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Rinkle! Rinkle! Rinkle! Love at Ōwhiro Bay
Rinkle! Rinkle! Rinkle! Love at Ōwhiro Bay
A description is on the left, and the poem is on the right
This poem, by Boyce Bowden, was published in the Sydney Bulletin and republished in the small collection Wellington Verses in 1917. Bowden was widely published in the magazines and newspapers of the day, whose readers seemed to like poetry rather more than readers of today. Some of his work appears in the famous /and sometimes criticised) collection Kowhai Gold (edited by Quentin Pope) in 1930.
In the same year as the publication of ‘Happy Valley’ on Wellington Verses this cartoon of Boyce Bowden ‘A Young Wellington Poet’ was published in The New Zealand Free Lance
Happy Valley
I know a lovely valley that is open to the South:
Girl, come with me! Oh come with me! there's magic in the place!
The City has its fingers on the corners of your mouth;
And the mantle of the city makes a shadow on your face!
The road down Happy Valley is like a woman's scarf;
It is pink within the hollow and pink upon the rise!
Girl, come away! Oh, come away! - I want to hear you laugh,
And I want to see the sunlight in the wonder of your eyes.
The air of Happy Valley holds a hundred little tones:
The wind is off the ocean and there's music in its note,
And rinkle! rinkle! rinkle! runs the river o'er the stones;
And I want to hear an echo from the glory of your throat.
The hills round Happy Valley are dotted o'er with cows;
And there are sheep upon them, and many a browsing horse;
And I want to see the fingers of the wind lip on your blouse,
And I want to hear the rustle of your skirt amid the gorse.
The sky o'er Happy Valley is very blue and clear!
A lark is high within it, just a little trilling speck!
And I want to take the melody and place it to your ear,
And I want to see a sunbeam put an arm about your neck.
The hunger of the City and the terror of the noise!-
Girl, come away! Oh, come away, and tread the road with me,
The road down Happy Valley that goes winding 'mid its joys,
And we'll follow and we'll follow till we find the open sea!
On the Road to Island Bay
On the Road to Island Bay
This poem, published in the New Zealand Graphic on 6 March 1897, is by Mrs Grace E. Gray who had poems and short stories published around the turn of the century. She won the Premier’s prize for “the best short story descriptive of mining life” in 1904 for her story ‘Kaikoura’. From the little information available she seems to have lived in Hataitai.
This poem, modelled on Rudyard Kipling’s ‘Road to Mandalay, is not known to have won any prizes. But it wonderfully illustrates the life of Island Bay as a magnet for visitors at the end of the 1800s, before it developed as a suburb. You can imagine it being enjoyed read aloud. It may also be the only poem to use the word ‘matutinal’ which means ‘of the morning’. Note also the reference to cycles. They have been with us a long time.
On the road to Island Bay
Where the wild white horses play.
And the wind comes up like thunder out of Cook Straits, cross the way.
On the road to Island Bay.
It whistles and it shrieks.
It shoots like lightning streaks.
Drives you profanely frantic with its mad and boisterous freaks.
It blows you off your toes.
It rattles up your nose,
Sends your hat a-skirling skywards where they never take old clothes';
While, to keep the rain at bay,
You split your brolly in the fray,
Tumbling, stumbling blindly over ruts and ridges of wet clay.
Show me ten men who’d muster!
To face a southerly buster,
On the road to Island Bay!
On the road to Island Bay,
Where the rippling waters play.
And breezes shake them softly into sparkling, foam-tipped spray
On the road to Island Bay.
There, maidens neat and sweet,
On bicycles so fleet,
Go flashing through the sunshine, pedalling with dainty feet;
And youths with collars high,
Who this new receipt would try
For mashing in the sunshine, ride remarkably close by.
Now and then a lady spins, With her legs—oh pardon! —limbs,
Encased in graceful ‘bloomers ’ as along the road she skims;
You should see the Johnnies muster!
Every Sunday in a cluster,
On the road to Island Bay.
On the road to Island Bay.
Where the sands stretch golden-gay,
And the waves roll back and leave them to the children in their play
On the road to Island Bay;
There are gladsome little voices,
Music that the heart rejoices.
Telling how, for summer holiday, this is the best of choices;
While, endeavouring to strip For her matutinal dip,
Mamma is blessing cyclists who around the corner slip!
Then the splashing and the diving, In attempts to swim—the striving!
And merry fun and frolic gay the summer hours enliv’ning;
You should hear the kiddies squealing!
Happy laughter, sorrow-healing.
On the road to Island Bay.
On the road to Island Bay
When the sunset's lingering ray
Dyes the west with crimson glory, and golden twilights stay,
On the road to Island Bay.
When gentle night-winds stray,
When slowly dies away The city’s clamour, and naught leaves of toiling, moiling day;
When the moonbeams gently steal
Where the lapping wavelets feel
Their caress, and love and life and heaven are wonderfully real;
When the lenient old moon throws
Rocky nooks and quiet hedgerows
Into shade, and o'er the world casts a sweet and calm repose;
You should see the lovers kissing!
It's the sight that's least worth missing
On the road to Island Bay.
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