Songs of Heroic Days Part 1

Songs of Heroic Days.

by Thomas O'Hagan.

PREFACE

Nearly all these Poems have appeared during the past year in the columns of the _Globe_ and the _Mail_ and _Empire_ of Toronto, and the _Free Press_ of Detroit, Michigan.

When the Author read from his poems last winter before the Women's Press Club of Toronto one of its members suggested that an engrossed and illuminated copy of the poem, "I Take Off My Hat to Albert," be presented to His Majesty, King Albert of Belgium. This was done through the kind offices and courtesy of Mr. Goor, the Belgian Consul-General at Ottawa.

His Majesty's gracious letter of acceptance, which the reader will find on another page, is indeed a Royal Foreword to these poetic blossoms of a piteous though heroic time.

THOMAS O'HAGAN

January 20th, 1916.

I TAKE OFF MY HAT TO ALBERT

_Albert, King of Belgium, is the hero of the hour; He's the greatest king in Europe, he's a royal arch and tower; He is bigger in the trenches than the Kaiser on his Throne, And the whole world loves him for the sorrows he has known: So I take off my hat to Albert._

_Defiance was his answer to the Teuton at his gate, Then he buckled on his armor and pledged his soul to fate; He stood between his people and the biggest Essen gun, For he feared not shot nor shrapnel as his little army won: So I take off my hat to Albert._

_King of Belgium, Duke of Brabant, Count of Flanders, all in one; Little Kingdom of the Belgae starr'd with honor in the sun!

You have won a place in history, of your deeds the world will sing, But the glory of your nation is your dust-stained, fearless King: So I take off my hat to Albert._

_For M. Goor._

THE KAISER'S FAVORITE POEMS

What are the Kaiser's favorite poems?

Well, now, you tax me hard: I know the Kaiser's favorite drink But do not know his bard; I'm sure it is not Schiller Who reigns in German homes.

Nor yet Olympian Goethe, Who writes the Kaiser's poems.

Perhaps that Heinrich Heine Has touched the Kaiser's soul; Or Arndt with his trumpet call Like a new conscription roll; Or, Walther von der Vogelweide With his nest in mythic domes, Is the author and creator Of the Kaiser's favorite poems.

If I saw the Kaiser's library I'd know well what he reads-- The color of his fancy And the prompter of his deeds: I'd learn the depth and wisdom Of his theories and his gnomes, If I got but just a glance or two At the Kaiser's favorite poems.

Then let us go to Essen, Where the Kaiser's books are bound; They are full of "steel" engravings-- All "best sellers" there are found; For the Prussian soul and spirit Speaks in rhythm thro' those tomes, And these without a question, Are the Kaiser's favorite poems.

_For Rt. Hon. David Lloyd-George._

LOUVAIN

A shrine, where saints and scholars met And held aloft the torch of truth, Lies smouldering 'neath fair Brabant's skies, A ruined heap--war's prize in sooth!

The Pilates of Teutonic blood That fired the brand and flung the bomb Now wash their hands of evil deed, While all the world stands ghast and dumb.

Is this your culture, sons of Kant, And ye who kneel 'round Goethe's throne?

To carry in your knapsacks death?

To feel for man nor ruth nor moan?

What 'vails it now your mighty guns If G.o.d be mightier in the sky?

What 'vail your cities, walls and towers If half your progress be a lie?

The smoking altars, ruined arch Of ancient church and Gothic fane Have felt the death stings of your sh.e.l.ls, And speak in pity thro' Louvain.

Wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt, Forget your "World-Power's" cursed plan And sign in peace and not in blood Dread Sinai's pact 'twixt G.o.d and Man.

_For His Eminence Cardinal Merrier._

THE KAISER'S BHOYS

O, the Kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach Paris" they are going, But they've sthopped to rest a minit at the Marne and at the Meuse; And the Gordons and the Ministers are thryin' to entertain them, For they've every kind of "record" that the Teutons want to choose; They have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the Highlands, They have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of Munster gales; They are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the Kaiser, "_Faugh-a-ballagh!_" sons of Odin, or we'll tie you up like bales.

O, the Kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at Calais, But they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom; For the little Belgian sojers cut the d.y.k.es and flood their trenches, And they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb.

But they're makin' progress backward, "_nach Berlin_" they are going, With their "_Landsturms_" and their "_Land-wehrs_,"

keepin' sthep in dim grey line; And they'll know far more of Britain and her brood of lions snarlin', When they find themselves "_su Hause_" jist beyant "_Die Wacht am Rhein_."

_For John E. Redmond, M.P._

MOTHERS

Through the vigils deep of the sable night A mother sits in grief alone, For her sons have gone to the battle front And left on the hearth a crus.h.i.+ng stone.

Beyond the stars that burn at night She sees G.o.d's arm in pity reach; It counsels patience, love and faith, Heroic hearts and souls to teach.

The blue is spann'd and the tide goes out.

And the stars rain down a kindlier cheer; And the mother turns from this throne of grief To pierce the years with a joyous tear; For duty born of a mother's heart Fills all the rounds of our common day-- Yea, sheds its joy in the darkest night, And fills with light each hidden way.

_For Miss Ina Coolbrith._

IN THE TRENCHES