Last man! The bowling crack came in--of course he couldn't bat, He could lash out and chance the stroke to show us what was what; Our hopes were down to freezing-point, twelve runs were to his score, To win the match he only had to hit another four. He swiped; we groaned to think that we were beaten after all; The stroke was high--a splendid catch--_the Parson held the ball_. Then how we yelled, and yelled again; he'd fairly won the match-- The splendid batting that he showed, the more than splendid catch; Why, chaps, you'd hardly credit it, that almost every bloke Goes into church on Sunday now, and does without his smoke; And no one's likely to forget that sunny Christmas Day, When we were all surprised a bit at quiet Parson Grey. _ODE FOR COMMONWEALTH DAY_ _1st JANUARY, 1901._ Awake! Arise! The wings of dawn Are beating at the gates of day, The morning star hath been withdrawn, The silver vapours melt away. Rise royally, O sun, and crown The shoreward billow, streaming white, The forelands, and the mountains brown, With crested light; Flood with soft beams the valleys wide, The mighty plains, the desert sand, Till the New Day hath won for bride This Austral land! Free-born of nations, virgin white, Not won by blood, nor ringed with steel. Thy throne is on a loftier height, Deep-rooted in the commonweal. O thou, for whom the strong have wrought, And poets sung with souls aflame, Born of long hope and patient thought, A mighty name-- We pledge thee faith that shall not swerve, Our land, our lady, breathing high The thought that makes it love to serve, And life to die! Now are thy maidens linked in love, Who erst have striven for pride of place; Lifted all meaner thoughts above They greet thee, one in heart and race; She, in whose sunlit coves of peace The navies of the world may rest, And bear her wealth of snowy fleece Northward and west. And she, whose corn and rock-hewn gold Built that Queen City of the South, Where the lone billow swept of old Her harbour-mouth.