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Meditations Upon An Egg

1.

The egg's no chick by falling from the hen;
Nor man a Christian, till he's born again.
The egg's at first contained in the shell;
Men, afore grace, in sins and darkness dwell.
The egg, when laid, by warmth is made a chicken,
And Christ, by grace, those dead in sin doth quicken.
The egg, when first a chick, the shell's its prison;
So's flesh to the soul, who yet with Christ is risen.
The shell doth crack, the chick doth chirp and peep,
The flesh decays, as men do pray and weep.
The shell doth break, the chick's at liberty,
The flesh falls off, the soul mounts up on high
But both do not enjoy the self-same plight;
The soul is safe, the chick now fears the kite.

2.

But chicks from rotten eggs do not proceed,

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poem by John Bunyan
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5. Rotten Perks

A porkpie and a pickled egg
Left in a buffet car
The porkpie was in plastic wrap
Whilst egg was in a jar

They’d travelled down from London
Today they’d been in York
The egg had drank its vinegar
And pie was lacking pork

Egg nearly sold last Monday
But a diner said it stunk
The waiter threw it back in jar
Where it got a little drunk

Porkpie sat in sunshine
Soaked up the nice hot rays
As furry green things ate his crust
For more than last ten days

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poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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Yankee Shrewdness

In a little country village,
Not many years ago,
There lived a real "live Yankee,"
Whom they called "Old Uncle Snow."
In trade he had no equal;
And storekeepers would say,
"We're always 'out of pocket'
When Snow comes round this way."
'Twas the custom of the villagers —
Few of them being rich —
To trade their surplus "garden-sass"
For groceries and "sich".
One store supplied the village
With goods of every kind,
Including wines and liquors
For those that way inclined.
A counter in the "sample-room"
Was fixed up very neat;
And after every "barter-trade"
The storekeeper would "treat".

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poem by Charles Follen Adams from Yawcob Strauss and Other Poems
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Ballad Of Hard-Luck Henry

Now wouldn't you expect to find a man an awful crank
That's staked out nigh three hundred claims, and every one a blank;
That's followed every fool stampede, and seen the rise and fall
Of camps where men got gold in chunks and he got none at all;
That's prospected a bit of ground and sold it for a song
To see it yield a fortune to some fool that came along;
That's sunk a dozen bed-rock holes, and not a speck in sight,
Yet sees them take a million from the claims to left and right?
Now aren't things like that enough to drive a man to booze?
But Hard-Luck Smith was hoodoo-proof--he knew the way to lose.

'Twas in the fall of nineteen four--leap-year I've heard them say--
When Hard-Luck came to Hunker Creek and took a hillside lay.
And lo! as if to make amends for all the futile past,
Late in the year he struck it rich, the real pay-streak at last.
The riffles of his sluicing-box were choked with speckled earth,
And night and day he worked that lay for all that he was worth.
And when in chill December's gloom his lucky lease expired,
He found that he had made a stake as big as he desired.

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poem by Robert William Service
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Santa Claus in the Bush

It chanced out back at the Christmas time,
When the wheat was ripe and tall,
A stranger rode to the farmer's gate --
A sturdy man and a small.
"Rin doon, rin doon, my little son Jack,
And bid the stranger stay;
And we'll hae a crack for Auld Lang Syne,
For the morn is Christmas Day."

"Nay noo, nay noo," said the dour guidwife,
"But ye should let him be;
He's maybe only a drover chap
Frae the land o' the Darling Pea.

"Wi' a drover's tales, and a drover's thirst
To swiggle the hail nicht through;
Or he's maybe a life assurance carle
To talk ye black and blue,"

"Guidwife, he's never a drover chap,

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Mummery

THE TWO CAVEES

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

FITCH _a Pelter of Railrogues_
PICKERING _his Partner, an Enemy to Sin_
OLD NICK _a General Blackwasher_
DEAD CAT _a Missile_
ANTIQUE EGG _Another_
RAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower Distance

_Scene_-The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.

_Time_-1875.

FITCH:
Gods! what a steep declivity! Below
I see the lazy dump-carts come and go,

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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Egg-Shell

The wind took off with the sunset--
The fog came up with the tide,
When the Witch of the North took an Egg-shell
With a little Blue Devil inside.
"Sink," she said, "or swim," she said,
"It's all you will get from me.
And that is the finish of him!" she said
And the Egg-shell went to sea.

The wind fell dead with the midnight--
The fog shut down like a sheet,
When the Witch of the North heard the Egg-shell
Feeling by hand for a fleet.
"Get!" she said, "or you're gone," she said.,
But the little Blue Devil said "No!
"The sights are just coming on," he said,
And he let the Whitehead go.

The wind got up with the morning--
The fog blew off with the rain,

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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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The Fifteen Acres

I
I cling and swing
On a branch, or sing
Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O!
Or fling my wing
On the air, and bring
To sleepier birds a warning, O!
That the night's in flight,
And the sun's in sight,
And the dew is the grass adorning, O!
And the green leaves swing
As I sing, sing, sing,
Up by the river,
Down the dell,
To the little wee nest,
Where the big tree fell,
So early in the morning, O!

II
I flit and twit

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poem by James Stephens
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The Broken-Teapot

Mum's bit of egg money on the mantelpiece
In the broken teapot in the olden days,
Hardly earned and hoarded there,
Much content afforded there
Long before inspectors came and bureaucratic ways.
But science by the barn-door rules the farmer's lot
And Mum's bit of egg-money dwindles in the pot.

Ever since the first years this was mother's perquisite,
Eggs daily gathered by the old barn door,
From the stable gathered in,
From the shed and fodder bin,
Carted in and traded at the small town store;
Gathered from the wayward hen laying far afield
As the new-cleared acres gave their golden yield.

Long it was a stand-by while the kids were little ones
Mum's broken teapot resting on the shelf
Some print to make a dress for Lil,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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If a stone falls on an egg, it is bad for the egg; if an egg falls onto a stone, it is still bad for the egg.

Turkish proverbs
Added by Lucian Velea
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