The Knowledgeable Child, Leonard Strong.

The Knowledgeable Child.
by Leonard Alfred George Strong, 1896-?

I always see—I don’t know why—
If any person’s going to die.
That’s why nobody talks to me.
There was a man who came to tea,
And when I saw that he would die
I went to him and said ‘Good-bye,
‘I shall not see you any more.’
He died that evening. Then, next door,
They had a little girl: she died
Nearly as quick, and Mummy cried
And cried, and ever since that day
She’s made me promise not to say.
But folks are still afraid of me,
And, where they’ve children, nobody
Will let me next or nigh to them
For fear I’ll say good-bye to them.

The Old Man at the Crossing, Leonard Strong.

The Old Man at the Crossing.
by Leonard Alfred George Strong, 1896-?

I weep the street and lift me hat
As persons come and persons go,
Me lady and me gentleman:
I lift me hat—but you don’t know!

I’ve money by against I’m dead:
A hearse and mourners there will be!
And every sort of walking man
Will stop and lift his hat to me!

The Ballad of O’Bruadir, Robert Higgins.

The Ballad of O’Bruadir.
by Frederick Robert Higgins, 1896-?.

When first I took to cutlass, blunderbuss and gun,
Rolling glory on the water;
With boarding and with broadside we made the Dutchmen run,
Rolling glory on the water;
Then down among the captains in their green skin shoes,
I sought for Hugh O’Bruadir and got but little news
‘Til I shook him by the hand in the bay of Santa Cruz,
Rolling glory on the water.

O’Bruadir said kingly, ‘You’re a fresh blade from Mayo
Rolling glory on the water,
But come among my captains, to Achill back we go,
Rolling glory on the water,
Although those Spanish beauties are dark and not so dear,
I’d rather taste in Mayo, with April on the year,
One bracing virgin female; so swing your canvas here,
Rolling glory on the water!’

‘There’s no man,’ said a stranger, ‘whose hand I’d sooner grip,
Rolling glory on the water.’
‘Well, I’m your man,’ said Bruadir, ‘and you’re aboard my ship,
Rolling glory on the water.’
They drank to deeper friendship in ocean roguery;
And rolled ashore together, but between you and me
We found O’Bruadir dangling with an airy tree,
Ghosting glory on the water!

The Little Clan, Frederick Higgins.

The Little Clan.
by Frederick Robert Higgins, 1896-?

Over their edge of earth
They wearily tread,
Leaving the stone-grey dew—
The hungry grass;
Most proud in their own defeat,
These last men pass
This labouring grass that bears them
Little bread.

Too full their spring-tide flowed,
And ebbing then
Has left each hooker deep
Within salt grass;
All ebbs, yet lives in their song;
Song shall not pass
With these most desperate,
Most noble men!

Then, comfort your own sorrow;
Time has heard
One groping singer hold
A burning face;
You mourn no living Troy,
Then mourn no less
The living glory of
Each Gaelic word.

The Sailor, Sylvia Warner.

The Sailor.
by Sylvia Townsend Warner, 1893-?

I have a young love—
A landward lass is she—
And thus she entreated:
‘O tell me of the sea
That on thy next voyage
My thoughts may follow thee.’

I took her up a hill
And showed her hills green,
One after other
With valleys between:
So green and gentle, I said,
Are the waves I’ve seen.

I led her by the hand
Down the grassy way,
And showed her the hedgerows
That were white with May:
So white and fleeting, I said,
Is the salt sea-spray.

I bade her lean her head
Down against my side,
Rising and falling
On my breath to ride:
Thus rode the vessel, I said,
On the rocking tide.

For she so young is, and tender,
I would not have her know
What it is that I go to
When to sea I must go,
Lest she should lie awake and tremble
When the great storm-winds blow.

Sleeping Heroes, Edward Shanks.

Sleeping Heroes.
by Edward Shanks, 1892-?

Old Barbarossa
Sleeps not alone
With his beard flowing over
The grey mossy stone.

Arthur is with him
And Charlemain. The three
Wait for awakening,
Wait to be free.

With the raven calls them
They’ll rise all together
And gird their three swords on
And look at the weather.

Arthur will swear it is
A very cold morning:
Charlemain says a red sunrise
Is the shepherd’s warning.

Barbarossa says nothing
But feels in every bone
A pang of rheumatism
From sleeping on wet stone.

Then from grey heaven
Comes a mist of faint rain
And the three sleeping heroes
Turn to sleep again.

A St. Helena Lullaby, Rudyard Kipling.

A St. Helena Lullaby.
by Rudyard Kipling, 1865-1936.

‘How far is St Helena from a little child at play?’
What makes you want to wander there with all the world between?
Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he’ll run away.
(No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)

‘How far is St, Helena from a fight in Paris street?’
I havn’t time to answer now—the men are falling fast.
The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.
(If you take the first step, you will take the last!)

‘How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?’
You couldn’t hear me if I told—so loud the cannons roar.
But not so far for people who are living by their wits.
(‘Gay go up’ means ‘Gay go down’ the wide world o’er!)

‘How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France?’
I cannot see—I cannot tell—the crowns, they dazzle so.
The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance.
(After open weather you may look for snow!)

‘How far is St. Helena from the capes of Trafalgar?’
A longish way—a longish way—with ten year more to run.
It’s South across the water underneath a falling star.
(What you cannot finish you must leave undone!)

‘How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?’
An ill way—a chill way—the ice begins to crack.
But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.
(When you can’t go forward you must e’en come back!)

‘How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?’
A near way—a clear way—the ship will take you soon.
A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.
(Morning never tries you ‘til the afternoon!)

‘How far is St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven’s Grace?’
That no one knows—that no one knows—and no one ever will,
But fold your hands across your heart, and cover up your face,
And after all your traipsings, child, lie still.

Soldier from the wars returning, Alfred Housman.

Soldier from the wars returning.
by Alfred Edward Housman, 1859-1936.

Soldier from the wars returning,
Spoiler of the taken town,
Here is ease that asks not earning;
Turn you in and sit you down.

Peace is come and wars are over,
Welcome you and welcome all,
While the charger crops the clover
And his bridle hangs in stall.

Now no more of Winters biting,
Filth in trench from Fall to Spring,
Summers full of sweat and fighting
For the Kesar or the King.

Rest you, charger, rust you, bridle;
Kings and Kesars, keep your pay;
Soldier, sit you down and idle
In the inn of night for aye.

I am Ireland, Lady Gregory\Padraig Pearse.

I am Ireland.
by Lady Gregory, from the Irish of Padraig Pearse.

I am Ireland,
Older than the Hag of Beara.

Great my pride,
I gave birth to brave Cuchulain.

Great my shame,
My own children killed their mother.

I am Ireland,
Lonelier than the Hag of Beara.

Since those we love and those we hate, William Henley.

Since those we love and those we hate.
by William Ernest Henley, 1849-1903.

Since those we love and those we hate,
With all things mean and all things great,
Pass in a desperate disarray
Over the hills and far away:

It must be, Dear that, late or soon,
Out of the ken of the watching moon,
We shall abscond with Yesterday
Over the hills and far away.

What does it matter? As I deem.
We shall but follow as brave a dream
As ever smiled a wanton May
Over the hills and far away.

We shall remember, and, in pride,
Fare forth, fulfilled and satisfied,
Into the land of Ever-and-Aye,
Over the hills and far away.

Ballade of Dead Actors, William Henley.

Ballade of Dead Actors.
by William Ernest Henley, 1849-1903.

I.M.
Edward John Henley
(1861-1898)

Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where are the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe?
Sir Peter’s whims and Timon’s gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?
Into the night go one and all.

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?
The plumes, the armours—friend and foe?
The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,
The mantles glittering to and fro?
The pomp, the pride, the royal show?
The cries of war and festival?
The youth the grace, the charm, the glow?
Into the night go one and all.

The curtain falls, the play is played:
The Beggar packs beside the Beau;
The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;
The thunder huddles with the Snow.
Where are the revellers high and low?
The clashing swords? The lover’s call?
The dancers gleaming row on row?
Into the night go one and all.

Envoi:
Prince, in one common overthrow
The Hero tumbles with the Thrall:
The dust that drives, as straws that blow,
Into the night go one and all.

The Night of Trafalgar, Thomas Hardy.

The Night of Trafalgar.
by Thomas Hardy, 1840-1928.

(i)
In the wild October night-time, when the wind raved round the land,
And the Back-sea met the Front-sea, and our doors were blocked with sand,
And we heard the drub or Dead-man’s Bay, where bones of thousands are,
We knew not what the day had done for us at Trafalgár.
Had done,
Had done,
For us at Trafalgár!

(ii)
‘Pull hard, and make the Nothe, or down we go!’ one says, says he.
We pulled and bedtime brought the storm; but snug at home slept we.
Yet all the wile our gallants after fighting through the day,
Were beating up and down the dark, sou’-west of Cadiz Bay.
The dark,
The dark,
Sou’-west of Cadiz Bay!

(iii)
The victors and the vanquished then the storm it tossed and tore,
As hard they strove, those worn-out men, upon that surly shore;
Dead Nelson and his half-dead crew, his foes from near and far,
Were rolled together on the deep that night at Trafalgár!
The deep,
The deep,
That night at Trafalgár!

Weathers, Thomas Hardy.

Weathers.
by Thomas Hardy, 1840-1928.

(i)
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly:
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at ‘The Travellers’ Rest,’
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.

(ii)
This is the weather the shepherd shuns.
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh, and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate-bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.

Honour Dishonoured, Wilfred Blunt.

Honour Dishonoured.
by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt, 1840-1922.

(‘Written in an Irish Prison 1888’)

Honoured I lived e’erwhile with honoured men
In opulent state. My table nightly spread
Found guests of worth, peer, priest and citizen,
And poet crowned and beauty garlanded.
Nor these alone, for hunger too I fed,
And many a lean tramp and sad Magdalen
Passed from my doors less hard for sake of bread.
Whom grudged I ever purse or hand or pen?
To-night, unwelcomed at these gates of woe
I stand with churls, and there is none to greet
My weariness with smile or courtly show
Nor, though I hunger long, to bring me meat.
God! what a little accident of gold
Fences our weakness from the wolves of old!

Edouard, Ogden Nash.

Edouard.
by Ogden Nash.

A bugler named Dougal Mac Dougal
Found ingenious ways to be frugal.
He learned how to sneeze
In various keys,
Thus saving the price of a bugle.

The Japanese, Ogden Nash.

The Japanese.
by Ogden Nash.

How courteous is the Japanese;
He always says, "Excuse it, please."
He climbs into his neighbor's garden.
And smiles, and says, "I beg your pardon;"
He bows and grins a friendly grin,
And calls his hungry family in;
He grins, and bows a friendly bow;
"So sorry, this my garden now."

To a Small Boy Standing On My Shoes While I Am Wearing Them, Ogden Nash.

To a Small Boy Standing On My Shoes While I Am Wearing Them.
by Ogden Nash.

Let's straighten this out, my little man,
And reach an agreement if we can.
I entered your door as an honored guest.
My shoes are shined and my trousers are pressed,
And I won't stretch out and read you the funnies
And I won't pretend that we're Easter bunnies.
If you must get somebody down on the floor,
What in the hell are your parents for?
I do not like the things that you say
And I hate the games that you want to play.
No matter how frightfully hard you try,
We've little in common, you and I.
The interest I take in my neighbor's nursery
Would have to grow, to be even cursory,
And I would that performing sons and nephews
Were carted away with the daily refuse,
And I hold that frolicsome daughters and nieces
Are ample excuse for breaking leases.
You may take a sock at your daddy's tummy
Or climb all over your doting mummy,
But keep your attentions to me in check,
Or, sonny boy, I will wring your neck.
A happier man today I'd be
Had someone wrung it ahead of me.

Gervaise, Ogden Nash.

Gervaise.
by Ogden Nash.

There was a young belle of old Natchez
Whose garments were always in patchez.
When comment arose
On the state of her clothes,
She drawled, When Ah itchez, Ah scratchez!

Admiral Byrd, Ogden Nash.

Admiral Byrd.
by Ogden Nash.

Huzza Huzza for Admiral Byrd
About whom many fine things I have heard.
Huzza Huzza for his gallant crew
About whom many fine things I have heard too.
Huzza Huzza for their spirit of Adventia
So very different from Senile Dementia.
And another Huzza for the U.S.A.
Which produces so many heroes like they.

The Lama, Ogden Nash.

The Lama.
by Ogden Nash.

The one-l lama,
He’s a priest.
The two-l llama,
He’s a beast.
And I will bet
A silk pajama
There isn’t any
Three-l lllama.*

...

* The author’s attention has been called to a type of conflagration known as a three-alarmer. Pooh.

Benjamin, Ogden Nash.

Benjamin.
by Ogden Nash.

There was a brave girl of Connecticut
Who flagged the express with her petticut,
Which her elders defined
As presence of mind,
But deplorable absence of eticut.

Just a Piece of Lettuce and Some Lemon Juice, Thank You, Ogden Nash.

Just a Piece of Lettuce and Some Lemon Juice, Thank You.
by Ogden Nash.

The human body is composed
Of head and limbs and torso,
Kept slim by gents
At great expense,
By ladies, even more so.

The human waistline will succumb
To such and such a diet.
The ladies gnaw
On carrots raw,
Their husbands will not try it.

The human bulk can be compressed
By intricate devices,
Which ladies hie
In droves to buy
At pre-depression prices.

The human shape can be subdued
By rolling on the floor.
Though many wives
Thus spend their lives,
To husbands it’s a bore.

Though human flesh can be controlled,
We’re told, by this and that,
You cannot win:
The thin stay thing,
The fat continue fat.

The Seven Spiritual Ages of Mrs. Marmaduke Moore, Ogden Nash.

The Seven Spiritual Ages of Mrs. Marmaduke Moore.
by Ogden Nash.

Mrs. Marmaduke Moore, at the age of ten
(Her name was Jemina Jevons then),
Was the quaintest of little country maids.
Her pigtails slapped on her shoulderblades;
She fed the chickens, and told the truth
And could spit like a boy through a broken tooth.
She could climb a tree to the topmost perch,
And she used to pray in the Methodist church.

At the age of twenty her heart was pure,
And she caught the fancy of Mr. Moore.
He broke his troth (to a girl named Alice),
And carried her off to his city palace,
Where she soon forgot her childhood piety
And joined in the orgies of high society.
Her voice grew English, or, say, Australian,
And she studied to be an Episcopalian.

At thirty our lives are still before us,
But Mr. Moore had a friend in the chorus.
Connubial bliss was overthrown
And Mrs. Moore now slumbered alone.
Hers was a nature that craved affection;
She gave herself up to introspection;
Then, finding theosophy rather dry,
Found peace in the sweet Bahai and Bahai.

Forty! and still an abandoned wife,
She felt odd urges stirring to life.
She dipped her locks in a bowl of henna
And booked a passage through to Vienna.
She paid a professor a huge emolument
To demonstrate what his ponderous volume meant.
Returning, she preached to the unemployed
The gospel according to St. Freud.

Fifty! she haunted museums and galleries,
And pleased young men by augmenting their salaries.
Oh, it shouldn’t occur, but it does occur,
That poets are made by fools like her.
Her salon was full of frangipani,
Roumanian, Russian and Hindustani,
And the conquered par as well as bogey
By reading a book and going Yogi.

Sixty! and time was on her hands—
Maybe remorse and maybe glands.
She felt a need for a free confession,
To publish each youthful indiscretion,
And before she was gathered to her mothers,
To compare her sinlets with those of others,
Mrs. Moore gave a joyous whoop,
And immersed herself in the Oxford group.

That is the story of Mrs. Moore,
As far as it goes. But of this I’m sure—
When seventy stares her in the face
She’ll have found some other state of grace.
Mohammed may be her Lord and Master,
Or Zeus, or Mithros or Zoroaster.
For when a lady is badly sexed
God knows what god is coming next.

Midsummer Daymare, Ogden Nash.

Midsummer Daymare.
by Ogden Nash.

Mumbo jumbo, what have we here?
Why we have the longest day in the year.
This is the rarest day of June,
And it’s weeks and weeks from dawn to noon.
This is the calendar’s blazing highlight,
It’s months and months from noon to twilight.
Lucky are they who retain their friends
Through the day that seldom if ever ends.
Take a modest date, like December twenty,
And still the telephone jangles plenty,
Still you encounter bores enough,
Obligations and chores enough,
Visitors to avoid enough
Like something out of Freud enough,
Creditors, editors, tears and combats,
Newsreel beauties embracing wombats,
Feeble coffee and vanishing waiters,
Newsreel girls riding alligators,
Traffic and taxes and dues and duties
And candidates kissing newsreel beauties.
Oh, man has need of all his strength
To survive a day of medium length;
What wonder then, that man grows bitter
On a day that sits like a flagpole-sitter?
Mumbo jumbo, noon infernal,
This my dear, is the day eternal.
You toil for a dollar or two per diem,
You mope and hope for the blessed P.M.,
You look at the clock; you’re ready for mayhem;
Is it P.M. yet? No, it’s still the A.M.!
On farm and field, in office and park,
This is the day that won’t get dark.
Dusk is an exile, night has fled,
Never again shall we get to bed,
The sun has swallowed the moon and stars,
Midnight lies with the buried Czars.
This is the guerdon of prayer and fasting:
Glorious day, day everlasting!

Read This Vibrant Exposé, Ogden Nash.

Read This Vibrant Exposé.
by Ogden Nash.

Now curfew tolls in the old church steeple,
Bidding good night to sensible people;
Now thousands and thousands of people sensible
Think staying up later is reprehensible;
Now wives relentlessly bridge games terminate,
As thoughts of the morrow begin to germinate;
Now gangsters with pistols full of notches
Yawn discreetly and glance at their watches;
Now owls desist from to-wit-to-wooing,
And ne’er-do-wells from their ne’er-well-doing;
Now husband and wife and spouse and spouse
Unleash their cat and lock up their house;
Now celibates, of whom there are lots,
Wearily seek their lonely cots;
Now, in a word, the day is ended,
And a little sleep would be simply splendid.
But sleep is perverse as human nature,
Sleep is perverse as a legislature,
And holds that people who wish to sleep
Are people from whom away to keep.
Sleep, I am more than sorry to say,
Is deliberately half a world away.

The curfew that tolls in yonder steeple
Is unheard by a hemisphere of people.
Across the world, the alarm clock’s reveille
Wakes foreigners drowsy and dishevelly;
Across the world the sun is aloft,
And people must rise from their mattresses soft,
And polish their teeth and shine their faces
And go to work in various places.
Now opens wide their portal of day,
And sleep, you might think, would go away,
Sleep would abandon that hemisphere
And distribute its favors over here
But sleep is perverse as human nature,
Sleep is perverse as a legislature,
Sleep is as forward as hives or goiters,
And where it is least desired, it loiters.
Sleep is as shy as a maiden sprite,
And where it is most desired, takes flight.
So people who go to bed to sleep
Must count French premiers or sheep,
And people who ought to arise from bed
Yawn and go back to sleep instead.

And you can pile all the poems in the world in a heap,
And this is the first to tell the truth about sleep.

Turns in a Worm's Lane, Ogden Nash.

Turns In a Worm’s Lane.
by Ogden Nash.

I’ve never bet on a so-called horse
That the horse didn’t lose a leg.
I’ve never putted on a golfing course
But the ball behaved like an egg.
I’ve never possessed three royal kings
But somebody held three aces;
In short, I’m a lad whose presence brings
The joy to banker’s faces.

And everybody says, “What a splendid loser!”
Everybody says, “What a thoroughgoing sport!”
And I smile my smile like an amiable Duse,
I leer like a lawyer in the presence of a tort.
And I crack my lips,
And I grin my grin,
While someone else
Rakes my money in.
Yes, I smile a smile like the Mona Lisa,
Though my spirits droop like the Tower of Pisa.
Yes, I chortle like a military march by Sousa
And everybody says, “What a splendid loser!”

I’ll buy a tome, an expensive tome,
On the gentle craft of diddling,
And I’ll wrap it up and I’ll take it home,
And read ‘til I’m fair to middling.
I’ll stealthily study the ebony arts
Of men like the great Houdini,
‘til both in foreign and local parts
I’m known as a darned old meany.

And everyone will say, “What a nasty winner!”
And everyone will say, “What an awful sport!”
And they’ll all stop inviting me to come to dinner,
For I used to be a dimple and I want to be a wart.
But I won’t care,
And I’ll win with a scowl,
Foul means or fair,
But preferably foul.
I’ll jeer my victims every time I vanquish,
And if I lose I shall scream with anguish.
And people will say, “What a dreadful sport!”
And I’ll say, “Phooie!” or something of the sort.

The Retort Discourteous, Steven Benét.

The Retort Discourteous.
by Steven Vincent Benét.

(Italy—16th Century)

But what, by the fur on your satin sleeves,
By the rain that drags at my feather,
And by great Mercurius, god of thieves,
Are we thieves doing together?

Last night your blades bit deep for their hire,
And we were the sickled barley.
To-night, a-toast by the common fire,
You ask me to join your parley.

Your spears are shining like Iceland spar,
The blood-grapes are red for your drinking;
For you folk follow the rising star,
I follow the star that is sinking!

My queen is old as the frosted whins,
Nay, how could her wrinkles charm me?
And the starving bones are bursting the skins
In the ranks of her ancient army.

You marshal a steel-and-silken troop,
Your cressets are fed with spices,
And you batter the world like a rolling hoop
To the goal of your proud devices.

I have rocked your thrones—but the fight is won.
To-night, to the highest bidder,
You offer a share of your brigand-sun,
Consider, old bull, consider!

Ahead, red death, and fear of death,
Your vultures, stoop to the slaughter!
But I will fight you, body and breath,
‘Til my life runs out like water!

My queen is wan as the Polar snows.
Her host is a rout of specters;
But I gave her youth, like a burning rose,
And her age shall not lack protectors!

I would not turn for the thunderclap
Or the face of the woman who bore me,
With her ragged badge still scarring my cap,
And the drums of defeat before me.

Roll your hands in the honey of life,
Kneel to your white necked strumpets!
You came to your crowns with a squealing fife,
But I shall go out with the trumpets!

Poison the steel of the plunging dart,
Halloa your hounds to their station!
I go to my ruin with such a heart
As a king to his coronation!

Your poets roar of your golden feats—
I have herded the stars like cattle—
And you may die in the perfumed sheets,
But I shall die in the battle!

The Grey Plume, Francis Carlin.

The Grey Plume.
by Francis Carlin.

The grey heron feather
O’Dogherty wore
Still floats o’er the heather,
But not as before,
And well may the heron
Take pride in his plume
With the head of O’Dogherty
Red in the tomb.

The valleys are spurning
Gay flowers, beneath
The purple of mourning
Aloft on the heath;
And well may the sorrow
Of nature be shown
While the heron is happy
In wild Innishowen.

Bright was the bonnet
That guided his men,
But the grey feather on it
Fell red in the glen,
And well may the Saxon
Take pride in its fall,
While birds wear their plumage
Above Donegal.

Ochone, that the feather
O’Dogherty wore
Still floats o’er the heather,
But not as before.
Och, och! That the heron
Should fly with grey plume,
O’er Cahir O’Dogherty,
Red in his tomb.

The Ballad of Douglas Bridge, Francis Carlin.

The Ballad of Douglas Bridge.
by Francis Carlin.

On Douglas Bridge I met a man
Who lived adjacent to Strabane,
Before the English hung him high
For riding with O’Hanlon.

The eyes of him were just as fresh
As when they burned within the flesh.
His bootlegs widely walked apart,
From riding with O’Hanlon.

“God save you, sir!” said I, with fear,
“You seem to be a stranger here.”
“Not I,” said he, “nor any man
Who rides with Count O’Hanlon.

“I know each glen from North Tyrone
To Monaghan, and I’ve been known
To every clan and parish since
I rode with Count O’Hanlon.

“Before that time,” he said to me,
“My father’s owned the land you see;
But they are now among the moors,
Ariding with O’Hanlon.

“Before that time,” said he, with pride,
“My fathers rode where now they ride,
As Rapparees, before the time
Of trouble and O’Hanlon.”

“Good night to you, and God be with
The tellers of the tale and myth,
For they are of the fairy stuff
That rides with Count O’Hanlon.”

“Good night to you,” said I, “and God
Be with the chargers, fairy-shod
Which bear the Ulster heroes forth
To ride with Count O’Hanlon.”

On Douglas Bridge we parted, but
The gap o’ dreams is never shut
To one whose saddled soul
Rides forth with Count O’Hanlon.

Ipswich Bar, E. & B. Bates.

Ipswich Bar.
by Esther and Brainard Bates.

The mist lay still on Heartbreak Hill,
The sea was cold below,
The waves rolled up, and one by one,
Broke heavily and slow,

And round the hills the grey gulls fled,
The gannet whistled past;
Across the dunes the wailing loons
Hid from the rising blast.

The moaning wind, which all day long
Had haunted marsh and lea,
Went mad at night, and, beating round,
Fled shrieking to the sea.

Old Harry Main, wild Harry Main,
Upon the shifting sand
Had built a flaming beacon-light
To lure the ships to land.

“The storm breaks out and far to-night,
They seek a port to bide;
God rest ye, sirs! On Ipswich Bar
Your ships shall surely ride.

“They see my fires, my dancing fires!
They lay their courses down!
And ill betide the mariners
Who make for Ipswich town,

“For mine the wreck, and mine the gold,
And none can lay the blame!
So lay ye down, to-night, good sirs,
And I will feed the flame!”

Oh, dark the night, and wild the gale!
The skipper higher turned,
To where, afar, on Ipswich Bar,
The treacherous beacon burned.

With singing shrouds and snapping sheets
The vessel swiftly bore,
And headed for the guiding lights
Which shone along the shore.

The shoaling waters told no tale,
The tempest made no sign,
‘Til full before her plunging bows
Flashed out a whitened line—

She struck! She heeled! The parting stays
Flew by with mast and spar—
And then the wind and rain beat out
The light on Ipswich Bar.

Grey dawn beneath a dying storm:
A figure gaunt and thin
Went splashing through the tangled sedge
To drag the treasure in;

For when the darkness broke away,
The lances of the moon
Went pointing where lay bow in air
A wrecking picaroon.

What matter if the open day
Bore witness to his shame?
‘Twas his the wreck—and his the gold—
And none had seen to blame…

He did not know that eyes of men
Were watching from afar,
As Harry Main went back and forth
The length of Ipswich Bar.

They told the Ipswich fisher-folk,
Who, all aghast and grim,
Went running down through Pudding Lane
In maddened search for him;

No word, no blow, no bitter jest.
They did not strike nor mar;
But short the shrift of Harry Main
That day on Ipswich Bar.

They marched him out at ebb of tide
Where lay the shattered wreck,
And bound him to the dripping rocks
With chains about his neck.

With chains about his guilty neck,
They left him to the wave;
The lapping tide rose eagerly,
To hide the wrecker’s grave.

And now, when sudden storms strike down,
With hoarse and threatening tones,
Old Harry Main must rise again
And gird his sea-wracked bones,

To coil a cable maid of sand,
Which ever breaks in twain,
As round about the salted marsh
Is heard his clanking chain.

When rock and shoal are white with foam,
The watchers on the sands
Can see his ghostly form rise up
And wring its fettered hands,

And out to sea, his cries are heard
Above the storm, and far,
Where, cold and still, old Heartbreak Hill
Looks down on Ipswich Bar.

Song for the Saddest Ides, by Ogden Nash.

Song for the Saddest Ides.
by Ogden Nash.

Hayfoot, strawfoot, forward march!
Stiffen your backbone up with starch!
Strut like Hercules or Hector!
Ready for the Income Tax Collector!

Give three cheers and give them thrice!
Roar like lions, or maybe mice!
Rush like lightning, or maybe glue,
To the Dept. of Internal Revenue.

Left foot, right foot, heel and toe,
One little drink and off we go,
Fresh from the tub in our Sunday raiment,
Wee hands clutching the quarterly payment.

Citizen? Resident? Married? Single?
Living together, or don’t you mingle?
Blessed events? If so, please state
Change of status, its nature and date.

Royalties? Rents? Commissions? Fees?
If none, explain their absence, please.
And let there be no legal flaw
In Deductions Authorized by Law.

Salaries? Wages? Sale of Property?
Here comes the Notary, hippety-hoppety!
Raise your hand and take your oath
To tell the truth or bust. Or both.

Boomelay boom on the big bass drum!
Where is the money coming from?
You must borrow and I must beg,
And the last to pay is a rotten egg.

Presto! Chango! Hullabaloo!
Where does the money vanish to?
It’s used in research, children dear,
For ways to increase the tax next year.

The Drop of a Hat, Ogden Nash.

The Drop of a Hat.
by Ogden Nash.

Darling, what is that?
That, angel is a hat.
Are you positive? Are you certain?
Are you sure it’s not a curtain?
Shall you really place your head in it?
How’s for keeping cake or bread in it?
Do now wear it on you head;
Find some other use instead.
Say a cloth for drying dishes,
Or a net for catching fishes,
Or a veil by night to veto
The bill of the mosquito?
Darling, what is that?
Are you sure it is a hat?
And if so, what was the matter
With the hatter?
Was he troubled? Was he ill?
Was he laughing fit to kill?
Oh, what was on his mind
As he designed?
Had he gone without his supper?
Was he dressing in an upper?
Did he plot a wily plan
To annoy his fellow man?
Is its aspect, rear and frontal,
Intended to disgruntle,
Or was it accidental,
And is he now repental?
Are memoirs of the brim
Now agony to him?
Do visions of the crown
Drag his spirit down?
Oh, may the Furies batter
That eleven-fingered hatter!
May doom and gloom enswaddle
The creator of this model.
I hope he made a lot of them,
That dozens he has got of them;
I hope he has a harem,
And all his spouses warem.

The Landlubber's Chantey, James Montgomery.

The Landlubber’s Chantey.
by James Stuart Montgomery.

Here I drone in this human hive,
Blow, ye sirens, blow!
And three times eight are twenty-five,
Blow, ye sirens, blow!
Blue Peter snaps and flutters wide,
The dripping hawser slaps her side,
Out she warps on the turning tide!
Blow, ye sirens, blow!

Three and four and a one make nine—
Roll, ye combers, roll!
The air is sharp with windswept brine,
Roll, ye combers, roll!
She’s dropped the last low line of shore,
The furrowed seas stretch out before—
Ten thousand miles to Singapore!
Roll, ye combers, roll!

Lawless days and thirsty knives,
Roar, ye typhoons, roar!
Sudden ends to rum-wrecked lives,
Roar, ye typhoons, roar!
On sunken reefs a gray sea moans
Of missing ships and dead men’s bones—
Oh, blast those jangling telephones!
Roar, ye typhoons, roar!

Debit Smith and credit Ross—
Sigh, ye Southern seas!
Brightly burns the starry cross—
Sigh, ye Southern seas!
A breeze with spices laden down;
A Venus done in ivory brown
Gleams through her sketchy cotton gown.
Sigh, ye Southern seas!

Where Christians loaf and heathens sweat,
Heave, ye rollers, heave!
There’s life to live and gold to get,
Heave, ye rollers, heave!
Beneath the ocean’s sunlit green
Are pearls to grace an Eastern queen—
And eight and nine are seventeen.
Heave, ye rollers, heave!

The Abbot of Derry, John Bennett.

The Abbot of Derry.
by John Bennett.

Lines, as from a Lyttel Booke of Balettys and Dylies, enscribed to Richard Nix, Bishoppe, by his Admyring, Faithful Friend, John Skelton, Rector of Dix:

The Abbot of Derry
Hates Satan and Sin;
‘Tis strange of him very;
They’re both his blood-kin;
And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry,
And bury him deep, say I.

The Abbot of Derry
Has woman nor wine.
‘Tis kind of him, very,
To leave them all mine.
And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry,
And bury him deep, say I.

Says the Abbot of Derry:
“To-morrow ye die!”
“Eat, drink, and be merry!”
Say Dolly and I:
And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry,
And bury him deep, say I.

The Abbot of Derry
Says “All flesh is grass.”
Sure, the Abbot should know,
For the Abbot’s an ass!
And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry,
And bury him deep, say I.

The Abbot of Derry
Says “Love is a knave!”
I shall love when the Abbot
Lies deep in his grave:—
And the Devil go bury the Abbot of Derry,
And bury him deep, say I.

The Little Commodore, J. Squire.

The Little Commodore.
by J. C. Squire.

(After Henry Newbolt.)

It was eight bells in the forenoon and hammocks running sleek
(It’s a fair sea flowing from the west,)
When the little Commodore came a-sailing up the creek
(Heave Ho! I think you’ll know the rest,)
Thunder in the halyards and horses leaping high,
Blake and Drake and Nelson are listenin’ where they lie,
Four and twenty blackbirds a-bakin’ in a pie,
And the Pegasus came waltzing from the west.

Now the little Commodore sat steady on his keel
(It’s a fair sea flowing from the west,)
A heard as stout as concrete reinforced with steel
(Heave Ho! I think you’ll know the rest,)
Swinging are the scuppers, hark, the rudder snores,
Plugging at the Frenchmen, downing ‘em by scores,
Porto Rico, Vera Cruz, and also the Azores,
And the Pegasus came waltzing from the west.

So three cheers more for the little Commodore
(It’s a fair sea flowing from the west,)
I tell you so again as I’ve told you so before
(Heave Ho! I think you’ll know the rest,)
Aged is the Motherland, old but she is young
(Easy with the tackle there—don’t release the bung),
And I sang a song lake all the songs that I have ever sung,
When the Pegasus came waltzing from the west.

A Man Whom Men Deplore, Alfred Kreymborg.

A Man Whom Men Deplore.
by Alfred Kreymborg.

Here lies a frigid man whom men deplore,
A presence concentrated in a frame,
A full-length portrait of the flesh of yore,
A still-life study of a death aflame;
White, unresistant, intimate and free,
The eyes a secret, hands as vold as stars,
A man who lies with his biography,
A dreaming book whose wounds have dried to scars:
There flies a thrilling soul men cultivate,
A ghostly eagle solving mysteries,
His darkest faults, graces they emulate,
Wings redolent of suns and eyes of seas:
For they who shrank from his human ache
Call him high Shelley and praise his wake.

Songs of Education: Geography, G. Chesterton.

Songs of Education: Geography.
by G. K. Chesterton.

The earth is a place on which England is found,
And you find it however you twirl the globe round;
For the spots are all red and the rest are all grey
And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

Gibraltar’s a rock that you see very plain,
And attatched to its base is the district of Spain.
And the island of Malta is marked farther on,
Where some natives were known as the knights of St. John.
Then Cyprus, and east to the Suez Canal,
That was conquered by Dizzy and Rothschild his pal
With the sword of the Lord in the old English way;
And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

Our principal imports come far as Cape Horn;
For necessities, cocoa; for luxuries, corn;
Thus Brahmins are born for the rice-field, and thus,
The Gods made the Greeks to grow currants for us;
Of earth’s other tributes are plenty to shoose,
Tobacco and petrol and Jazzing and Jews:
The jazzing will pass but the Jews they will stay;
And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

Our principal exports, all labeled and packed,
At the ends of the earth are delivered intact:
Our soap or our salmon can travel in tins,
Between the two poles and alike as two pins;
So that Lancashire merchants whenever they like
Can water the beer of a man in Klondike
Or poison the meat of a man in Bombay;
And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

The day of St. George is a musty affair,
Which Russians and Greeks are permitted to share;
The day of Trafalgar is Spanish in name
And the Spaniards refuse to pronounce it the same;
But the Day of the Empire from Canada came
With Morden and Borden and Beaverbrook’s fame
And saintly seraphical souls such as they;
And that is the meaning of Empire Day.

The Tree of Liberty, Bobbie Burns.

The Tree of Liberty.
by Bobbie Burns, 1759-1796.

Heard ye o' the tree o' France, I watna what's the name o't;
Around the tree the patriots dance, weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood, a prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood kept France in leading-strings, man.

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit, its virtues a' can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute, it maks him ken himsel, man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit, Hhe's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite o' a' he can afford, man.

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth, to comfort us 'twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o' health, and mak us a' content, man
It clears the een, it cheers the heart, maks high and low gude friends, man;
And he wha acts the traitor's part, it to perdition sends, man.

My blessings aye attend the chiel, wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
And staw a branch, spite o' the deil, frae yont tho western waves, man.
Fair Virtue watered it wi' care, and now she sees wi' pride, man,
How weel it buds and blossoms there, its branches spreading wide, man.

But vicious folk aye hate to see the works o' Virtue thrive, man;
The courtly vermin's banned the tree, and grat to see it thrive, man;
King Loui' thought to cut it down, when it was unco sma', man
For this the watchman cracked his crown, cut aff his head and a', man.

A wicked crew syne, on a time, did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime, I wat they pledged their faith, man.
Awa they gaed wi' mock parade like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade, and wished they'd been at hame, man.

For Freedom, standing by the tree, her sons did loudly ca', man;
She sang a sang o' liberty, which pleased them ane and a', man
By her inspired, the new-born race soon drew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran--her foes gied chase, and banged the despot weel, man.

Let Britain boast her hardy oak, her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke, and o'er her neighbours shine, man,
But seek the forest round and round, and soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found 'twixt London and the Tweed, man.

Without this tree, alake this life is but a vale o' wo, man;
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife, nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late, to feed the titled knave, man;
And a' the comfort we're to get, is that ayont the grave, man.

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow, the warld would live in peace, man;
The sword would help to mak a plough, the din o' war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause, we'd on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws wad gladden every isle, man.

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat sic halesome dainty cheer, man;
I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet, to taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
Syne let us pray, auld England may sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blithe we'll sing, and hail the day that gave us liberty, man.

Raven Parody (1887.)

Parody of Poe's The Raven, from The Pall Mall Gazette.
Author Unknown.

Once upon a midnight dreary,
Gilbert pondered weak and weary,
Thinking of a curious title his new Comic Opera for,
When, a volume from him flinging, suddenly there came a ringing,
As of someone madly clinging to the bell at his front door; "
It is D'Oyly Carte," he muttered, "ringing at my big front door,
Merely this and nothing more."

Poking then the glowing ember, for 'twas cold as bleak December,
Gilbert said "Ah, I remember in the olden times of yore,
Yea, shall I forget it never, though I were to live forever,
How I vainly did endeavour once to see my 'Pinafore,'
Sat and suffered awful anguish in the stalls at 'Pinafore.'
Just that once, but nevermore.

"For the feeling — sad, uncertain — at the rising of the curtain,
Thrilled me, filled me with such terrors, that a solemn oath I swore,
And the oath have oft repeated, that though kings and queens entreated,
I would ne'er again be seated in the stalls as once before,
There to try and see the piece, as I tried to do before,
Now to do so nevermore."

Open here was flung the portal by a pompous powdered mortal,
Who then ushered Mr. Carte in, as he oft had done before,
Not a moment stopped or stayed he, but a slight obeisance made he,
And in voice of thunder said he, "Mr. Carte" — then slammed the door,
And in tones stentorian said he, "Mr. Carte," — then slammed the door.
Only this and nothing more.

Mr. Carte then said quite coolly, "Mr. Gilbert, tell me truly,
Have you found a proper title our new Comic Opera for?
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, as you hope to go to Aidenn,
Have you really, really made 'un? Tell, O tell me, I implore!
Tell me what its funny name is — tell, O tell me, I implore!"
Answered Gilbert — "Ruddygore!"

Carte uprose, alarmed, astounded, by this title which confounded,
For this word of dreadful meaning such a world of horror bore;
And he said, "This title gruesome, I feel very sure will do some
Injury, and we shall lose some thousands ere this piece is o'er
Such a name will surely ruin both your words and Arthur's score:
Therefore change it, I implore."

Then said Gilbert, calmly smoking, "D'Oyly Carte, you must be joking;
I have never found a title that I liked so much before,
For it gives the play the seeming of a drama that is teeming
With the deeds of blood all streaming which the people gloat so o'er.
Of those deeds all grim and ghastly that the people gloat so o'er;
Therefore be it Ruddygore."

And with title so unfitting, people still are nightly sitting
In the gallery, stalls, and boxes, from the ceiling to the floor;
And although they can't help at glancing at D. Lely when he's dancing,
Think Miss Brandram's song entrancing, and give Grossmith an encore,
Still all cry, "Oh, Gilbert, Gilbert, change this title "Ruddygore,"
Not in spelling — we want more.

Arabia, Walter de la Mare.

Arabia.
Walter de la Mare, 1873-1956?.

Far are the shades of Arabia,
Where the Princes ride at noon,
‘Mid the venturous vales and thickets,
Under the ghost of the moon;
And so dark is that vaulted purple
Flowers in the forest rise
And toss into blossom ‘gainst the phantom stars
Pale in the noonday skies.

Sweet is the music of Arabia
In my heart, when out of dreams
I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn
Descry her gilding streams;
Hear her strange lutes on the green banks
Ring loud with the grief and delight
Of the dim-silked, dark haired Musicians
In the brooding silence of night.

They haunt me—her lutes and her forests;
No beauty on earth I see
But shadowed with that dream recalls
Her loveliness to me:
Still eyes look coldly upon me,
Cold voices whisper and say—
‘He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia.
They have stolen his wits away.’

Invocation, Ogden Nash. (Senator Smoot)

Invocation.
by Ogden Nash, 1902-1971.

(“Smoot Plans Tariff Ban on Improper Books”—news item.)

Senator Smoot (Republican, Ut.)
Is planning a ban on smut.
Oh rooti-ti-toot for Smoot of Ut.
And his reverend occiput.
Smite, Smoot, smite for Ut.,
Grit your molars and do your dut.,
Gird up your l--ns,
Smite h-p and th-gh,
We'll all be Kansas
By and by.

Smite, Smoot, for the Watch and Ward,
For Hiram Johnson and Henry Ford,
For Bishop Cannon and John D., Junior,
For ex-Gov. Pinchot of Pennsylvunia,
For John S. Sumner and Elder Hays
And possibly Edward L. Bernays,
For Orville Poland and Ella Boole,
For Mother Machree and the Shelton pool.
When smut's to be smitten
Smoot will smite
For G-d, for country,
And Fahrenheit.

Senator Smoot is an institute
Not to be bribed with pelf;
He guards our homes from erotic tomes
By reading them all himself.
Smite, Smoot, smite for Ut.,
They're smuggling smut from Balt. to Butte!
Strongest and sternest
Of your s-x
Scatter the scoundrels
From Can. to Mex!

Smite, Smoot, for Smedley Butler,
For any good man by the name of Cutler,
Smite for the W.C.T.U,
For Rockne's team and for Leader's crew,
For Florence Coolidge and Admiral Byrd,
For Billy Sunday and John D., Third,
For Grantland Rice and for Albie Booth,
For the Woman's Auxiliary of Duluth,
Smite, Smoot,
Be rugged and rough,
Smut if smitten
Is front-page stuff.

Invictus, William Henley.

Invictus.
by William Ernest Henley, 1849-1903.

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeoning of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Cliff Klingenhagen, Edwin Robinson.

Cliff Klingenhagen.
by Edwin Arlington Robinson, 1869-1935.

Cliff Klingenhagen had me in to dine
With him one day; and after soup and meat,
And all the other things there were to eat,
Cliff took two glasses and filled one with wine
And one with wormwood. Then, without a sign
For me to choose at all, he took the draught
Of bitterness himself, and lightly quaffed
It off, and said the other one was mine.
And when I asked him what the deuce he meant
By doing that, he only looked at me
And smiled and said it was a way of his.
And though I know the fellow, I have spent
Long time a-wondering when I shall be
As happy as Cliff Klingenhagen is.

Candle-Lighting Song, Arthur Ketchum.

Candle-Lighting Song.
by Arthur Ketchum, 1870-?.

I have three candles in my room
Slender and long and white,
Their tips are buds of fire bloom
That blossom every night.

And one I light for memory,
As steady as a star;
And one burns clear for days to be,
And one for days that are.

I have three candles in my room
Slender and tall and fair;
And every one a fire bloom,
And every one a prayer.

Since Youth is All for Gladness, Glenn Dresbach.

Since Youth is All for Gladness.
Glenn Ward Dresbach, 1889-?.

Since Youth is all for gladness,
And dreams and rainbow-skies,
For rapture and moon-madness,
Why are Youth’s eyes so wise?

Since Youth is all for vaunting
Adventures, scorning fears—
Is there not something haunting
In Youth’s incongruous tears?

O Youth must bleed and measure
The days and span the sea—
But Age will keep for pleasure
What Youth thought misery.

Mac Diarmod's Daughter, Francis Carlin.

Mac Diarmod’s Daughter.
by Francis Carlin, 1881-?.

There is much to be said
For Mac Diarmod’s young daughter,
And much to be sung
Were a poet about;
Since her eye is a mirror
Of Ulster’s Blackwater
When ripples shine over
The dark-dappled trout.

And much might be said
For his daughter’s fair dower
Of heifers and bullocks
And meadowy grass;
But my head might be hanging
From Omagh gaol’s tower
For all the concern
That the heart of her has.

So I’ll not spend a thought
On Mac Diarmod’s young daughter,
But much might be sung
Of her land and her looks;
Since her fields are the fairest
Near Ulster’s Blackwater,
And her eyes are dark-dappled
Like trout in the brooks.

A Ballade, Richard Le Gallienne.

A Ballade—Catalogue of Lovely Things.
by Richard Le Gallienne, 1866-?

I would make a list against the evil days
Of lovely things to hold in memory:
First, I set down my lady’s lovely face,
For earth has no such lovely thing as she;
And next I add, to bear her company,
The great-eyed virgin star that morning brings;
Then the wild-rose upon its little tree—
So runs my catalogue of lovely things.

The enchanted dog-wood, with its ivory trays,
The water-lily in its sanctuary
Of reeded pools, and dew-drenched lilac sprays,
For these, of all fair flowers, the fairest be;
Next I write down the great name of the sea,
Lonely in greatness as the names of kings;
Then the young moon that hath set us all in fee—
So runs my catalogue of lovely things.

Imperial sunsets that in crimson blaze
Along the hills, and, fairer still to me,
The fireflies dancing in a netted maze
Woven of twilight and tranquility;
Shakespeare and Virgil, their high poesy;
Then a great ship, splendid with snowy wings,
Voyaging on into eternity—
So runs my catalogue of lovely things.

Envoi:

Prince, not the gold bars of thy treasury,
Not all thy jeweled scepters, crowns and rings,
Are worth the honeycomb of the wild bee—
So runs my catalogue of lovely things.

The Durable Bon Mot, Keith Preston.

The Durable Bon Mot.
by Keith Preston, 1884-?.

When Whistler’s strongest colors fade,
When inks and canvas rot,
Those jokes on Oscar Wilde he made
Will dog him unforgot.

For gags still set the world agog
When fame begins to flag,
And, like the tail that wagged the dog,
The smart tale dogs the wag.

Hail and Farewell, Anne Higginson Spicer

Hail and Farewell.
by Anne Higginson Spicer.

Dogs barking, dust awhirling,
And drum throbs in the street.
The braggart pipes are skirling
And old tune wild and sweet.

By fours the lads come trooping
With heads erect and high,
I watch with heart adrooping
To see the kilties by.

And one of them is glancing
Up to this window, this!
His brave blue eyes are dancing;
He tosses me a kiss.

I send him back another,
I fling my hand out free.
“God keep you safely, brother,
Who go to die for me.”

Hope's Song, Francis Carlin.

Hope’s Song.
by Francis Carlin, 1881-?.

Silent is the dark
Before the sun-beams come,
Yet if it were not for the lark,
The dawn would be as dumb,

And thus my soul would be
As dark and still as night,
If ‘twere not for the minstrelsy
Of Hope that sings of Light.

An Epitaph, by J. C. Squire.

An Epitaph.
by J. C. (John Collins) Squire 1884-1958?.

Shiftless and shy, gentle and kind and frail,
Poor wanderer, bewildered into vice,
You are freed at last from seas you could not sail,
A wreck upon the shores of Paradise.

The Snare, by James Stephens.

The Snare.
by James Stephens, 1882-1950.

I hear a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.

But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid!
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid!

Making everything afraid!
Wrinkling up his little face!
And he cries again for aid;-
And I cannot find the place!

And I cannot find the place
Where his paw is in the snare!
Little One! Oh, Little One!
I am searching everywhere!

Let it Be Forgotten, by Sara Teasdale.

Let it Be Forgotten.
by Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933.

Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,

Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

Note: only first stanza of two seen here.