Verses and Rhymes By the Way Part 5

O thou son of the dark locks and eloquent tongue, With the brain of a statesman sagacious, and strong, And the heart of a poet, half love, and half fire, Thou hast many to love thee and more to admire; But I bore thee, and nursed thee, and joyed at the fame Which the sons of the stranger have spread round thy name.

I am Erin, green Erin, the "Gem of the sea."

Listen, then, to thy mother's voice, D'Arcy McGee.

Since the crown from my head, and the sceptre are gone To the hand of the stranger, who held what he won, I have borne much of sorrow, of wrong and of shame, I've been spoken against with scorning and blame; But still have my daughters been spotless and fair, And my sons have been dauntless to do and to dare; For as great as thou art and most precious to me, Still thou art not my only one, D'Arcy McGee.

At the bar, in the senate, in ca.s.sock or gown, Our foes being judges, they've got them renown; On the red field of battle, of glory, of death, They've been true to their colours and true to their faith; And where bright swords were clas.h.i.+ng and carnage ran high, They have taught the stern Saxon they know how to die.

Well, no wit, poet, statesman or hero can be More dear to my heart than thou, D'Arcy McGee.

Wild heads may plan glories for Erin their mother, Weak plans and wicked plans chasing each other; To me worse than the loss of a sceptre and crown Is a spot that might tarnish my children's renown, 'Tis the laurels they win are the jewels I prize, They're the core of my heart and the light of my eyes; For my children are gems and crown jewels to me, And art thou not one of them, D'Arcy McGee!

I had one son, and, oh, need I mention his name!

He who well knew where lay both our weakness and shame; His true, tender heart sought to measure and know This thing, most accursed, formed of babbling and woe; And his life did he dedicate freely, to slay The monster that made my bright children his prey; In the place where the wine cup flows deadly and free, The bane of the gifted, oh D'Arcy McGee.

For so well hath the father of lies tried to fling A false glory around it, so hiding the sting, Saying wit gets its flash, and high genius its fire, From the fiend that drags genius and wit through the mire Ah 'it biteth, it stingeth, it eateth away, And our best and our brightest it takes for its prey, 'Tis the bowl of the helot, no cup for the free, As thou very well knowest, my D'Arcy McGee.

Hast thou risen my loved one and cast from thy name All the shadows that darken thy life with their shame; Thou hast raised thyself up, against wind, against tide, Thou art high, thou art honoured, my joy and my pride; Now the song of the drunkard is chased from thy place, And my pride is relieved from this touch of disgrace.

Thou wilt help to make Erin "great, glorious and free,"

And I bless thee my silver-tongued D'Arcy McGee.

NORA TO DAVID HERBISON.

There's a place in the North where the bonnie broom grows, Where winding through green meadows the silver Maine flows, Every lark as it soars and sings that sweet spot knows; For the mate for whom it sings, Till the clear blue heaven rings, Is brooding on its nest mid the daisies in the gra.s.s; And that psalmist sweet, the thrush, And the linnet in the bush, Tell the children all their secrets in song as they pa.s.s.

Oh brightly s.h.i.+nes the sun there where wee birdies sing, A glamour's o'er the buds in the green lap of spring, In happy, happy laughter children's voices ring!

Like some fair enchanted ground, In memory it is found, Where my childhood's golden hours of happiness were spent; There within a leafy nook, I have pored upon a book Till romance and fairy lore with every thought were blent.

I mind how fair the world was one bright summer day, Sitting in a shady place better seemed than play; Childhood's golden memories never fade away; My child friend most sweet and fair, My bright Lily she was there; We read and mused in silence and spoke our thoughts by turns; Lily, with her lofty look, Turned oftenest to her book, The book that lay between us was the peasant poet Burns.

The heaven-gifted man with winsome witching art, Who touches at his will the kindly human heart, 'Till it throbs with joy like pain and tears begin to start; He so tenderly touched ours With his melting magic powers, Made feelings which he felt within our bosoms spring, Where he wished for Scotia's sake, Some plan or book to make, Or to write the bonnie songs his country loves to sing.

Fancies wild were ours on that day so long ago, Stirred by Burns's genius, for we had learned to know The beauty of sweet Erin and something of her woe; And in song we longed to tell Of the land we loved so well, Singing words of hope and cheer, wailing each sad mishap, Like the daisies on the sod, With their faces turned to G.o.d, Clung we to the island green that nursed us on her lap.

I said to Lily, fair, my hand among her curls, If we were Red Branch Knights, or high and n.o.ble Earls, Or poets grand like Burns, instead of simple girls, We might do some n.o.ble deed, Or touch some tuneful reed, Something for the land we love to bring her high renown, The land where we were born; Is spoken of with scorn, Her children's songs should praise her, her children's deeds should crown.

My fair and stately Lily how thy hand sought mine Clasped it warm and tender with sympathy in thine, As I wished that we could make our 'streams and burmes s.h.i.+ne'

There's many a ruin old, There's many a castle bold, There's Sleive mis with his head in mist, here's the silver Maine, But who of them will sing Till the whole world shall ring, With the melody, and ask to hear it once again?

If one of her own children standing boldly forth, With eyes to see her beauty, a heart to know her worth, Would fling the charm of song o'er the green robe of the North Lily said, sweet friend there's one, And his name is Herbison, Who sings of Northern Erin in sunlight and in storm, Of the legend and the tale, Of the banshees awful wail, Of Dunluce upon the sea, of the castle of Galgorm

Of the gallant deeds of the all but vanished race, The high O'Neils who kept with princely state their place Of their white armed daughters in beauty's woeful race In that joyful youthful time All my pulses beat to rhyme, I thought what you were doing that I would also do, I would praise the bonnie North, And draw its legends forth From cottage and from castle the pleasant country through

I'd make the land I loved in poesy to s.h.i.+ne, The Maine should flow along in "many a tuneful line,"

Songs praising hills and streams full sweetly should be mine, And the legends I would sing, From lip to lip should ring, My native land should ask for, and hear my humble name; When like her tuneful son, Green laurels I had won, I'd think her love for me was better far than fame.

Blessed be the green recess by the sweet Maine water where I a little child with my child friend sweet and fair Built with golden fancies this castle in the air!

My child friend is at rest, Erin's shamrock's on her breast, I her little minstrel am all unknown to fame, For the songs are all unsung, And not a northern tongue Has spoken once in praise my very unknown name

But I know heroic souls beyond my feeble praise, I know of calm endurance like the great of other days, High deeds for battle song, worth a poet's n.o.blest lays, Of the pathos of the strife In the lowly walks of life, Of many an unknown hero that has won the victor's crown And the lovely, lovely land, Landscape fair, and castle grand, Worthy the coming bard who will sing of their renown.

I love thee well, sweet Erin, though fate led another way; I'll call thee still, _mavourneen_, when head and heart are grey; Another one will say and sing what I have failed to say; But this very day to me, There has come across the sea Some pleasant verses bearing a well remembered name; That has done for Erin's land What I only thought and planned, And won a place in Erin's heart that I can never claim.

So unknown beside a pine-fringed lake away beyond the sea, Half in gladness of remembrance, half in wakened childish glee I stretch my hand in homage and kindreds.h.i.+p to thee, I greet thee this bright day From three thousand miles away, And to thy well earned laurels I'd add a sprig of bay Glad to know thou'rt rhyming yet, For thy readers can't forget Erin's genial loving son, Poet of the steadfast North kindly David Herbison

DEATH OF D'ARCY McGEE

He stood up in the house to speak, With calm unruffled brow, And never were his burning words More eloquent than now

Fresh from the greatest victory That mortal man can win The triumph against fearful odds.

Over besetting sin

'Twas this gave to his eloquence That thrilling trumpet tone Moving all hearts with those bright thoughts Vibrating through his own

Thoughts strong, and wise, and statesmanlike, Warm with the love of Right That gave his wit its keenest edge, His words their greatest might

He little thought his last speech closed, That his career was o'er, That those who hung upon his words Should hear his voice no more.

He walked home tranquilly and slow, Secure, and unaware, That there was murder in the hush Of the still midnight air.

"Tis morning," said he, knowing not That he had done with time; That a b.l.o.o.d.y hand would our country stain With another useless crime.

He stood before a portal closed To him for evermore, Behind him with uncreaking hinge Oped the eternal door.

And ere the east grew red again, His life blood's purple flow Had made that pavement holy ground, And filled the land with woe.

My country! Oh my country!

What is to thee the gain?

Wilt nourish trees of liberty In blood so foully slain?

LINES TO A SHAMROCK

A SONG OF EXILE

A withered shamrock, yet to me 'tis fair As the sweet rose to other eyes might be, Because its leaves spread in my native air, And the same land gave birth to it and me.

They were as plentiful as drops of dew In our green meadows sprinkled everywhere, Heedless I wandered o'er them life was new, Now as a friend I greet thee shamrock fair

Because I dwelt with my own people then, Erin's bright eyes, and kindly hearts and true, That from my cradle loved me, and again We'll never meet--spoken our last adieu