell kiss, She cried aloud in her anguish-- "Can God make amends for _this_?" Dull, desperate, ceaseless slaving Bereft her of power to pray, And Man was careless and cruel, And God was far away. But who shall measure His mercies? His ways are in the deep; And, after a life of sorrow, He gave her His gift of sleep.