Victor Daley Quotes

A Book of Sermons underneath the Bough,
A Bag of Buns, some ginger-ale, and Thou Preaching beside me in the wilderness —
The wilderness were Paradise enow!

Six days he does no work, and The seventh takes for rest.

Life is a web with many broken ends: Then why, O friend, be sad?
Good is not near so good as it pretends; Bad is not half so bad.

I make or mar. My daring hand
Explores the entrails of the land,
And finds, beneath a greasy hat,
An Austral Homer at Cow Flat.

The parson said: "Your sinful Past Will make for you a fiery rod."
I smiled, and thought upon the vast Amused indifference of God.

Long ago I did discover It was fine to be a lover,
But the heartache and the worry spoil the game: Now I think, like an old vandal, That the game's not worth the candle—
And I know some other vandals think the same.

I do not crave the boon Of Immortality;
I do not want the moon, Nor yet the rainbow's key.I do not yearn for wings, Or fins to swim the sea;
I merely want the things That are not good for me.

When I hear a politician Speak of honours and position,
And the time to come when he will sit on high, Then I feel a sovran pity For this species of banditti,
Raising trouble while the golden time goes by.

I learnt the language of the birds, A new St. Francis I would be;
But, when I understood their words — The birds were preaching unto me.

Ah apple caused man's fall, as some believe; But that old Snake, malevolently wise,
A deadlier snare set when he left to Eve His tongue of honey and mesmeric eyes.

There's rest and peace in plenty here, and eggs and milk to spare;
The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the air;
The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto me ...
But please the Lord, on Monday morn, I'm leaving Arcady.

O reader, deem me not a sham,
For I in purple earnest am!

The Missionary labours With zeal, and pious art,
And rice, and cabin biscuit, In hope to change his heart;And dear old British ladies The Lord would fain cajole,
And humbly crave that He will save This poor old savage soul.

If beings of Mythology Could live at my commands I'd choose to be, Who had a hundred hands:
And every hand of mine
Would hold a pint of wine.

Here I can sit at ease on days of rain,
And read my Rabelais and my Montaigne,
Self-centred as a solitary star
That has no satellites its peace to mar.
Society salutes me with salaam,
For I am single — thank the Lord I am!