^R^i^tfWa^f^iCTtHHW^Kar y ■, 
 
 Lfe^T ^"^^^^ ^p ™E Fleet 
 
 ^ and Other Poems 
 
 ^^1 William Nelson Morell 
 
Class JZS35^S_ 
 
 GopyiigMF_ 
 
 COKRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
EHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
RHYMES 
 OF THE FLEET 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS 
 
 William Nelson Morell 
 
 1918 
 
 THE STRATFORD CO., PUBLISHERS 
 
 BOSTON 
 

 Copyright 1918 
 
 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers 
 
 Boston, Mass. 
 
 The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. 
 
 JUL 22 1918 
 
 ©CLA499940 
 
Betrtcation 
 
 To Walt Winn of Texas 
 
 I dedicate this volume 
 
 of 'Verse 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 To the Father of the Fleet . 
 
 
 . 1 
 
 She's A Eattlin' Good 
 
 Ship 
 
 
 . 2 
 
 The U. S. S. Comfort 
 
 ( Hospital 
 
 Ship) 
 
 4 
 
 Iron Men and Wooden 
 
 Ships 
 
 
 . 5 
 
 The Old Salt's Song . 
 
 . 
 
 
 6 
 
 My Lassie . 
 
 . 
 
 
 8 
 
 The Volunteer's Song . 
 
 . 
 
 
 10 
 
 In Port . . . 
 
 . 
 
 
 12 
 
 (ToMrs. E. T.) . 
 
 
 
 14 
 
 The "Wanderer's Song 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 Jimmy-Legs 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 The Chicken's Breast 
 
 . 
 
 
 17 
 
 Pipe Dreams 
 
 . 
 
 
 18 
 
 Evening Colors . 
 
 . 
 
 
 19 
 
 The Death Watch 
 
 . 
 
 
 20 
 
 Cannon Fodder . 
 
 
 
 21 
 
 The Veteran 's Advice . 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 The Voice of a French 
 
 Soldier 
 
 
 24 
 
 France! 
 
 . 
 
 
 26 
 
 Kitchener Lives! 
 
 
 
 28 
 
 IX 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 The Country's Call 29 
 
 Songs of the Desert 
 
 
 
 
 31 
 
 Ailinn of Ulster . 
 
 
 
 
 32 
 
 To Estelle R. 
 
 
 
 
 36 
 
 The Poet's Soul . 
 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 The Gipsy Maid . 
 
 
 
 
 39 
 
 Mother 
 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 Rebels 
 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 To the Suffragettes at Occoquar 
 
 1 
 
 
 41 
 
 The Canyon of Larney 
 
 
 
 42 
 
 My Lady of Dreams . 
 
 
 
 43 
 
 Little Blue Eyes 
 
 
 
 44 
 
 Meditations 
 
 
 
 45 
 
 The Letter from Home 
 
 
 
 47 
 
 To W. W. W. . 
 
 
 
 48 
 
 A Broken Heart 
 
 
 
 50 
 
 L 'envoi 
 
 
 
 
 51 
 
To the Father of the Fleet 
 
 TO our friend Joe, whom others know 
 As father of the fleet; 
 A squarer man, no sailor can 
 
 Wish for in his seat: 
 To grip his hand, like an iron band 
 
 Would be life's greatest treat: 
 And face to face, by God's grace, 
 I hope we'll some day meet. 
 
 [1] 
 
EHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 She's A Rattlin' Good Ship 
 
 SHE'S a rattlin' good ship and a damn fine 
 crew; 
 Just careless fellows like I and you, 
 With nary a tie to bind us home, 
 We'll ship over again for a lone soup bone. 
 We'll laugh and sing, and cuss and swear, 
 And pick up a quarrel without a dare; 
 It isn't the money (scarce as hell's snow) 
 It's only the life that makes us go. 
 No, it isn't dame fame, but the gob's great life. 
 That leads us back to the strenuous strife. 
 It's the sound of the lashing waves at night. 
 Strange lands to see with the morning light; 
 New ports to explore as we anchor down — 
 New women, new wine in each seaport town. 
 A New York skirt or Hawaiian maid, 
 For a London ''ducky," is a fair enough trade. 
 Then out again in a fine sea breeze, 
 For a South Sea cruise or a Northern freeze. 
 We'll put her bow to an Atlantic gale. 
 Or to the Horn and watch her sail. 
 
 [2] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 And when she hits an unseen land, 
 
 We'll stick head to port and wave our hand, — 
 
 To a hula queen in a Pacific isle. 
 
 Or a Spanish duchess, — it's all worth while. 
 
 For she's a rattlin' good ship and a damn fine 
 
 crew. 
 Just careless fellows like I and you — 
 With nary a tie to bind us home. 
 We'll ship over again for a lone soup bone. 
 
 [3] 
 
EHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 The U. S. S. Comfort (Hospital Ship) 
 
 THEY never billeted a better crew 
 That sailed out of any port, 
 Than that which carried the wounded through 
 The war zone, — on the new "Comfort." 
 I'd stake my life on anyone 
 Of my shipmates on that ship, 
 From early morn to setting sun, 
 On land, in port, or ocean trip. 
 We've filled high-up her cargo-decks 
 Brimful with healing medical stores 
 For wounded, sick, and dying wrecks, 
 Balms of Gilead for battle sores. 
 We '11 sail full-blast, with all lights on 
 Through the sub-infested zone. 
 And we carry not a blessed gun, — 
 Fate alone, will bring us home! 
 
 [4] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Iron Men and Wooden Ships 
 
 THE iron men and the wooden ships, 
 Have gone with the ebbing tide; 
 They have sailed away, beyond the bay — ■ 
 
 Where the nymphs and mermaids hide. 
 They have folded their sails with the rotted 
 masts, 
 
 Along with the broken spar; 
 Ne 'er again shall you see their like. 
 
 Go sailing across the bars. 
 For they've gone away, forever to stay. 
 
 The pirate buccaneers; 
 Their departing leaves but me, 
 
 The salt of their sea-going tears; 
 They are lost with the bronze-dyed men 
 
 Who plundered the Spanish Main; 
 Now in their place, comes a new race, 
 
 With iron ships to reign. 
 For iron ships we have manicured men. 
 
 To man the batteries: 
 And that is why, the sea-dogs sigh. 
 
 Who slumber in the seas. 
 
 [5] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 The Old Salt's Song 
 
 THEY call us hardboiled roughnecks 
 When we're off ship for a spree: 
 And we start to cash our paychecks, 
 Of a three months' cruise at sea. 
 
 And if we start to paint the town, 
 The well-bred folks stick up their nose 
 And down upon us they will frown, — 
 And snicker, "There a sailor goes." 
 
 But when I'm caged upon a ship, 
 Upon a rough and lonesome sea, ■ — 
 A-cruising on a six months' trip. 
 Ah, little do they know of me! 
 
 The passions of those pent-up men, 
 "Who think and feel as you and I, 
 The civilian man will never pen, — 
 It makes a hash-mark man to sigh. 
 
 [6] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 We are energetic, full of life 
 Just as other men would be; 
 We are eager for a dangerous fight, 
 With a submarine or a storming sea. 
 
 Judge us not at unnatural times, 
 As when we're off a lonely cruise; 
 (That is the prayer of my rhymes,) 
 For then we are a smouldering fuse. 
 
 For we have left our folks at home, 
 Oft in a moment of reckless rage, — 
 So treat us kindly while we roam 
 Upon the sea in an iron cage. 
 
 7] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 My Lassie 
 
 MY bonnie, bonnie lassie, I am leaving you 
 behind, 
 For I am going away to sail upon the sea; 
 We are struggling for a victory, there is trouble 
 
 in the wind, 
 And I hear my shipmates are a' calling unto me. 
 Where my country calls, you know I want to be. 
 
 My bonnie, bonnie lassie, you'll think of me I 
 
 know. 
 When I'm sailing on the tossing battleships; 
 For I '11 think of you on deck or down below, — 
 And I'll ever think of kissing your sweet red 
 
 lips, — 
 When the battles are over and I've finished my 
 
 trips. 
 
 My bonnie, bonnie lassie, I'll gladly fight for 
 
 you, 
 i^or there is no bonnie lassie, half so sweet; 
 
 [8] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 And I'll gird my armor tighter and consecrate 
 
 anew; 
 When the battle's over we soon again will meet, 
 And I'll lay my earthly treasures at your feet. 
 
 Oh, my bonnie, bonnie lassie, how I dread to 
 
 say good-by, 
 How loth I am to leave you all alone; 
 But my ship is in the harbor, where the cruisers 
 
 ply, 
 
 And I 'm leaving you and all the folks at home, — 
 But I'll always think of you, wherever I may 
 roam. 
 
 [9] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 The Volunteer's Song 
 
 WE gave up our education, 
 To get beans for a ration, 
 To serve this bloomin' nation, — 
 
 In the war: 
 We're in a suit of blue 
 (Like a skirt that's cut in two) 
 In which we guard the sea for you, — 
 
 As never watched before. 
 We left our homes of leisure. 
 Not because of pressure. 
 For we are men full measure, — 
 
 We're regular volunteers: 
 And when it comes to fightin', 
 We'll do some damn high lightin'. 
 And we'll set this world all right in 
 
 A couple of years. 
 The sailor's not a bum. 
 Out of a bowery slum 
 Victim of the demon rum, — 
 
 In civil life: 
 
 [10] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 But he's in this suit of blue, 
 (Like a skirt that's cut in two) 
 Just to help serve you, — 
 
 In this strife. 
 He does not beg for sympathy, 
 Nor any of your trumpery. 
 Because he's in this navy, — 
 
 Treat him like a man: 
 It is not for your pity, 
 That I tinker at this ditty. 
 For you in a far-off city, — 
 
 Safe as a clam: 
 For it is but a greeting, 
 To tell how you are treating, 
 Men who hold a better rating, — 
 
 Than you can. 
 And this I say to you, 
 That the volunteer U. S. crew, 
 "Will stick to the guns, — true-blue, 
 
 For good old Uncle Sam. 
 
 [11] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 In Port 
 
 WE were anchored in the Brooklyn Yard 
 One balmy night this spring, 
 While we were waiting there, my pard, 
 We all began to dance, and sing. 
 We sat down on the hurricane deck 
 And listened to some old banjos. 
 Playing that old ragtime wreck 
 Which every sea-going sailor knows: 
 ''Its a long, long way to Davy Jones, 
 Ten thousand leagues or more. 
 Where fishes live on sailors' bones. 
 And there ain't no bloomin' shore." 
 The stars and moon shone on the bay 
 Competing with the lights of town; 
 And the lights of white old gay Broadway, 
 These natural beauties couldn't drown. 
 The music that my shipmates played 
 Is dearer far to me 
 Than any refrains "ready-made" 
 Far from the taste of the briny sea. 
 
 [12] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 We smoked our Missouri cobs 
 And regal meerschaums, briars too; 
 Such is the life of the roving gobs, 
 Those happy days are all too few. 
 
 [13] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 (To Mrs. E. T.) 
 
 SHE is motlier of the squadron, 
 She is Angel of the fleet, 
 She is my shipmate's guardian. 
 And you'll find her hard to beat. 
 Her home is open to us, 
 On every day of the year, — 
 And in it there'll be no fuss 
 Of etiquette, — but right good cheer. 
 She is a lady by breeding. 
 And a blueblood by right of birth, — 
 Night and day she is leading 
 Clubs for sailors, soldiers' mirth. 
 Thank God, there still are mothers 
 As those we left at home 
 While away from ours there are others, 
 To cheer us as we roam. 
 
 [14] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 The Wanderer's Song 
 
 I LONG for the western islands 
 And for the western sea; 
 I yearn for the foamy ocean, 
 With a sail unto the lee. 
 
 The rugged jack pines call me 
 And their elusive breezes keen, 
 Bear the fragrance of the islands 
 To the wanderer's happy dream. 
 
 The ocean sunset calls me, 
 With its golden luring rays, 
 And I leave my native fancies 
 To sail where the tempest plays. 
 
 [15] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 Jimmy-Legs 
 
 WAS there ever a sailor who didn't hate 
 To roll out when he was told, 
 By Jimmy-legs who pipes-never late, 
 "Hit the deck" in a voice grown bold. 
 When in the mess hall eating chow, 
 And you grab for an extra dish or two 
 It's Jimmy-legs that shows you how 
 To sleep in a brig — just built for you. 
 If you're making knots for the starboard watch 
 When you should be on port, 
 It's Jimmy-legs who drops the match 
 And you're up for a summary-court. 
 If you're up the shute or down the shute, 
 Jimmy-legs, he '11 put you there, — 
 Say your prayer you lubberly boot. 
 He'll get your hide and hair. 
 Jimmy-legs must travel alone. 
 On every ship that ever sailed, — 
 For he has neither friends nor home, 
 And when on shore he's always trailed; 
 So say your prayer you lubberly boot. 
 He'll get your hide and hair. 
 
 [16] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 The Chicken's Breast* 
 
 THE officers get the chicken's breast, and we 
 do all the fight, — 
 We get the tough meatless wings, — now is 
 
 that just right? 
 We only get a hunk of bone. 
 What tastes like chawing on a stone. 
 The officers get the cream of all the chicken 
 
 roast, 
 And in a scrap, why we always battle most! 
 You can see the best of things in an officer's 
 
 mess, 
 And when it comes to scrappin', why they're 
 
 mostly less. 
 We don't mind doin' menial things, 
 When 'er the land the war cry rings, — 
 We'll swab a deck or man the guns. 
 To prove that yet we're freedmen's sons, — 
 But why not give us sailor-men 
 The breast of the chicken, now and then? 
 
 * This poem was inspired by the sight of a plate of nicely 
 roasted chicken's breast on an officer's mess table. It 
 is a common practice to give the tender meat of a chicken 
 to the officers, while the remnants are given to the privates. 
 
 [17] 
 
EHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 Pipe Dreams 
 
 I'VE smoked many a pipe of tobac, 
 From many a foreign port: 
 In regal meerschaums and in Briar's black, 
 With tobacco of every sort. 
 
 I've smoked when blue and weary, 
 I 've puffed when feeling fine ; 
 In weather wet and dreary, — 
 On a transatlantic line. 
 
 But no pipe so sweet in this nation, 
 And never such Egyptian tobac; 
 As I smoked on that scum of creation, — 
 That bloomin' Adirondack. 
 
 [18] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Evening Colors 
 
 WHEN the gleam of evening sunset 
 Strikes old Glory in the sky, 
 'Ere the colors sound, 
 Her banners lingeringly fly 
 In a field of golden clouds rolling by. 
 Emblem of a ship, of state. 
 Victorious all has met, — 
 We lower the flag 
 With the evening sunset. 
 And the band plays the anthem, 
 Inspirationally sung 
 'Mid the roar of battle, — 
 Then swells my heart 
 Like the breeze which plies 
 The thrice honored colors 
 Where freedom lies. 
 
 Oh ! lead us to battle ! We will follow thee, 
 To the fields of France or the storms of sea. 
 To battle! to battle! to make men free! 
 
 [19] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 The Death Watch 
 
 I THOUGHT I had seen much of life, 
 And lived through many a strenuous 
 strife ; 
 But now I saw life ebb away, 
 
 Through silent hours of agony; 
 And heard the quick hard gasps for breath 
 Which heralded an early death: 
 And watched through endless hours of night. 
 The fingers clutched in uneven fight. 
 Beheld that white face writhe with pain. 
 Concealing the fear which soldiers disdain. 
 Yet eyes will tell what we dare not say, — 
 They pleaded for but one more day, — 
 Which stubborn death refused to give. 
 We have but our little time to live. 
 And when that hour doth appear, — 
 When the last gasp leaves the lips, 
 (And the reaper's scythe with red blood drips) 
 I gently fold the white sheets over him, 
 My dry mouth sobs a silent requiem. 
 
 [20] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Cannon Fodder 
 
 (On The Death of a Friend in France) 
 
 HE is gone ! His merry laugh 
 Resounds no more above the clash: 
 The smile that yesterday was his, is gone; 
 The iron body, to all disease immune, 
 Fell to the cannon, like so much trash. 
 Titan, herculean strength is not spared 
 In battle, where fumes and flames of hell are 
 
 bared. 
 Yesterday when in friendly grasp you gripped 
 
 his hands. 
 Could you think today that hand clasps death? 
 That his restless soul would break its bands. 
 Through the path of shells and the cannons' 
 
 breath ? 
 
 Slumber in peace, tireless spirit; 
 
 You needs have balm to sooth your aching head. 
 
 For there, in lethean sleep you dream of a cross 
 
 of merit, 
 While the body rots on a field of thousands dead. 
 
 [21] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 The Veteran's Advice 
 
 IT'S soft to speak of glory in the peace of 
 civil life, 
 A-sittin' by the fire a-talkin' to your wife; 
 It's fine to see the soldiers paradin' down the 
 
 street, 
 An' listin' to the trampin' of a thousan' march- 
 in' feet: 
 It's nice to dream of chargin' 'gainst the Huns, 
 An' snore to the rippin' rattlin' of a 'undred 
 
 gattlin ' guns. 
 But when you live in dugouts in water to your 
 
 knees, 
 A' wallowin' like a schooner in the antarctic 
 
 seas, 
 With shrapnel on your bombproof s playin' 
 
 peculiar tunes. 
 And bodies of your comrades lyin' amidst the 
 
 ruins, 
 And Boches bother you at meals with a big 
 
 Krupp cannon ball, — 
 
 [22] 
 
AND OTHEE POEMS 
 
 When your ration's tastin' ancient and starva- 
 tion small; 
 
 Then you pray for the safety of your old fire- 
 side, 
 
 Or wish to God that in the very first attack 
 you'd died. 
 
 [23] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 The Voice of a French Soldier* 
 
 HOW beautiful they blossomed yesterday ! — 
 The fields of France in golden fragrance 
 lay. 
 The orchards burdened with their harvest yields, 
 And air perfumed with the incense of the fields. 
 The cattle in their pastures slowly grazed, 
 While o'er the lane, the colts in freedom raced. 
 The peace of autumn veiled the hidden strife; 
 Until the God of Mars awoke to life. 
 The foe in hordes of steel came from the North — 
 In answer to the challenge our sons came forth 
 The battering of a thousand belching guns, 
 Shattered the noblest of our sons, — 
 Yet they came up to our very gate : 
 Chapel and hearth were objects of their hate; 
 The shrine no sanctity to them bore, 
 To their Kultur our France was but a sore ; 
 Where we knelt to pray, they did deride, 
 And called the God of Justice on their side. 
 
 * On meeting a member of the Norton-Harjes Ambulance 
 Corps. Oct. 11, 1917. 
 
 [24] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Now the fields of France are but a pit, 
 Where ghosts and spirits calmly sit: 
 And for the sake of peace, their souls demand 
 The world to drive the dragon from the land. 
 
 25 J 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 France! 
 
 OUT of thy Elysian reverie, 
 Art thou awakened, — 
 Land of history, and mystery 
 Where liberty was born. 
 Has Gambetta touched thee again? 
 The spirit of Lamartine 
 Moves Gallic braves to battle, 
 Where blood flows thick and red: 
 To struggle o'er comrades 
 That are dead. 
 
 In the vanguard waves thy banner, 
 Streams thy blood. 
 Thy aides look on with wonder ; 
 Enemies admire; 
 
 Mankind awakened from a lethean dream 
 Sees France reborn. 
 'Mid din of cannon and pools of blood, 
 Where in rebellion she was born, 
 To hold a fortress. 
 Wherein are hidden. 
 Liberty, Equality, Fraternity: 
 
 [26] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Where strains of Marseillaise 
 And roar of musketry mingle, — 
 Move phantom legions of past wars, 
 In tricolor and coeade 
 To fight for France! 
 
 L27J 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 Kitchener Lives! 
 
 KITCHENER dead? No, it is an empty 
 boast, 
 For yesternight upon this green, 
 In blood mud-spattered khaki I have seen, — 
 And his iron smile reviewed his host. 
 Kitchener dead? Only fools will say. 
 That he who held the Hun at bay. 
 Beneath the grinding surf does lie. 
 Last night while on my post I saw 
 The iron soldier's troops pass by, 
 There too was Kitchener, spite of natural law. 
 
 [28] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 The Country's Call 
 
 THE halls of the castle are silent, 
 With a stillness deep, as death, — 
 For they wait from the field of battle. 
 The news with a throbbing breath. 
 
 The castle's golden splendor is spurned 
 
 For the trenches' fare. 
 
 And the young lord leaves for the foremost 
 
 ranks 
 Without a care. 
 
 The cottage walls resound no more 
 With the youthful peasant's song, 
 For he has answered the nation's call, — 
 And joined her glorious throng. 
 
 The shepherd's hut is empty now 
 For its youth has gone away. 
 To feed the cannon of the foe. 
 And keep the Hun at bay. 
 
 [29] 
 
EHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 In each home a mother waits, 
 Patiently day by day, in vain; 
 While her own on the field of battle, 
 Lies with the thousands slain. 
 
 But oh, how proud is the mother. 
 That sacrifice has paid; 
 And on the altar of freedom 
 Her diaden has laid ! 
 
 [:jO] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Songs of the Desert 
 
 FAR o'er the terraced desert land, — 
 Breezes moaning, 
 Winds blow droning, 
 "Winds play tunes on the desert sand. 
 
 On mountain peaks 
 
 The fir tree creaks, 
 
 And simoons blowing. 
 
 Lowing, lowing, 
 
 Sand dunes sowing. 
 
 Winds play tunes on the desert sand. 
 
 The coyotes crying, — 
 
 A shepherd sighing. 
 
 In the far hills 
 
 In Noman's land; 
 
 Where the flocks are roaming, 
 
 Thru' the half -lit gloaming, 
 
 O 'er the hills to their home : 
 
 As the winds sing songs on the desert sand. 
 
 [31] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 Ailinn of Ulster 
 
 BY the murmur of the ocean, 
 By the green waves of the sea, 
 'Neath the moon, a sweet emotion. 
 Moved him like a minstrelsy; 
 Did not fair Ailinn smile on him, 
 With her eyes so heavenly. 
 Twinkling eyes so luringly ; 
 Under moon, and stars, and heaven, 
 By the waves upon the sea. 
 By the gods beneath the sea, 
 For the druids who are seven, 
 Ailinn thee I love, quoth Baile, 
 Fair maiden, thee I love eternally. 
 
 And from out the murmuring ocean. 
 O'er the green waves of the sea, 
 Came a voice in trembling motion, 
 Paling face of strong Baile; 
 "Ye shall love no more in Ulsterland, 
 Ne'er Baile love the fair Ailinn; 
 Son of Buan dies on the strand. 
 Your love in heaven shall be queen. ' ' 
 
 [32] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 The accents rolled with splashing waves; 
 
 Over the purple red moon's sea, 
 
 Over the dashing, surging sea, 
 
 And sounded thru' the mountain caves: 
 
 As flashed the light in Baile's eyes, 
 
 And sorrowing Ailinn deeply sighs. 
 
 The glow of the moon flowed o'er the heavens, 
 
 Down to the edge of the wave-kissed shore; 
 
 While soundly slept the sickly cravens. 
 
 In the palace by the moor. 
 
 Fair Baile and the pale Ailinn, 
 
 Kissed and parted in their tears;, 
 
 Could she not be the Ulster's queen? 
 
 The Voice had kindled gnawing fears: 
 
 Again they kissed in last embrace. 
 
 Their love no druids could efface. 
 
 ''When comes again the full-moon golden — 
 
 We will meet in Dunde-algan, 
 
 By the sacred oak of olden, 
 
 Where our love it first began — " 
 
 Thus they parted, deep regretting, — 
 
 With the pale moon in its setting. 
 
 Many hours of patient waiting, 
 Many nights of listless dreams, 
 
 [33] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 For the golden moontime meeting, 
 By Dunde-algan 's golden streams. 
 
 Mounted steeds with golden strappings, 
 Chariots blazoned with myriad jewels, 
 Knights a-glitter in silver trappings, 
 Burdened with gifts the Gallic mules; 
 Forth goes the king for Ulster's queen, 
 To the strand of Dunde-algan, 
 To the sacred oak of olden ; 
 To take from the Southland, fair Ailinn; 
 Bugles blowing, banners flowing, 
 Moves the train from Ulster castle, 
 Meet they with a stranger vassal ; 
 ' ' Stop ! " he cries as loud could be, 
 "What ho!" asks Baile in alarm, 
 "Is this not Ulster that I see?" 
 "Has to Ailinn come any harm?" 
 The stranger paused to have his say. 
 And Baile pales beneath his gold; 
 "This morning as she came away 
 The Leinsters took her to be sold: 
 There she died of broken heart. 
 That she from Baile must depart." 
 King Baile swooned and life went out. 
 The stranger parted like a blast, 
 
 [34] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 The train in mourning turned about, 
 And back to Ulster hurried fast. 
 
 When Baile died upon the strand, 
 And flowers o'er his bier were laid; 
 Ailinn set out from the Southland, 
 To keep the promise she had made. 
 A stranger came in deep dismay, 
 And bid himself be heard; 
 "Hast thou of Ulster aught to say?" 
 "Peace be with you but a word: 
 This morning as he came away, 
 The Leinsters took him to be sold, 
 There he died of broken heart. 
 That he from Ailinn must depart." 
 Ailinn swooned and life went out. 
 The stranger parted like a blast. 
 The train in mourning turned about, 
 And to the Southland hurried fast. 
 
 O'er his grave a yew-tree blowing. 
 O'er her grave the apples growing: 
 By the sacred oak of olden. 
 By the waters that are golden. 
 By the strand of Dunde-algan, 
 Near the green waves of the sea. 
 
 [35] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 To Estelle R. 
 
 WE were strangers, I'll admit, 
 And you were quite conscious of it; 
 But when you found me sitting lonely, — 
 You said you would waltz — once only. 
 You didn't think what it would bring. 
 That dance was to me no little thing; 
 And when I asked to call on you, 
 You were afraid it wouldn't do: 
 For your mother might object, — 
 "Such little things I always wreck." 
 And so on the morrow, again we met 
 At a time, aforehand set. 
 And that is where the story begins. 
 The story, I have lived it since. 
 I'll leave its flavor for another time, 
 So rest content, with this little rhyme. 
 
 [36] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 The Poet's Soul 
 
 THO' I do not paint on canvas, yet the pic- 
 tures that I see 
 Are more beautiful than any that the masters' 
 
 pictures be; 
 Pictures of a golden sunset, in a mirrored lake, 
 With the dancing shadows, that the wind-blown 
 
 birches make. 
 Pictures of contented homesteads, with the blue 
 
 clouds rolling by 
 And wide far-stretching pastures, where the 
 sleeping cattle lie. 
 Nor do I play with music, yet there's more 
 
 music in 
 My soul. 
 
 Than any refrain in a music-master's roll. 
 Music in the cowboy's song, as he rides the 
 
 cactus 
 Plains, 
 
 Music in the broncho's gallop, as the rider 
 gives the 
 
 [37] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 Reins, 
 
 Music in the evening that the lonesome bit- 
 tern rimes 
 
 With the songs of evening grosbeak and the 
 pine-tree warbler's 
 
 Chimes. 
 
 [38] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 The Gipsy Maid 
 
 OH ! gipsy maid, beneath the shade, 
 Of pine trees branching low; 
 Where at eve is thy head laid, 
 
 Where the murmuring breezes blow? 
 
 Oh ! Wanderer, thee I envy, — free 
 From the busy haunts of men. 
 
 To rest beside the foamy sea 
 Or in forest's shady glen. 
 
 Your lightsome load, along the road. 
 That leads to many a turn; 
 
 You bear it glad, without a goad 
 Tho' the sands of the desert burn. 
 
 [39] 
 
EHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 Mother 
 
 I KNOW not how much mother feels, 
 I know not of what mother thinks, 
 I know not what her heart conceals. 
 Nor how deep of the sorrow cup she drinks. 
 But this I know and am right sure 
 That when I'm gone she is ever sad, 
 And a vision of her is a lure, 
 That brings me back to make her glad. 
 
 Rebels 
 
 SHAKE, you rebel, grip my hand. 
 You're the bravest in the land; 
 Rebel 'gainst what e'er it be, 
 Life or system, or tyranny: 
 Fighting in the paths of life. 
 Struggling for the love of strife. 
 
 [40] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 To the Suffragettes of Occoquan 
 
 CAN we say our country is chivalrous and 
 free, 
 Wlien women languor in their cells for sake of 
 
 liberty ? 
 Why drag these ladies in the dust because their 
 
 banners say, 
 What our noble president wrote but yesterday; 
 Why go championing over this whole sphere, 
 And leave undone for freedom that which lies 
 
 so near. 
 Why go seek for freedom on the fields of France, 
 Before we turn first homeward the liberating 
 
 lance. 
 Is this not hypocrisy that stalks abroad, 
 Where once the men of Valley Forge and 
 
 Gettysburg have trod? 
 Give the women franchise so all the world can 
 
 see, 
 That even in this age our citizens are free. 
 
 [41] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 The Canyon of Larney 
 
 I'VE slept in the Canyon of Larney, 
 Under the open sky; 
 Lulled in my dreams 
 By the tripping streams, 
 Rumbling from crags on high: 
 Sputtering along 
 In a wondrous song, — 
 In melodies old. 
 As the tales that are told. 
 To the hills in the Canyon of Larney. 
 
 [42] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 My Lady of Dreams 
 
 MY beautiful dream is crushed, dispelled, - 
 The fanciful dreams have fled; 
 The thoughts of a thousand nights are quelled- 
 My lady of dreams is dead. 
 
 Dead in body, dead in soul, — 
 
 But living in spirit still; 
 
 And I a midnight wandering ghoul. 
 
 Have kept her memory as others will, 
 
 Neptune has stolen my fair bride, 
 From happiness and from me ; 
 As she was riding on the tide, 
 In the surf by the cruel sea. 
 
 Stolen her body, but living still; 
 
 Ever her spirit dwells with me: 
 
 Living my body, but to kill 
 
 The thoughts and dreams of her memory. 
 
 [43] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 Little Blue-Eyes 
 
 LITTLE Blue-eyes, I lost my head, 
 Down by the river springs ago, — 
 When the moon was high and the skies were red 
 With the myriads of stars that flickered so ! 
 And the river rumbled, roared, and rolled, 
 Swollen from mountain streams, — 
 Breaking away even as you, I told. 
 Little Blue-eyes of all my dreams. 
 And our campfire sputtered and spit its sparks. 
 Red, golden, strange colors of orient hue : 
 Spring perfumes like incense from leaves and 
 
 barks 
 Were mingled with fragrance of the March 
 
 night's dew. 
 Remember, Blue-eyes, how we watched the skies 
 And counted each star that was new; 
 And listened in silence at Potomac's sighs, 
 And whispered that love would always be true ! 
 
 [44] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 Meditations 
 
 WHEN I meditate — that this my body 
 must decay, 
 And in the ground be laid away; 
 And be the buttress of nature's forces, 
 Which work silently, minutely night and day. 
 Slowly like the funeral horses, 
 That brought me where I lay: 
 Then I raise my voice in protest to the skies, 
 And in the anguish of my sighs, 
 I cry against the uselessness of life; 
 And against the foolishness of man — that lives 
 
 and dies; 
 Who fights evil and despair in a vain strife: 
 To barter for a living, — who sells and buys. 
 When I meditate that I must earn my bread 
 And children in the home be taught and fed, — 
 It seems that living is not worth its pleasures, 
 Better, early that my dying words were said. 
 My will be made and diggers take their meas- 
 ures, 
 And mourners gather round the funeral bed. 
 
 [45] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 For what is life, but a vain strife for a few joys, 
 Earned like the whipping of mischievous boys. 
 Who are happy a while, then they feel the rod : 
 So tremble we, for joys, before an unjust God. 
 But is life what on the surface it appears? 
 Bankrupt in body, soul forever in arrears? 
 So be it to him, who has not felt the touch, 
 Of love and hate, joys mingling with our tears. 
 Who for woman's love has never suffered much, 
 Nor felt the hand of love in his descending 
 
 years. 
 Life we can but help to make. 
 Only what we give can we returning take ; 
 For it is a vital fountain where we drink, 
 Whose worth is measured by what we do and 
 
 think. 
 
 46 J 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 The Letter from Home 
 
 DICK — your letter came today 
 And brought with it the happiest ray 
 Of home, the farm, and its good cheer, — 
 The best I've had for many a year. 
 Your spelling, Dick, was rather quaint 
 And you used wrong phrases such as "ain't," 
 But then, of course, a boy of eight 
 Can't always write real up-to-date. 
 You say we have a brand new dog, 
 (I'll have to write that in my log.) 
 And the rabbits, too, you say are left 
 But for their keeper right bereft. 
 I'm glad to hear all, brother mine, 
 "Write me, often, as you find time; 
 And don't forget that on the sea 
 Your letters are a boon to me. 
 And you curly-headed, rascally blue-eyed lad. 
 Can make me either gay or sad. 
 
 [47] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 To W. W. W. 
 
 YOU are a bronzed young giant of 
 The plains, 
 Where words are few and action 
 
 Reigns : 
 You're a son of the red blood 
 
 Of the West, — 
 You typify all that makes the 
 
 Best. 
 You're slow to speak and quick 
 
 To act, 
 You're rough, uncouth, and 
 
 Lack the tact: 
 But you move supreme in 
 
 Physical skill, 
 And you'll ride right through 
 
 By power of will; 
 Honesty shines in your eyes 
 
 Of blue. 
 An in a crisis they stick 
 
 By you; 
 And your sandy hair, like 
 
 A ground-hog's skin, 
 
 [48] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 May not look handsome, but 
 
 Fits right in. 
 Your chin would build a 
 
 Pyramid, 
 And a Panama Canal if you 
 
 "Were bid: 
 But you prefer to drift along, 
 To taste of life and sing a 
 
 Song; 
 And give aid to some 
 
 Needy friend, 
 Or help a broken heart to 
 
 Mend, — 
 To live and love in a 
 
 Generous way. 
 To think little of ease and 
 
 Less of pay. 
 You're a son of the West, a 
 
 King of the plains. 
 Get back to it, where manhood 
 
 Reigns ; 
 The Artificial East with 
 
 It's enervated strain. 
 Leave it behind, on a 
 
 Westbound train. 
 
 [49] 
 
RHYMES OF THE FLEET 
 
 A Broken Heart 
 
 YOU will toy with hearts 
 And pierce them with darts 
 Of love — then leave them alone, - 
 To wither and turn into stone. 
 
 You have played with my soul 
 And now that your goal 
 Is reached — you turn away — 
 Cold as the insensible clay. 
 
 But my heart is the loot 
 
 To bleed in your clasp 
 
 Of deceit — which you have spoken, 
 
 Your calloused heart is my token. 
 
 [50] 
 
AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 L'envoi 
 
 WHEN this war of wars has ceased, 
 And the cannons have rusted away; 
 When man no longer is beast, 
 And all nations kneel to pray: 
 When race for race has friendship 
 And blood for blood has love, — 
 Then the claws of enmity lose their grip 
 By the thought of a God above 
 When nation of nation seeks good will, 
 Rather than war, distrust, intrigue, — 
 Mankind again ascends the hill 
 Which leads to the universal league. 
 When the enlightened serf of Russia, 
 Shakes hands with a liberated race 
 Which once was the slave of Prussia, 
 Now with freedmen takes Its place: 
 When labor's hand reaches o'er the sea 
 And clasps the hand of his brother there 
 Then when the world from war is free; 
 Let sickly kings fight if they care ! 
 
 [51] 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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