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 LIBRARY 
 
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Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021768761 
 
A ROUND OF RIMES 
 
 BY 
 
 DENIS A. McCarthy 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 REVIEW PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1900 
 
 fb 
 
Copyright, 1900, 
 By Dsnis a. McCarthy. 
 
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 "Wfio never doubted clouds would break." 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The author of this modestly-named volume has honored 
 me with an invitation to say " a biief, prefatory word " 
 about his work. But I am going to presume upon our 
 cherished friendship to evade such limitations as to brevity, 
 lor I shall speak carte blanche, without reserve, in the full- 
 ness of an admiration born of a critical, impartial analysis. 
 
 The public has a right to know about its poets. 
 
 The poet may not follow others' lead 
 And lightly write what some may lightly read; 
 But true to life, his lines some trace mustjbear 
 Of life's mysterious sorrow and despair. 
 
 This is a stanza from Mr. McCarthy's word-painting of 
 " The Poet." I consider it typical of himself — it describes 
 my poet accurately and well. He does not " follow others' 
 lead." His lines are " true to life " and they breathe 
 " of life's mysterious sorrow." 
 
 Denis A. McCarthy was born in Ireland in the " Golden 
 Vale " of Tipperary, and came to Boston when but a boy. 
 
6 
 
 His education abroad was under the direction of the Chris- 
 tian Brothers. But it was in the great University of the 
 World that he matriculated, and he has already taken 
 several degrees, summa cum laude, 
 
 Mr. McCarthy essays the heights of Parnassus with a 
 free and independent carriage ; he loves fresh air and the 
 sunshine ; the purity and the vigor of Nature are in all his 
 verses. But of his beloved Motherland he sings best and 
 sweetest. 
 
 Mr. McCarthy's name is already favorably known to the 
 American reading public. His poetry and his prose have 
 graced the columns of many magazines and newspapers. 
 I am sure that my own department of " Under the Rose," 
 In the Boston Daily Globe, has been often strongly en- 
 hanced by his loyal lyrics and his romantic melodies. 
 
 His position as Associate Editor of the Sacred Heart 
 Review gives to him an assured place in the Catholic liter- 
 ature of the day. His pen is facile and forceful, and he is 
 constantly alert and active in the defence of religion and 
 of race. 
 
 The Pilot, whose editors know the essential elements of 
 poetic excellence, has this to say of one of Mr. McCarthy's 
 productions : " Nearly a year ago, a charming little poem 
 
appeared in tlie Pilot under the title, ' Ah, Sweet Is Tip- 
 perary in the Spring I ' with the signature ' D. A. McCarthy.' 
 It was not Mr. McCarthy's first poem in the Pilot, nor hap- 
 pily has it been his last. But this especial poem was so 
 full ot music and color as to become at once a favorite, 
 widely copied by the press ; and finally quoted by a dis- 
 cerning teacher in a prominent school, well known for its 
 imparting ot a fine literary taste to its pupils, as an exam- 
 ple of true, spontaneous, and really exquisite poetry." 
 
 Bud Brier does not claim for these "Kimes" (any more 
 than does their author) that they are, each and every one, 
 perfect examples of verse making. He is aware that his 
 friendship for this new singer may be the cause ot some of 
 the admiration he feels tor the songs. But he can frankly 
 present them as a creditable beginning of the still better 
 and nobler work that Mr. McCarthy is destined to do in 
 
 the future. 
 
 William Hopkiits. 
 
 Boston, November, 1900. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Poet 13 
 
 Where Mother Sleeps 14 
 
 When AU the World Goes Wrong . . 15 
 
 My Song 17 
 
 A Dreamer Lives for Ever 19 
 
 When Summer Comes Again .... 20 
 
 Ah, Sweet Is Tipperary 21 
 
 Bemorse 23 
 
 The Poet's Heart 24 
 
 Love's Joy and Grief 25 
 
 A Song of '98 26 
 
 First Love 28 
 
 A Hundred Years Ago 29 
 
 The Sorrow of Love 30 
 
 An Old Woman's Thought 31 
 
 Love and War 33 
 
 In the Tumult of the City 34 
 
 Go Where You Will 36 
 
 A Question 37 
 
10 
 
 A Shamrock from the Suir 38 
 
 Memories of Ireland 40 
 
 Dreams 41 
 
 Poor Love Must Wait 42 
 
 To One in Bohemia 43 
 
 Land of Youth 44 
 
 Across the Seas in Erin 46 
 
 Rose of My Heart 48 
 
 The Memory of Emmet 49 
 
 A Prairie Reminiscence 52 
 
 In Summer 54 
 
 A Picture 55 
 
 For Love's Sweet Sake 56 
 
 1 Saw 57 
 
 Voices from Erin 58 
 
 Thy Deep Dark Eyes 59 
 
 Sweetheart 60 
 
 The Heart of Having Is Sad . . . 61 
 
 Heroes 62 
 
 Ireland 63 
 
 "When Love Lay Dead 64 
 
 The Koses 65 
 
 The Midnight Mass ... .66 
 
 Come Unto Me .... . . 68 
 
11 
 
 Christmas-time in Ireland 
 
 John and Sam 
 
 The Song I Would Sing 
 
 Waiting . 
 
 After Summer 
 
 Do We Forget 
 
 Lore and Beason 
 
 What It Is . 
 
 An Exile's Longing 
 
 Let Us Have War . 
 
 Boer and Briton 
 
 To Paul Kruger 
 
 General Joubert 
 
 Whene'er I Think of Thee 
 
 " Bonny Mary of Argyle " 
 
 I Think of Thee . 
 
 A Buried Heart 
 
 When Mamie Speaks Her Piece 
 
 The Autumn Bain . 
 
 Come, Cheer Up I . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 70 
 
 72 
 74 
 76 
 78 
 79 
 80 
 81 
 82 
 84 
 
 90 
 92 
 94 
 96 
 97 
 99 
 101 
 103 
 
13 
 
 THE POET. 
 
 The poet sees the tragedy that Ues 
 Concealed within the heart from other eyes. 
 
 Behind the mask, behind the surface smile 
 He sees the gnawing canker-grief the while. 
 
 Beneath the word he sees the deeper thought, 
 And, deeper still, the soul with sorrow fraught. 
 
 All things reveal themselves unto his ken. 
 His chart is human life ; his books are men. 
 
 And this the secret is of all his art : 
 He sees life whoUy, others but in part. 
 
 A godlike gift is this the gods bestow 
 To see the truth, to feel it and to know. 
 
 And thus because he pierces the pretence 
 Of shallow smiles and words disguising sense. 
 
 The poet may not follow others' lead 
 
 And lightly write what some may lightly read. 
 
 But true to life his lines some trace must bear 
 Of life's mysterious sorrow and despair. 
 
 The sweetest music breathes a minor strain, 
 And life would not be perfect but for pain. 
 
 And so the poet sings of grief and strife. 
 And tears and fears, because of such is life. 
 
14 
 
 WHERE MOTHER SLEEPS. 
 
 Where mother sleeps 
 
 No sunbeam glances gladly ; 
 
 But the wind sadly 
 Through the long grasses sweeps. 
 The night dew weeps, 
 
 And darkly shadows fall 
 
 From the old ruined abbey wall 
 Where ivy creeps. 
 
 No song of bird, 
 
 Saving the owlet's dismal cry, is heard. 
 No floweret gay, 
 Child of the sun-loved summer day, 
 
 From the cold earth upleaps. 
 But all is drear : 
 Death's silence reigneth here — 
 
 Where mother sleeps. 
 
15 
 
 WHEN ALL THE WORLD GOES WRONG. 
 
 When all the world goes wrong, my dear, 
 
 When all the world goes wrong, 
 When in the heart no hope there is, 
 
 And in the soul no song ; 
 When every thought with grief is fraught. 
 
 Ah, then I look and long 
 For love and cheer from thee, my dear. 
 
 When all the world goes wrong ! 
 
 When all the world goes right, my dear, 
 
 When all the world goes right, 
 With every promise proving true 
 
 And every prospect bright ; 
 The gladsome gleams of golden dreams 
 
 Are fairer in my sight. 
 If you are near to share, my dear. 
 
 When all the world goes right ! 
 
 But let the world go right or wrong. 
 Your hand and voice and kissi 
 
 Can charm away, from day to day, 
 My sadness into bliss ; 
 
16 
 
 With you to share my joy and care 
 My toil, my smile, my song, 
 
 I will not fret, but freely let 
 
 The world go right or wrong ! 
 
17- 
 
 m SONG. , ;; 
 
 I said, "I'll Bing'ot all the foreign places ^ •■' 
 
 And of the faces that my eySs haf '6 seen, 
 Since, long ago,"! iSioked f&y last on Eriii, " 
 
 Beloved Erik of the valleys green 1" 
 And there before me like ^ panorama. 
 
 The long, long drama of my exiled days, 
 The friends and scenes oiF many a year of wand'ring. 
 
 As I sat pQnd'ring, passed before my gaze. 
 
 But when I tried to sing, behold, I could not! 
 
 My Angers would not wake the sUent chords ; 
 And though I bent my mind unto the singing 
 
 There was no ringing of the magic words. 
 
 And then I said : " I'll sing of one the dearest, 
 
 Of one the nearest in the storm and strife. 
 Of one who led me through the toil and trouble 
 
 Of things ignoble to a better life; 
 Yea, I will steep my soul in dreamings of her. 
 
 For O ! I love her and have loved her long, 
 And I will wake my harp to give expression 
 
 To all my passion in a sweet, sweet song." 
 
 But when I tried to sing, behold, I could not 1 
 
 My fingers would not o'er the harpstrings move. 
 
 And though I bent my mind unto the singing 
 There was no ringing of the lay of love. 
 
18 
 
 I said at last, " I'll sing a eong of Erin, 
 
 My own dear Erin o'er the distant seas ; 
 I'll sing of all the olden, golden glories 
 
 That fill the stories of her seanachies; 
 For through my veins her ancient blood is flowing. 
 
 My heart is glowing with her ancient fire. 
 And I will sing of her, though sad and lonely, 
 
 My land, the only land of my desire I " 
 
 And then I sang ; I struck the harp with boldness ; 
 
 No longer coldness hindered mind or hand ; 
 And from my lips there poured the pride, the gladness,, 
 
 Ay, and the sadness of my native land ! 
 
19 
 
 "A DREAMER LIVES FOREVER." 
 
 I, too, have been a dreamer ; I have knelt 
 
 To truth and beauty in Arcadian meads ; 
 The rapture of the poet I have felt, 
 
 And all his keen desire for noble deeds. 
 And though my money-minded neighbor deems 
 
 Of Uttle worth the things that I have done, 
 Far dearer to the dreamer are his dreams 
 
 Than aU the wealth by worldly wisdom won.. 
 
20 
 
 WHEN SUMMER COMES AGAIN. 
 
 When summer comes again, dear, 
 
 And balmy breezes blow. 
 The fields wiU aU be sweet with flowers 
 
 That now are white with snow ; 
 Blue mists wiU wrap the hill, dear, 
 
 And echoes haunt the glen. 
 And sunbeams kiss the rill, dear, 
 
 When summer comes again. 
 
 When winter winds have fled, dear, 
 
 And winter's dreary hours, 
 The lark will whistle in the cloud. 
 
 The blackbird in the bowers ; 
 The earth her best will don, dear. 
 
 To glad the eyes of men. 
 When winter days are gone, dear. 
 
 And summer comes again. 
 
 When summer comes again, dear. 
 
 And love a spell hath wove 
 Around thy gentle heart and mine 
 
 That scarce have dreamed of love, 
 The coldness of the past, dear, 
 
 WiU be forgotten then. 
 When love is lord at last, dear. 
 
 And summer comes again. 
 
21 
 
 AH, SWEET IS TIPPERARY. 
 
 Ah, Bweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 
 
 When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow, 
 When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all 
 a- tremble 
 With their singing and their winging to and fro ; 
 When queenly Slievenamon puts her verdant ves- 
 ture on, 
 And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring ; 
 When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that 
 dance — 
 Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring ! 
 
 Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 
 
 When the mists are rising from the lea, 
 When the Golden Yale is smiling with a beauty all 
 beguiling 
 
 And the Suir goes crooning to the sea ; 
 When the shadows and the showers only multiply 
 the flowers 
 
 That the lavish hand of May will fling ; 
 When in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays — 
 
 Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring ! 
 
22 
 
 Ah, sweet is.Tipperary in the springtime of the year, 
 
 When life like the year la young, 
 When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom 
 breaking. 
 
 And lore words linger on the tongue ; 
 When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes, 
 
 And love dreams cluster and cling 
 Kound the heart and round the brain,!half of pleasure, 
 half of pain — 
 
 Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring 1 
 
23 
 
 REMORSE. 
 
 I apoke to him shortly, sharply, 
 I looked on him with a frown, 
 
 I told him his sins and follies 
 
 Were the talk of all the town — 
 
 And now there's a sorrow in my heart 
 That tears can never drown. 
 
 Sympathy never I oflFered, 
 Blinded I was with pride, 
 
 The hand I should have reached him 
 Hung idly at my side — 
 
 And now Remorse a constant guest 
 WUl ever with me abide. 
 
 Ah, had I been more loving. 
 Had I but guarded and led ; 
 
 But I went my way unheeding, 
 And closed my heart instead ; 
 
 And now, too late, I love him. 
 Too late, for he is dead. 
 
THE POET'S HEAI^T. 
 
 The poet's hearfs'a cruciWfe Whefeini 
 
 The baBer metals o| life's grief and wrong 
 
 Are by the subtle .afehemy of pain ., 
 
 Transmftte^ straight in.tpJtlip gold of song. 
 
25 
 
 LOVE'S JOY AND GRIEF. 
 
 Love liftB uB to the height of the immoi'tals, 
 Love gives ub sight until we ahuost see 
 
 The bliss that hides behind the shining portals 
 Of God's eternity ! 
 
 Ah, yes, Love's joy is sweet beyond believing ; 
 
 And blest is he whose life has felt its power ; 
 But pity him whose heart has known the grieving- 
 
 Of Love's sad hour I 
 
26 
 
 A SONG OF '98. 
 
 •Open your ears to the song I sing you, 
 Open your eyes to the truth I show, 
 'Open your hearts to the hope I bring you, 
 
 Hope for a land that is lying low ; 
 Centuries old are the chains that bind her. 
 
 Centuries old is the scar she bears. 
 Bitter as death are the days behind her, 
 Yet through it all she never despairs ! 
 
 Bouse you then from your idle dreaming. 
 Wake to welcome the time at hand. 
 Liberty's light will soon be streaming 
 Over the hills of our native land I 
 
 Bed in the night the fires are glowing. 
 
 Loud in the night the anvils ring, 
 
 Faces dark in the flames are glo?ring. 
 
 Sinewy arms the sledges swing, 
 Steady and sure the task pursuing. 
 
 Each after each the metal strikes — 
 Men, are you blind to the work they're doing 7 
 Can yon not see they are forging pikes t 
 
 Pikes, the weapons of good and true men. 
 Pikes, the weapons of Freedom's sons. 
 Pikes to put in the hands of you, men. 
 After a while you may capture guns I 
 
27 
 
 liisten, we've heard from across the water, 
 Heard a meBsage from friendly lipa — 
 France, young Liberty's daring daughter 
 
 Over the sea, is sending ships 
 Laden with means for the land's salvation—' 
 
 Men and money and arms, galore, 
 doming to help us raise the nation 
 
 Up to her ancient place once more I 
 
 Rouse you then from your idle dreaming, 
 Grasp the weapon that fits the hand. 
 Liberty's light will soon be streaming 
 Over the hills of our native land ! 
 
28 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 O, sweet is life when Youth is in the blood ! 
 
 And Love first lays his glamour on the heart I 
 When dreams anticipant are at their flood, 
 
 And into being new-found feelings start 1 
 
 O, Time ! Thy swiftly flying steps retrace ; 
 
 Come Love, again, and fill my heart with joy j 
 For what can Manhood ofler to replace 
 
 The rapturous self-deception of a boy ! 
 
29 
 
 A HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 
 
 A hundred years ago thy valleys rang, 
 
 Land of my heart, with Freedom's battle-cry, 
 
 When Wexford's peasantry in frenzy sprang 
 
 To arms, resolved to break thy chains or die ! 
 
 Bright was the vision, as the glorious green 
 And golden banner o'er the battle shone, 
 
 And England's strength gave way before the keen, 
 Bright blades of those who followed Father John! 
 
 Bright was the vision ! — but, alas, my land, 
 The vision was as fleeting as 'twas bright, 
 
 Thy foes were stronger than thou cooldst withstand. 
 And Freedom's sun went down in slavery's night i 
 
30 
 
 THE SORROW OF LOVE. 
 
 I Baid, " I am fain to borrow, 
 
 O Life, of your joys' sweet store ; " 
 But the gift of Love brought sorrow 
 
 WorBe than was mine before. 
 
 " But I'm conscious of life completer, 
 From the sorrows the years have 
 brought, 
 
 For the Borrow of Love is sweeter 
 Than joy where Love is not." 
 
31 
 
 AN OLD WOMAN'S THOUGHT. 
 
 Ah ! if I were only in Erin, 
 
 In Erin far over the wave, 
 "fis little at all I'd be carin'. 
 
 And few are the troubles I'd have ! 
 For there are the weU-beloved places — 
 
 The chapel, the village, the mill, 
 The sthream laughing loud as it races 
 
 Down from the hill. 
 
 There, mornin'g in spring many scented, 
 
 There hawthorn's snowy white bloom. 
 There sunsets at evenin' God-painted, 
 
 There glow-worms shine in the gloom, 
 There boreens enchantin'ly mazy 
 
 All bordered with flowers in June, 
 There daflfy-down-dilly and daisy 
 
 And meadow larks tune. 
 
 There friends at each turn to meet me 
 
 With kindly " God save you, asthore ! " 
 An' others with blessin's to greet me 
 
 The minute I'd open the door. 
 There children the soft chair to bring me 
 
 Sayin', "Welcome ! Sit down awhile, ma'am,"' 
 And never the cowld word to sting me, 
 
 Ould as I am. 
 
32 
 
 But here I am weary, so weary ! 
 
 The city's smoke spreads like a pall, 
 The skies are so gray and so dreary, 
 
 There's no friend to greet me at all ; 
 My daughters are proud, overbearin'. 
 
 My sons wish me laid in the grave — 
 Ah ! if I were only in Erin 
 
 'Tis few of these troubles I'd have I 
 
33 
 
 LOVE AND WAR. 
 
 Mast Love be ailent when the brazen tongue 
 
 Of war'a loud tocsin fills the land with dread? 
 
 When flaunting war-flags to the winds are flung, 
 And hearts grow sick with sorrow for the dead 7 
 
 When harsh and sullen the imperious drum 
 Commands tranquility's repose to cease, 
 
 Must Love be silent, must the lips be dumb 
 
 That erewhile sang his songs in perfect peace? 
 
 Ah, not for peace alone love here exists, 
 Nor are his songs made only for delight, 
 
 Love enters, too, the nation's bloody Usts 
 
 To fire the hearts and nerve the arms that fight. 
 
 The awful clamor of the days of strife 
 
 New strength and meaning to his songs impai-t, 
 And thus is Love through all the ways of life 
 
 The chosen minstrel of the human heart. 
 
34 
 
 "IN THE TUMULT OF THE CITY." 
 
 In the tumult of the city there is neither rest nor 
 peace, 
 
 Of the hurry and the worry we may never know 
 surcease, 
 
 For, before one trouble's ended there's another aU 
 begun, 
 
 And before one race is over there's another to be run. 
 
 But I know a land of quiet, but I know a place of 
 dreams. 
 
 By a softly-flowing river that's the pleasantest of 
 streams, 
 
 Where a soothing wind is sighing through the mead- 
 ows all the day. 
 
 In my own dear native valley far away ! 
 
 In the tumult of the city there is glory to be won, 
 And the promptings of ambition at one's heart are 
 
 never done ; 
 But I'm weary of the struggle and I'm fain again to 
 
 lie 
 In the long, luxuriant grasses where the river wanders 
 
 by. 
 Let them fight for fame who want it, I had rather sit 
 
 and dream 
 In the pleasant fields of Erin with the sunlight on the 
 
 stream ; 
 
36 
 
 What's the good of gold and glory when your life ia 
 
 dull and gray, 
 And you're sighing for a valley far away 1 
 
 But the tumult of the city, howsoever loud it be, 
 
 Can not drown the robin's singing in the fields of 
 memory ; 
 
 And the clouds of care that hover, can not mar the 
 mental view 
 
 Of the smiling Irish meadows with the river flowing 
 through ; 
 
 So I'U face, again, the battle, though the odds be ten 
 to one. 
 
 For the future can not rob me of the happiness thtit's 
 gone; 
 
 And I'll gird my soul in patience, though I never- 
 more may stray 
 
 Through my own dear native valley far away 1 
 
36 
 
 GO WHERE YOU WILL. 
 
 Go where you will my heart will follow after ; 
 Ever my ears are listening for your laughter ; 
 Ever my eyes look longingly to see 
 Your face, again, that is so dear to me ! 
 
 Go where you will may blessings be about you ; 
 Drear are the days, dear one, and sad, without yon ; 
 Swift be the wings of time until I see 
 Your face, again, that is so dear to me I 
 
 Go where you will — love laughs at time or distance; 
 Love still maintains, through all, its sweet insistence; 
 Yet, knowing this, I still am fain to see 
 Your face, again, that is so dear to me ! 
 
37 
 
 A QUESTION. 
 
 If, after all the vows that I have sworn 
 
 Of love and constancy, my heart should stray 
 
 To taighter eyes and redder lips, and scorn 
 
 Thy love that has been mine for many a day, 
 
 Wouldst ttiou upbraid me with a bitter tongue, 
 And call down curses on my recreant head ? 
 
 Or wouldst thou, for love's sake, forgive the wrong. 
 And let thy heart be merciful instead 7 
 
38 
 
 A SHAMROCK FROM THE SUIR. 
 
 Our country's feast is drawing near ; 
 
 Then, sister mine, I pray, 
 Send me a little shamrock, dear. 
 
 To wear upon that day ; 
 'Twill comfort me, and make me strong 
 
 My exile to endure, 
 'Twill be what I have wished for long — 
 
 A shamrock from the Suir. 
 
 A shamrock from the sun-loved vale 
 
 Wherein my youth was spent ; 
 A shamrock kissed by ev'ry gale 
 
 And sweet with springtime's scent ; 
 A shamrock that at vesper bell 
 
 Has drunk of dew-drops pure ; 
 A shamrock that the heart can tell 
 
 Grew green beside the Suir. 
 
 And oh, the memories of old 
 
 That to my mind will rise, 
 When I the triple leaves behold 
 
 Again, with tear-dimmed eyes I 
 And oh, the dreams of days ere yetl 
 
 I followed fortune's lure. 
 Ere hearts were sad, or eyes tear-wet 
 
 Beside the peaceful Suir ! 
 
39 
 
 And faces that for years hare lain 
 
 Beneath the graveyard mould, 
 Will greet me smilingly again 
 
 As in the days of old ; 
 And once again my mother mild 
 
 Will breathe her teachings pure, 
 For I'U be as a little child — 
 
 A child beside the Suir. 
 
 Then send a shamrock, dear, to me 
 
 Across the dreary wave, 
 And pluck it from beneath the tree 
 
 That shades our mother's grave ; 
 And all the pain and weariness 
 
 Which vainly seeks a cure 
 Will fly, when to my lips I press 
 
 That shamrock from the Suir ! 
 
40 
 
 MEMORIES OF IRELAND. 
 
 I see in dreams a purple mountain rise 
 
 Above a verdant vale. 
 Across the azure stretches of the skies 
 
 I see the cloud-ships sail. 
 
 A river rippled by a wandering wind 
 
 Sighs mournfully along, 
 As if its waters grieved to leave behind 
 
 The beauties here that throng. 
 
 And this is home, thus pictured in my dreams. 
 
 This hill is Slievenamon ; 
 And this the Suir, the queen of all the streams 
 
 The sunlight plays upon. 
 
 This is the summer sky of bygone days 
 
 That on my youthhood smiled, 
 And this the Golden VaUey, through whose ways 
 
 I wandered when a child. 
 
 Oh, dear dream-pictures of my native Isle 
 
 Across the spreading seas, 
 You give me grief — you give me joy the while, — 
 
 Ob, sad, sweet memories ! 
 
 For, B8 in Ireland, through the blinding rain 
 
 The sun's bright rays are cast ; 
 So pleasure mingles in my heart with pain 
 
 Remembering the past ! 
 
41 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 When the balmy days grow lonf;, 
 Love, I dream of thee the more, 
 
 And I weave into my song 
 
 All the sad, sweet thoughts that throDK 
 Of the golden days of yore. 
 
 If to dream of thee be wrong 
 Then have I offended sore. 
 Love, I dream of thee the more 
 
 When the balmy days grow long. 
 
 All the winter have I sighed 
 For thy presence, wearily ; 
 
 Grieving gazed across the wide 
 
 Gulf of selfish human pride 
 That divided thee and me. 
 
 Now sweet hope inspires my song, 
 Wears the smile that once she wore — 
 Love, I dream of thee the more 
 
 When the balmy days grow long ! 
 
42 
 
 POOR LOVE MUST WAIT. 
 
 Poor Love must wait till duty's done, 
 Poor Love must wait till fame be won, 
 Though years go sighing, one by one, 
 
 " Too late ! Too late ! " 
 Till duty's done and fame be won. 
 
 Poor Love must wait. 
 
 Poor Love must wait though hearts may ache, 
 Poor Love must wait though hearts may break, 
 Though tears will flow for his dear sake — 
 
 Yet such is Fate, 
 Though hearts may ache, though hearts may break, 
 
 Poor Love must wait ! 
 
 Poor Love must wait, through every pain, 
 Poor Love must wait — but not in vain. 
 Though all things else by time be slain, 
 
 Love conquers Fate ! 
 O, not in vain, through every pain 
 
 Poor Love must wait ! j 
 
43 
 
 TO ONE IN BOHEMIA. 
 
 'Brother in suffering, brother, too, in song, 
 
 We weU can smile at what the days may bring, 
 
 For we have known the limit of life's wrong 
 And felt of sorrow's pain the utmost sting. 
 
 Then let us sing — gazing with fearless eyes 
 Upon the coming years, whate'er they bear. 
 
 Behold the sun is shining in the skies, 
 
 And God is master of the world's despair ! 
 
44 
 
 O LAND OF YOUTH! 
 
 O Land of Youth ! O Land of hopeful hearts t: 
 
 O flowery, fruitful Land of faith and trust ! 
 How sweet to turn — as year on year departs, 
 
 And sees each fond illusion fall to dust — 
 How sweet, and yet how sad, to turn away 
 
 From present pain, the past to linger o'er. 
 And try to bring into the bleak today 
 
 The dreams of joy that I shall know no more. 
 
 O Land of Youth ! Swift rolls the tide of Time, 
 
 Whose current bears me farther still from thee,. 
 Through many a strange and uncongenial clime 
 
 My bark of life goes outward to the sea ; 
 More distant grow thy hills that used to rise 
 
 Like inspirations in the days of yore. 
 And naught remains of thee to glad my eyes, 
 
 Land of Youth, that I shall see no.more I 
 
 But memory musing o'er the golden hours 
 
 That once were mine amid thy verdant vales. 
 Transports me back again among the flowers 
 
 Whose fragrance freighted all the summer galea ;. 
 And one fair face that I would fain forget 
 
 Looks out upon me from a cottage door, 
 Until my heart is weary with regret — 
 
 Regret for love that I shall know no more I 
 
45 
 
 ■O Land of Youth ! Too aoon we leave behind 
 
 Thy ways serene, thy innocent delights 1 
 Too soon we burden the exhausted mind 
 
 With toilsome days of care and cheerless nights 1 
 Would God that it had been my lot to stay 
 
 A Uttle longer on thy friendly shore, 
 -And 80, perhaps, possess thy peace today — 
 
 Thy blessed peace, that I shall know no more I 
 
46 
 
 ACROSS THE SEAS IN ERIN. 
 
 AcroES the seas in Erin are manly hearts and true, 
 Are souls to dream, 
 And minds to scheme, 
 And willing hands to do I 
 Then wherefore from her valleys do her scattered 
 
 people flee 7 . 
 
 And wherefore is she still oppressed when other lands 
 are free 7 
 Alas! alas, for Erin 1 With all her brain and brawn. 
 The years reveal 
 Her children's steel 
 Against each other drawn. 
 
 Across the seas |in Erin are men like those whO' 
 made 
 The martial fame 
 And splendid name 
 Of Meagher's bold brigade I 
 Then wherefore is the right denied that she has sued 
 
 for long ? 
 And why is she still bowed beneath sad centuries of 
 wrong 7 
 Alas 1 alas, for Erin! With all the stirring deeds,. 
 In chains she lives, 
 And no one gives 
 The unity she needs. 
 
47 
 
 AcrosB the seas in Erin, what joy to bear again 
 The voice of one 
 Whose magic tone 
 Could fuse the hearts of men ! 
 Could fuse the various hearts of men till petty strife- 
 should die, . 
 And o'er her hills should ring one grand united battle 
 cry ! 
 Alas I alas, for Erin ! Her faith in men is past, 
 But God is just, 
 And God He must 
 Uplift her at the last ! 
 
48 
 
 ROSE OF MY HEART. 
 
 Boaea riot in rich profusion 
 
 Over the garden walls ol June ; 
 
 Birds are sir.ging in rare confusion 
 
 Each with his own sweet summer tune. 
 
 Fair are the flowers that morn discloses 
 Still suffused with the tears of dew — 
 
 Yet I know that of all the roses, 
 
 Rose of my heart, there is none like you I 
 
49 
 
 THE MEMORY OF EMMET. 
 
 At the celebration of the 118th anniversary of the birth 
 of Robert Emmet, held in Faneuil Hall, March 4, 1896, 
 under the auspices of the Hibernian Total Abstinence 
 Association, the following poem, specially written for the 
 occasion, was read. 
 
 Years come and go, and kings grow old and die, 
 And those who whilom held the world in thrall 
 
 Throneless and sceptreless and crownless lie, 
 Finding in death the common fate of all. 
 
 Systems and dynasties and nations rise, 
 Awhile the destinies of men they sway ; 
 
 Anon a ruin staring at the skies 
 
 Proclaims their littleness and their decay. 
 
 Vainly the monarch flings around his throne 
 A shining armament of mail-clad hordes ; 
 
 Vainly, for lo, the centuries are strown 
 
 With wrecks of kingdoms once upheld by swords 1 
 
 Nothing survives save Right — nor king, nor throne ; 
 
 That nation, howsoe'er its strongholds stand. 
 Which hath not Right for its foundation-stone 
 
 Is like a house that's built upon the sand. 
 
50 
 
 Nothing survives save Kight — for God is just; 
 
 The Right is His, Hejguards it thro' the years ; 
 He humbles the oppressor in the dust, 
 
 He hath an answer to a nation's tears. 
 
 Nothing survives save Bight — a man today 
 
 For loving Right may meet a shameful death — 
 
 But glorified by death, his name, for aye, 
 
 Becomes the watchword of a nation's faith ! 
 
 Thus Emmet died a hundred years ago. 
 
 Thus unto Bight his faithfulness he proved ; 
 
 His only crime — for crime they called it so — 
 
 Was this, he would have freed the land he loved I 
 
 A hundred years ago. And yet, and yet. 
 
 Where is the Irish heart that does not flame, 
 
 Fired with a love 'twere treason to forget, 
 
 At the mere sound of Robert Emmet's name 1 
 
 He saw his country's very life assaUed, 
 
 Bleeding and bound a victim at the stake. 
 
 He tried to set her free and, when he failed, 
 He freely gave his life for her dear sake. 
 
 "Let no man write my epitaph," he said ; 
 
 (A hand enslaved were utterly unfit,) 
 So on the stone that marks where he is laid, 
 
 His country, still un-freed, no word has writ. 
 
51 
 
 But what are epitaphB engraved on stone, 
 
 Or eulogies emblazoned on a scroll? 
 His name and fame endure and his alone 
 
 Whose deeds are shrined within his country's soul. 
 
 Kings and their hireling hosts, when they depart, 
 Rot un-remembered as the years go by ; 
 
 But while there beats one faithful Irish heart, 
 The memory of Emmet shall not die ! 
 
52 
 
 A PRAIRIE REMINISCENCE. 
 
 In the years of youth and yearning, when I wandered 
 
 free and far 
 Out beyond the smoke of cities- where the spreading 
 
 prairies are, 
 Once I lingered for a season by a stream that flowed 
 
 along, 
 Lingered captured and enraptured by a maiden and 
 a song. 
 Ah, the years between are long. 
 But remembrances wiU throng 
 Of a little blue-eyed maiden with a soul unknowing 
 wrong. 
 Though she's lying low today 
 In the westland far away, 
 I am dreaming, ever dreaming, of her smile and of 
 her song I 
 
 Oh, the splendor of that summer never from my mind 
 
 shall fade ! 
 Nor the sweetness of the singing nor the beauty of 
 
 the maid, 
 •Though the days of youth may vanish, yet the dreams 
 
 of youth remain, 
 Be the measure of our pleasure mingled howsoe'er 
 
 with pain. 
 
53 
 
 Ah, the years between are long, 
 But remembrances will throng 
 Of a little blue-eyed maiden with a soul unknowing 
 wrong. 
 Though upon her lonely grave 
 Prairie blooms in beauty wave, 
 I am dreaming, ever dreaming, of her smile and of 
 her song ! 
 
 Long ago I ceased my roving, ceased to wander free 
 
 and far, 
 And the golden grand ideals of my boyhood buri«d 
 
 are; 
 But a vision comes to cheer me as the dull days drag 
 
 along 
 Of a maiden, flower laden, pouring forth her soul in 
 song. 
 Ah, the years between are long, 
 StUl the memory is strong 
 Of a little blue-eyed maiden with a soul unknowing 
 wrong. 
 Summer's sun and winter's snow. 
 In her grave she's lying low ; 
 But I'm dreaming, ever dreaming, of her smile and of 
 her song. 
 
54 
 
 IN SUMMER. 
 
 Acroae the land the summer walks in splendor ; 
 
 The flowers spring up to greet her, and the skies 
 Look down upon her with a glance as tender 
 
 As love awakens in a maiden's eyes. 
 
 Along the eaves I see the creeper clinging, 
 The morning-glories open to the sun, 
 
 And in the orchard trees the birds are singing 
 Their veiper service when the day is done. 
 
 The silence of the winter and its sadness 
 Have given place to music and to mirth, 
 
 And yet my heart discovers naught of gladness 
 In all the light and beauty of earth. 
 
 For one who loved the summer and the sweetness 
 Of woods and fields responsive to her breath 
 
 Has passed away with more than summer fleetnesa 
 Into the realm of darkness and of dtath. 
 
55 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 Love's languorous look lies dreaming in her ejea. 
 
 Bed roaes cluster in her night-black hair, 
 And all in vain her snowy vesture tries 
 
 To match the whiteness of her bosom fair. 
 Serenely beautiful, with every grace. 
 
 With every gift that nature can impart, 
 A perfect woman, radiant in her place. 
 
 And lacking only this : A woman's heart 1 
 
56 
 
 FOR LOVE'S SWEET SAKE. 
 
 O, I have wandered many a weary mile, 
 
 For Love's sweet sake, 
 With aching heart and breaking heart the while,. 
 
 For Love's sweet sake, 
 And often have I seen, through all those years, 
 My brightest hopes dissolve in darkest fears. 
 And known full well the bitterness of tears, 
 
 For Love's sweet sake. 
 
 The ways forsaken of the world I've trod. 
 
 For Love's sweet sake, 
 My miseries unseen of all but God, 
 
 For Love's sweet sake. 
 A stranger among strangers, I have lain 
 My tired head upon the lap of Pain, 
 And felt the weight of burdens borne in vain,. 
 
 For Love's sweet sake. 
 
 And knowing all I have endured for thee. 
 
 And Love's sweet sake. 
 Wilt thou not, of thy pity, turn to me. 
 
 For Love's sweet sake? 
 Unlock the door thy blindness closed fast. 
 Forget the cruel coldness of the past. 
 And let me come into thy heart at last, 
 
 For Love's sweet sake 1 
 
57 
 
 I SAW. 
 
 I saw the golden moon arise 
 
 Out of the silent sea, 
 I saw the star-shine fiU the skies 
 
 With deeper mystery ; 
 I saw the shadowy ships go on 
 
 Across the swelling tide — 
 And grief was in my heart for one 
 
 Who loved me and who died ! 
 
58 
 
 VOICES FROM ERIN. 
 
 There are always voices calling to the exile oyer-seas, 
 Cries from Erin's mother-heart are on the wings 
 of every wind ; 
 And they fill the eye with pictures, and the mind with 
 memories, 
 Of the days of youth and lov* that, long ago, he 
 left behind. 
 
 There are always voices calling — and the clamorous 
 demands, 
 Of the present, its ambitions and its triumphs and 
 its fears, 
 Oan not lessen for an instant, tho' he strays in distant 
 lands, 
 All the sweetness to the exile of the dreams of other 
 years ! 
 
59 
 
 THY DEEP, DARK EYES. 
 
 It majr be I skall nevermore behold 
 
 The wondrous beauty of thy deep, dark eyes — 
 I know their like Time never will unfold 
 
 This side of Paradise 1 
 
 And yet, where'er you be, my love, my life. 
 
 Those eyes too aad for smiles, too bright for tears, 
 
 WiU cheer my heart 'mid all its care and strife, 
 And haunt me through the years ! 
 
60 
 
 SWEETHEART. 
 
 Sweetheart, O sweetheart! Though winter winds are 
 
 loud, 
 Though silently the earth lies beneath its snowy 
 shroud. 
 For me the birds are singing and the skies serene 
 
 and blue, 
 Sweetheart, O sweetheart ! And all because of you. 
 
 Sweetheart, sweetheart ! The hearts of some are- 
 bowed 
 
 In homage to the haughty, in bondage to the proud. 
 But happier am I by far than those who vainly sue, 
 Sweetheart, O sweetheart 1 And all because of you. 
 
 Sweetheart, O .sweetheart ! though thickly sorrowg 
 
 crowd. 
 Though false are the friends who eternal friendship 
 vowed. 
 For me the future shines as if all the world were 
 
 true, 
 Sweetheart, O sweetheart 1 And all because of you. 
 
61 
 
 "THE HEART OF HAVING IS SAD." 
 
 O, how can you repay me for the hopeless love and 
 longing 
 Of the silent adoration that I offered you for 
 years — 
 For years of doubt and darkness and of trials that 
 came thronging, 
 When my heritage and portion was the bitterness 
 of tears ! 
 
 The happiness you grant me now it may not find 
 expression ; 
 The love you lavish on me it is given few to 
 know — 
 But yet, despite the rapture of the present and its 
 passion, 
 I can't forget the desolate despair of long ago ! 
 
62 
 
 HEROES. 
 
 If so it be we are forbid by fate 
 
 To do the deeds that make a hero great, 
 
 Let's do our duty each one as he should, 
 And, lacking greatness, let's at least be good. 
 
 Oh, there are seeds of kindness to be sown 
 
 In hearts that never have such kindness known ; 
 
 And words of gentleness and actions true 
 Are always possible for me and you. 
 
 'Tis true these seem of little worth, because 
 They do not win for us the world's applause. 
 
 But noble actions are not judged by size, 
 The great intent the action magnifies. 
 
 And though our names the world may never fill, 
 The ear of God may find them sweeter still. 
 
63 
 
 IRELAND. 
 
 Oh Ireland, Ireland, amid the waters blue, 
 
 Across the seas, across the years my heart goes back 
 
 to you. 
 To you and to the faithful friends my early boyhood 
 
 knew 
 In Ireland, Ireland, so tender and so true I 
 
 Oh Ireland, Ireland, I mind me of the dew 
 
 That sparkled on the flowers fair that in your meadows 
 
 grew, 
 I mind me of the playmates and the schoolmates not 
 
 a few 
 In Ireland, Ireland, so tender and so true ! 
 
 Oh Ireland, Ireland, though other nations sue 
 
 To win my heart's affection, yet I'm not forgetting 
 
 you, 
 There are no scenes so beautiful, no friends like those 
 
 I knew 
 In Ireland, Ireland, 'So tender and so true ! 
 
64 
 
 WHEN LOVE LAY DEAD. 
 
 When Love lay dead — 
 Communing with my grieving heart, I said : 
 " Now let my lot be wheresoever cast, 
 Little I care, the joy of life is past. 
 The golden dreams that fiUed the olden days, 
 The gladd'ning gleams of love-iUumined ways, 
 
 For aye have fled. 
 Gone are the smiles that once the future wore, 
 •Gone are the gifts that once the future bore. 
 Gone is my happiness, forevermoie. 
 
 Since Love lies dead." 
 
 But from Love's tomb 
 
 Upsprang, as springs a flower in perfect bloom, 
 
 A hope of purer, better, things to be — 
 
 A mind made stronger by its misery, 
 A heart grown tenderer by wounds that bled. 
 And eyes made kindlier by tears they shed, 
 
 A soul set free — 
 
 And life grew sweet, again, so sweet to me, 
 Though Love lay dead ! 
 
65 
 
 THE ROSES. 
 
 The roses, the roses, I sang about in June, 
 
 When fields were green as emerald and birds were all 
 
 atnne, 
 The rosea, the roses, snow-white and ruby red. 
 That filled the land with loveliness — ah, whither are 
 
 they fled ? 
 
 The roses, the roses, are withered and decayed, 
 
 And barren lie the places where their beauty was 
 
 displayed. 
 Bat in the heart where summer reigns, in spite of 
 
 suUen skies. 
 The rose of Love is blooming still, and never, never 
 
 dies. 
 
66 
 THE MIDNIGHT MASS. 
 
 (An incident of the Penal Days.) 
 
 With stealthy steps across the wold 
 
 In haste the hunted soggarth goes, 
 The winter winds are blowing cold, 
 
 Around him falls the winter snows. 
 But little does he heed the wind. 
 
 The blinding snow, the dark morass. 
 Far fiercer are the foes behind — 
 
 He goes to say the midnight Mass. 
 
 For hours, with many a devious turn. 
 
 He's led the chase o'er moor and fen, 
 Beheld the village tapers burn, 
 
 But dare not seek the haunts of men. 
 For close upon his track have prest, 
 
 ( His holy faith the only cause ) 
 With horrid oath and rufiian jest. 
 
 The minions of the Penal Laws. 
 
 And woe to him should evil hap. 
 
 Into their hands the priest betray ! 
 The raven o'er his corse would flap 
 
 Her sable pinions ere the day — 
 But fainter now have grown their cries. 
 
 Their shots more distant than before. 
 And hopes within his heart arise 
 
 That he has baffled them once more. 
 
67 
 
 But vain the hope of baffled foes ; 
 
 A few more Banguine than the rest 
 Still mark the trail as on he goep, 
 
 Still keep the chase with eager zest ; 
 Bat all unconscious fares he still, 
 
 By tangled wood and torrent dread 
 To where, beneath a lonely hill, 
 
 The Mass in secret may be said. 
 
 Oh JailU ! failU ! Bound him throng 
 
 The remnant of his scattered flock — 
 And Mass, with neither chant nor song, 
 
 Is offered from a fallen rock. 
 And never at cathedral shrine 
 
 Were purer spirits wrapped in prayer 
 Than those who worshipped the Divine 
 
 Before that lowly altar there, 
 
 , But hark! The rite is scarcely done 
 
 When rings a cry upon the breeze — 
 "Up, Father, for your life, and run!" 
 
 The priest arises from his knees. 
 Too late! One muttered prayer to God : 
 
 A volley shakes the mountain-pass, 
 The priest lies slain upon the sod, 
 
 He'll say no more the midnight Mass ! 
 
68 
 
 "COME UNTO ME." 
 
 Filled ia the world with misery and sorrow, 
 
 Sad are onr lives with bitterness and sin, 
 Cares for today and worries for tomorrow. 
 
 Darkness without and deeper gloom within ; 
 Yet in the midst of our profound depression 
 
 There is an eye Divine our needs to see, 
 There is a voice of infinite compassion 
 
 Saying in accents sweet, " Come unto Me." 
 
 " Come unto Me, you weary ones that labor, 
 
 Jesus of Nazareth — ^lo, I am He ! 
 I am the Christ transfigured on Mount Tabor, 
 
 I am the Christ transfixed on Calvary ! 
 What though you've sinned against my heavenly 
 Father, 
 
 Yet have I pity on your souls distrest. 
 You to My Sacred Heart I fain would gather. 
 
 Come unto Me and I will give you rest. 
 
 " Come unto Me I Oh heed the invitation, 
 
 You whom the world has treated with disdain ; 
 You who have need of strength and consolation, 
 
 You who would find a solace for your pain ; 
 Cease to pursue each fleeting, false ideal. 
 
 Follow no longer every fruitless quest ; 
 Only in Me is there a joy that's real. 
 
 Only with Me will you find perfect rest." 
 
69 
 
 Ah ! the sweet word of our dear Lord in heaven, 
 
 Ah ! the bright hope that nothing here can dim, 
 Though on our lives the stain of sin be, even, 
 
 He'll not deny us if we come to Him ; 
 Then let our nearest turn in coldness from us, 
 
 Then let our dearest fail at friendship's test, 
 Have we not Christ and His unfailing promise : 
 
 " Come unto Me and I will give you rest "7 
 
 Maliy a shadow may enshroud the dreamer, 
 
 Many a cry may fall upon his ear. 
 But the sweet voice of his Divine Redeemer 
 
 Softly insistent he must always hear ; 
 And though his days be filled with strife and sadness, 
 
 And though he sings but in a minor key, 
 Still there remains to touch his life with gladness 
 
 Ever the words of Christ : " Come unto Me." 
 
70 
 
 CHRISTMAS-TIME IN IRELAND. 
 
 At ChriBtmas-time in Ireland bow the holly branches 
 twine 
 In stately hall and cabin old and gray I 
 And red among the leaves the holly-berries brightly 
 shine, 
 At Christmas- time in Ireland far away. 
 And brighter than the berries are the kindly Irish 
 
 And cheery are the greetings of the day, — 
 The greetings and the blessings from the Irish hearts 
 that rise 
 At Christmas-time in Ireland far away I 
 
 At Christmas-time in Ireland you can hear the chapel 
 bell 
 A-calling ere the dawning of the day. 
 You can see the people thronging over field and over 
 feU, 
 To the "early Mass" in Ireland far away ; 
 And saintly are the aoggarths that before the altars 
 stand. 
 And faithful are the flocks that kneel and pray— 
 Ah, sorely God must show'r His choicest blessings on 
 the land 
 At Christmas- time in Ireland far away I 
 
71 
 
 At Christmaa-time iH Ireland there is feastinf;, there ia 
 sons;, 
 And merrily the fife and fiddle play, 
 And lightly dance the colleens and the boys the eve- 
 ning long, 
 At Christmaa-time in Ireland far away. 
 There ia light and there ia laughter, there ia mnsic, 
 there ia mirth, 
 And lovers apeak as only lovers may, — 
 Ah, there ia nothing half so aweet in any land on earth 
 Aa Chriatmas-time in Ireland far away ! 
 
 At Christmaa-time in Ireland there is sorrow, too, for 
 those 
 
 Who scattered far in exile sadly atray. 
 And many a tear in ailence for a friend belovSd flows 
 
 At Chriatmas-time in Ireland far away ; 
 But still amid the grieving is a hope to banish fears. 
 
 That God wiU send them aafely back aome day. 
 To know again the happinesa that long ago was theira 
 
 At Christmaa-time in Ireland far away ! 
 
72 
 
 JOHN AND SAM. 
 
 " You're doing well," says John to Sam, 
 
 "And every day you're growing stronger ; 
 I'm very much surprised, I am, 
 
 And can't conceal my friendship longer ; 
 Our blood's the same," says John to Sam, 
 
 " So let us be as one great nation ; 
 I'm very sure," says John, " I am. 
 
 That we can lick creation, 
 
 " Of course, you know," to Sam says John, 
 
 " That it is years since I forgave your 
 Peculiar acts at Lexington, 
 
 And all your subsequent behavior ; 
 And though you stUl," says John to Sam, 
 
 " May lack aristocratic manners, 
 I'm willing to o'erlook it, Sam, 
 
 When we unite our banners." 
 
 " You've very kind," says Sam to John, 
 
 " But I don't think it would be pleasant 
 In brotherhood to take you on ; 
 
 " At least," says Sam, " not just at present. 
 Some little things that I recall 
 
 Make your remarks seem out of season. 
 For I suspect that under all 
 
 You have a selfish reason. 
 
73 
 
 " You didn't boast of kindred blood 
 
 Some years ago, nor smile so sweetly ; 
 In fact, you tried the best you could 
 
 To wipe me oS the map completely. 
 Forgetting things of that kind, John, 
 
 I tell you isn't quite my style yet, 
 And as for brotherhood, dear John, 
 
 'T won't be for quite a while yet." 
 
74 
 
 THE SONG I WOULD SING. 
 
 I'm fain, in the song that I sing for thee, dearest. 
 
 To weave all the beauties around me that lie. 
 The gleam of the stream when its wave is the clearest, 
 
 The green of the woods and the blue of the sky; 
 The crystalline dew on the grass of the meadows. 
 
 The morning mist hiding the high mountain crest, 
 The shine of the sun and the play of the shadows, 
 
 The shimmer of leaves that are never at rest — 
 
 But only a rhyme that has no beauty in it 
 
 Is aU the result of the effort I make. 
 And dreams that I'd capture are gone in a 
 minute, 
 And rude is the song that I sing for your 
 sake. 
 
 I'm fain in the song that I sing for thee, dearest, 
 
 To weave aU the music that nature affords, 
 The lilt of the lark when the summer is nearest. 
 
 Too subtle and sweet in its meaning for words ; 
 The hum of the bees that are robbing the roses. 
 
 The far away sound of the surges of seas. 
 The chorus of birds when the summer day closes. 
 
 The laughter of rills and the whisper of trees, 
 
75 
 
 But only a rhyme that has no music in it 
 Is all the result of the effort I make, 
 And dreams that I'd capture are gone in a 
 minute, 
 And rude is the song that I sing for your 
 sake. 
 
76 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 Oh, ever and ever the waves roll in, 
 And beat on the yellow sands 1 
 But never, oh never, the lad comes back 
 
 Who voyaged to distant lands ! 
 The ocean is white with the sails of ships 
 
 That steer for the harbor of Lynn ; 
 I can scan them all with an anxious eye 
 But never my ship comes in. 
 
 Moans the sea, the wUd winds waU, 
 But still no trace of my lover's sail ; 
 Sailor men drinking and singing in Lynn,. 
 But never, oh never, my ship comes in. 
 
 Long years ago my lover's ship 
 
 Sailed out on the ebbing tide ; 
 I watched her till only a tiny speck 
 
 Upon the horizon wide. 
 And many a gallant youth since then 
 
 Has striven my heart to win — 
 But my heart is over the waters afar 
 With a ship that never comes in. 
 
 Oh, ever and ever the sound of the wave 
 It cries like a mother over a grave ; 
 Wedding bells clanging and ringing in' 
 
 Lynn, 
 But, never, oh never, my ship comes in I 
 
Yestreen the maidens, one and all, 
 Donned holiday coif and govrn 
 To greet the soldiers, scarlet clad, 
 
 Parading through the town. 
 Rejoiced and cheered they all save I, 
 
 For 'mid the merry din 
 I thought of a sailor lad, and I wept 
 For a ship that never comes in. 
 
 Oh, young folk marry, and old folk die, 
 Merry folk laugh, and weary folk sigh I 
 Sad, oh sad, is the town of Lynn, 
 For never, oh never, my ship comes in. 
 
78 
 
 AFTER SUMMER. 
 
 You will come again, O Summer, with the fragrance- 
 
 of the flowers. 
 And the verdant meadows vying with the beauty of 
 
 the bowers, 
 Shady woods and waves that shimmer, and the blue 
 
 sky bending o'er. 
 But a happy heart, Summer, you will bring me 
 
 back no more ! 
 
 You will come again, Summer, with the singing of 
 
 the birds. 
 And the loving laugh replying to the ring of wooing 
 
 words, 
 With the mirth and merry-making of the days in 
 
 pleasure spent. 
 But you'll never bring, O Summer, back again my 
 
 heart's content ! 
 
7y 
 
 DO WE FORGET? 
 
 Do we forget because our tears are dried, 
 
 Because the passionate out-burst of our woe 
 
 Is silent now, are our beloved who died 
 
 Forgotten in their narrow beds and low 7 
 
 Ah, no ; though other thoughts may move the mind, 
 Though other feeUngs may possess the heart. 
 
 We keep the memory of the dead enshrined 
 In deep recesses, sacred and apart. 
 
 And though we weep no more as first we did 
 
 When death appeared and hid them from our eyes, 
 
 Love is not covered with a coffin-lid. 
 
 And sad remembrance of them never dies. 
 
80 
 
 LOVE AND REASON. 
 
 If love forget what love most dear should hold, 
 
 Or learn the things that love should never know, 
 
 Then, maid, beware, — for soon above the cold 
 Dead ashes of your love your tears will flow. 
 
 Love's draught is sweet — the sweetest far that flows 
 To bathe the lips of those who fain would sup ; 
 
 Love's draught is sweet, but bitter soon it grows, 
 If reason be not mingled in the cup. 
 
81 
 
 WHAT IT IS. 
 
 Love is a aumtuer bright with pleasure, 
 
 Love is a winter dark with grief, 
 Love is a bliss that hath no measure, 
 
 Love is a pain bejrond belief ; 
 Love ia a well in the desert, giving 
 
 Joy to the thirsty caravan ; 
 Love is a vain mirage, deceiving 
 
 Famishing man ! 
 
 Thus with words do we endeavor 
 
 Love to depict and to define, 
 But we attain our object never, 
 
 Weak and vain is our strongest line. 
 Search we fact or search we fiction. 
 
 Ages past as it is today — 
 Love is the world's great contradiction 
 
 Ever and aye ! 
 
82 
 
 AN EXILE'S LONGING. 
 
 When I feel the breezes blowing, strongly blowing 
 
 from the West, 
 And I mark the steamers sailing back across the 
 
 ocean's breast, 
 Then my heart is sick within me to be going \rith the 
 
 rest 
 
 To Ireland I 
 
 For the weary years are long, 
 And my life is going wrong. 
 And I'm longing for the sight of Ireland I 
 
 Oh happy are the people who with streaming eyes 
 
 behold 
 In the blessed light of morning Krin's headlands 
 
 looming bold, ! 
 And happy thrice are they who tread the scenes 
 beloved of old 
 
 In Ireland ! 
 For the exiled years of grief 
 In their present joy are brief. 
 And they are glad to be back in Ireland I 
 
83 
 
 Let me come again to Ireland ere my days be all 
 
 forespent, 
 Though my hair be white as aBhes and my body weak 
 
 and bent, i 
 Let me only come to die there, and I know I'll die 
 
 content 
 
 In Ireland. 
 
 For 'tis sweet when life is past 
 To lie down to rest at last, 
 With the friends of our youth in Ireland. 
 
84 
 
 LET US HAVE WAR ! 
 
 Let us have war ! I long to see the soldiers 
 Marching away with sun-kist banners blowing, 
 Marching away with sonnding drum and bugle, 
 Flashing of swords and answering glint of bay'nets. 
 Thunder of hoarse commands along the columns. 
 Cadence of measured footbeats on the pavement, 
 Trampling of fretful steeds bestrid by riders 
 Belted and plumed, transfigured into heroes ! 
 
 Let us have war I I long to see the pageant. 
 
 Dull are the days and gray, we want some color — 
 
 Color to flu the eye and thrill the heart-strings ; 
 
 Yellow and blue, and red and white together. 
 
 Flowing along between the cheering people. 
 
 God 1 It is awful to be color-hungry 1 
 
 Awful to starve so for a new sensation I 
 
 Awful to drag and drudge through times so peaceful I 
 
 Let us have war ! What is 't yon say 7 Oh, widows- 
 Widows and orphans, suffering and sorrow- 
 Man, you're no patriot to talk in that strain I 
 Passion wants rein awhile, we're tired of reason. 
 Peace is a poor condition for a people 
 Prosperous and great and powerful as we are. 
 
85 
 
 Let as have war I The bloodier the better 1 
 Let the yonng men we know go forth to battle ; 
 Bend to the slaughter other people's brothers— 
 That's what they're meant for — to defend their country. 
 Let them be immolated for their country — 
 Bweet is the fate of him who dies for country ! 
 
 What? Go myself 7 O well, you know I'd like to, 
 But you can see for yourself that I'm too busy. 
 
86 
 
 BOER AND BRITON. 
 
 (Being a woful ballad ol Cousin John Bull.) 
 
 When our kinsman o'er the water, Cousin John, 
 
 Looked around for easy things to pick upon. 
 
 In the Transvaal he detected cause for grievance, so 
 
 selected 
 The South African republic as the one. 
 (Yes, he hit upon the Boer as the one). 
 
 So he massed bis soldiers everywhere he could. 
 
 Saying, softly like, " I'll give it to him good ! 
 
 This air Kruger's only bluffin', I'll go in and knock 
 
 the stuffin' 
 •Out of him and his as long ago I should I " 
 (He persuaded of himself as how he should). 
 
 But the Boer is a fellow that can fight. 
 
 And he doesn't get so rattled as he might ; 
 
 Though he hasn't English schooling, when he shoots 
 
 he isn't fooling, 
 And the color of his feather isn't white. 
 (Never known to show a feather that was white). 
 
87 
 
 He is not a naked black with fuzzy hair 
 
 To run up a!;ainBt a Maxim unaware, 
 
 But he knows the tricks of fighting, and he seems to 
 
 take delight in 
 Picking off a decoration here and there I 
 (Mark the officers a-faUing here and there 1) 
 
 So, the soldiers of the army of the Queen 
 
 Find they're up against a foe who isn't green. 
 
 And the tales of battle winning that we heard in the 
 
 beginning — 
 Ihey may tell them to some immature marine. 
 (To some very, very immature marine ! ) 
 
 For the Boer's winning battles — just a few, 
 And John Bull is adding much to what he knew. 
 And of coarse we're deeply worried to see Cousin John 
 
 so flurried — 
 For he's bit off, this time, more than he can chew. 
 {And of course we're deeply sorry. Aren't you 7) 
 
TO PAUL KRUGER. 
 
 Here's our love to you, Paul Krnger, in the XransTaal 
 
 far away, 
 And year fighting farmer-Boldiers waiting grimly for 
 
 the fray 1 
 
 May the God of battles aid you when the war-clouds 
 
 burst in wrath 
 And the Jackal of the Nations stands revealed upon 
 
 your pathi 
 
 When the plotting, planning schemers have been 
 
 foiled in all their fraud 
 And the pirate flag of Britain to the wind is thrown 
 
 abroad, 
 
 When the wolf-pack of the spoiler on your trail is giv- 
 ing tongue. 
 
 And the might of British legions 'gainst your home- 
 spun ranks is finng, — 
 
 Then we say and pray, Paul Kruger, may your soldiers 
 
 shoot to kill — 
 May they give a deeper meaning to the words, "Ma- 
 
 juba HiU." 
 
89 
 
 May the Boer's heart grow braver and the Boer's aim 
 
 more true, 
 May his spirit grow more eager for the work 'tis his to 
 
 do! 
 
 May the shock of Boer bnllets and the glint of Boer 
 
 steel, 
 To the looter and the robber Freedom's majesty reveal. 
 
 Yes, we say and pray, Paul Kruger, may the God that 
 
 yon adore 
 Give you strength to hound and hunt them from your 
 
 land, forevermore ! 
 
90 
 
 GENERAL JOUBERT. 
 
 (Other-wise known as " Slim Piet," or " Crafty Peter," 
 who died during the Boer War, after a series of 
 phenomenal successes against the British) . 
 
 He ain't got no frills or flounces on his name, 
 
 No Victoria crosses decorate his breast ; 
 Bat I teU you he's a soldier, just the same, 
 
 And among the nations' fighters he's the best. 
 He's a plain old square-jawed citizen, that's all ; 
 
 In his book there ain't no word that means defeat ; 
 He's a regular holy terror, and you'll make no bloom- 
 ing error 
 
 If you bet your money on " Slim Piet 1 " 
 
 He ain't got no azure life-blood in his veins, 
 
 An' no titles does he carry when he fights. 
 But he knows enough to come in when it rains. 
 
 And he bars the British lion ere it bites. 
 He's a commonplace old dufifer, that is all ; 
 
 But the Britons stand from under when he drops ; 
 He can put them through their paces, up his sleeve he 
 keeps five aces. 
 
 An' he's got a way of springing " Spion Eops." 
 
91 
 
 He ain't had no chance to study up the rules 
 
 Of the high-toned English way of making war, 
 Bat he's showing men from British army schoola 
 
 Just a trick or two they didn't know before ; 
 He's a homely man with whiskers, that is all, 
 
 But he doesn't know the meaning of defeat, 
 And we'll understand him fuller when again he wallops 
 Buller— 
 
 He's a daisy of a general, " Slim Piet 1 " 
 
92 
 
 WHENE'ER 1 THINK OF THEE. 
 
 Whene'er I think of thee, of thee who died 
 
 While yet my lips were warm with thy caregg. 
 Who pined and failed and faded from my Bide 
 
 As fades a flower of summer loveliness, 
 A long procession moves before my eyes 
 
 Of days that once were dear to thee and me, 
 And floods of sadly-sweet emotions rise 
 
 Whene'er I think of thee. 
 
 Whene'er I think of thee my sonl expands, 
 
 The beauty of creation is my own. 
 No longer bound by sorrow's iron bands 
 
 I pine in rayless wretchedness, alone. 
 And all things lovely that have ever been 
 
 Or through the ages evermore will be, 
 I hold them every one my heart within 
 
 Whene'er I think of thee. 
 
 The splendor of the sunset and the dawn. 
 
 The rose breath wafted on the winds of June, 
 The startled shyness of the forest fawn, 
 
 The haunting music of the robin's tune. 
 The mystery of the starlight on the plain. 
 
 The magic of the moonlight on the sea, 
 All these, and more than these, are mine again 
 
 Whene'er I think of thee. 
 
93 
 
 Whene'er I think of thee my youth retorns, 
 
 My fair, free youth, my days of daring dreama, 
 And many a joy for which the present yearns. 
 
 Comes back to haunt me with its golden gleams. 
 And youthful hopes, love-aanctified and blest. 
 
 Once more in all their witchery I see ; 
 They come again, my first-beloved and best, 
 
 Whene'er I think of thee. 
 
94 
 
 " BONNY MARY OF ARGYLE." 
 
 When the summer Bun in splendor 
 
 On the distant' lains had set. 
 And the golden- o tender 
 
 By the falling dew was wet. 
 When the vesper-bird was sUent, 
 
 And the winds had ceased to sigh, 
 By our cottage door we gathered 
 
 Out beneath the dark'ning sky, 
 And full Boon^a voice was ringing, 
 
 And we sat entranced the while, — 
 One we loved was sweetly singing 
 
 " Bonny Mary of Argyle." 
 
 I have heard rich voices blending 
 
 In cathedrals old and dim, 
 To the throne of God ascending 
 
 Craving mercy, peace, of Him. 
 But within my memory liveth 
 
 That sweet song of other years, 
 And hath power to soothe my sadness 
 
 With the blessed balm of tears. 
 Ah, the grandest anthem ringing 
 
 In cathedral choir or aisle. 
 Could not equal that sweet singing, 
 
 " Bonny Mary of Argyle ! " 
 
95 
 
 'Neath the golden-rod now lieth 
 
 The fair singer of the song, 
 And the western zephyr sigheth 
 
 O'er her lone grave all day long. 
 Weary I, and heavy-hearted, 
 
 Plod a-through the world my way, 
 And my life with many a sorrow 
 
 Is more darkened day by day, 
 But a tender mem'ry clinging 
 
 Brings me back a gentle smUe, 
 And a voice so sweetly singing 
 
 " Bonny Mary of Argyle." 
 
96 
 
 I THPNK OF THEE. 
 
 I think of thee 
 
 When evening shades are falling, 
 
 And sweet bells calling 
 From a white convent o'er the distant lea ; 
 And dreamily 
 
 The evening breezes blow from out the west. 
 
 The world's at rest, 
 In twilight wrapt, serene, and turmoil-free. 
 
 A nightingale 
 
 Sings her sad song and sweet far down the vale 
 Where deepest shadows be — 
 
 AU lonely I 
 
 Gaze on the darkened meads, the darkening 
 sky 
 And think of thee I 
 
97 
 
 A BURIED HEART. 
 
 They buried the maid in the forest glade ; 
 
 They digged her grave in the shade of a fir ; 
 
 (Over the spot where she is laid 
 
 Whispering winds the branches stir). 
 
 Solemn and slow the gray-haired priest 
 
 Murmured a Latin prayer, and ceased. 
 
 The holy water fell like a tear, 
 
 As they pUed the mould upon her bier. 
 Low, low in the forest glade 
 They laid her down in the shade of a fir — 
 But, all unknown to the priest who pray'd. 
 Unknown to the wielders of mattock and spade. 
 They buried my heart in the grave with her ! 
 
 Fair she was as flow'rs in the deU, 
 
 That rise where the feet of spring have trod. 
 And pure as the saints that the seers tell 
 
 Chant round the great white throne of God. 
 Sweet was her voice as the birds that sing 
 When summer kisses departing spring ; 
 And her lightest word was more to me 
 Than aught on earth again may be. 
 
98 
 
 Wild was the grief of her friends, and loud, 
 As they laid her low in the shade of a fir ; 
 Tears shone on the cheek of her father proud — 
 But I was mute amid the crowd, 
 Tho' my heart was deep in the grave with her ! 
 
 Toll, toU, O mission beU, 
 
 ToU for the fair-faced maid who died. 
 Voices of priests in Masses swell. 
 
 And waft her soul to the Virgin's side ! 
 
 Toll, toll, O sad-voiced bell. 
 
 For the maid who lies in the shade of a fir ; 
 And, O, let your notes ring out as well 
 
 For my heart that lies in the grave with her 
 
99 
 
 WHEN MAMIE SPEAKS HER PIECE. 
 
 Whatever way the world may wag, 
 
 Whate'er its ups and downs, 
 Though luck betray and fortune lag, 
 
 And life be fuU of frowns. 
 There is a time when all my woes 
 
 And all my sorrows cease, 
 'Tis when, arrayed in Sunday clothes, 
 
 Our Mamie speaks her piece. 
 
 Ah, there is little room for care 
 
 In heart or mind just then ; j 
 I simply lean back in my chair 
 
 The happiest of men, 
 I lean back in my chair, and know 
 
 Of every pain surcease, 
 When word by word, now loud, now low. 
 
 Our Mamie speaks her piece. 
 
 When we have company 'tis then 
 
 Our Mamie's at her best, 
 And I am proud — and then, again. 
 
 For her I fear the test. 
 But Mamie's memory doesn't lapse, 
 
 Her courage makes increase. 
 And company just claps and claps 
 
 When Mamie speaks her piece. 
 
100 
 
 I've listened oft to actor folks 
 
 On many a city stage, 
 I've heard them teU their funny jokes, 
 
 Familiar grown with age ; 
 I've seen them do these warrior men 
 
 Of ancient Rome and Greece, 
 But still I didn't thrill as when 
 
 Our Mamie speaks her piece. 
 
 And so, howe'er the world may wag, 
 
 Whate'er its ups and downs. 
 Though fickle fortune limp and lag, 
 
 And life be full of frowns. 
 My heart is light, and Lome at night 
 
 I find a sweet release 
 From every pain of heart and brain, 
 
 When Mamie speaks her piece. 
 
101 
 
 THE AUTUMN RAIN. 
 
 Raining in the springtime!— 
 
 But we always know 
 That the sun will shine again 
 
 In a day or so. 
 Though the eaves may drip and drip, 
 
 Skies be overcast, 
 In our hearts we feel and say 
 
 'Tisn't long to last. 
 Soon the summer's sweetness 
 
 All the land wiU fill, 
 Murk and mist no longer 
 
 Hide the distant hiU; 
 Soon again the sky will 
 
 Smile upon the plain — 
 Thus we feel in springtime, 
 
 Looking at the rain. 
 
 Baining in the autumn! — 
 
 Ah, the dreary day! 
 WiU the clouds that hide the sun 
 
 Never pass awayl 
 Listen to the monotone 
 
 Of the dripping eaves. 
 List to the lamenting of 
 
 The wind among the leaves. 
 
102 
 
 Gone the summer's beauty— 
 
 Every bud is dead ; 
 Gone the summer's music — 
 
 Every bird is fled ; 
 All the hopes that held us 
 
 Through the year are vain, 
 When we sit" in autumn 
 
 Looking at the rain ! 
 
103 
 
 COME, CHEER UP! 
 
 Come, cheer up, my moody friend ! 
 
 What's the good of whining 7 
 What's the good of moping 'round 
 
 Sighing and repining ? 
 See, the sky is bright and blue. 
 
 See, the sun is shining ! 
 Let the sun shine in on you, 
 On your heart and spirit, too, 
 Let it bid you dare and do — 
 
 What's the good of whining ? 
 Come, cheer up ! 
 
 Come, cheer up ! Lift up your head 1 
 
 What's the good of whining ? 
 Lo, the very darkest cloud 
 
 Has a silver lining ! 
 Face your fate and do not stand 
 
 Peaking thus and pining ; 
 Though your gift may not be grand. 
 Do what's nearest to your hand, 
 Do it well and truly, and 
 
 You won't think of whining 
 Come, cheer up ! 
 
104 
 
 Come, cheer up ! Whate'er your lot, 
 
 What's the good of whining? 
 Griefs 7 Why, every grief you bear 
 
 Is of wise designing. 
 Cares 7 Why, every care is sent 
 
 Trying and refining. 
 Then be bUthe of heart and strong, 
 
 Labor hard and labor long. 
 And amid your smile and song 
 
 Leave no place for whining — 
 Come, cheer up i 
 
mmwi