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diff --git a/38898-0.txt b/38898-0.txt index 97f76ad..b068874 100644 --- a/38898-0.txt +++ b/38898-0.txt @@ -1,26 +1,4 @@ - POEMS AND PARODIES - - - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost -no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license. - - - -Title: Poems and Parodies -Author: T. M. Kettle -Release Date: December 06, 2012 [EBook #38898] -Language: English -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS AND PARODIES *** - - - +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 38898 *** Produced by Al Haines. @@ -1103,377 +1081,4 @@ Written in Belgium, August, 1914 March on to the fields where the world’s re-made, And the Ancient Dreams come true! - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS AND PARODIES *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38898 - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission -and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license. - - - -Title: Poems and Parodies -Author: T. M. Kettle -Release Date: December 06, 2012 [EBook #38898] -Language: English -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS AND PARODIES *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - -[Illustration: Cover] - - - - -[Illustration: T. M. Kettle] - - - - - POEMS & PARODIES - - - BY - T. M. KETTLE - - - - DUBLIN - THE TALBOT PRESS - 1916 - - - - - Printed by - The Educational Company of Ireland - at - THE TALBOT PRESS - 89 Talbot St., Dublin - - - - - TOM KETTLE - - 1880-1916 - - -Two simple words, charged now for some of us with sad and infinite -memories. It is not the death of the Professor, nor of the soldier, nor -of the politician--nor even of the poet or the essayist--that causes the -heart-ache that we feel. It is the loss of that rare, charming, -wondrous personality summed up in those two simple words, TOM KETTLE. - -A genial cynic, a pleasant pessimist, an earnest trifler, he was made up -of contradictions. A fellow of infinite jest--and infinite sadness. -His prototypes were Hamlet or the Melancholy Jacques. Among the -delightful essays he has left us in that charming little book, _The -Day's Burden_, is one entitled "A new way of misunderstanding _Hamlet_." -He was himself a veritable Hamlet in this twentieth century Ireland. -One may ask, did he quite understand himself? Master of paradox, -enunciator of enigma, he was a paradox and an enigma in, and to, -himself. Shall we seek now to pluck out the heart of his mystery? The -lines are hackneyed beyond hope, but in this instance they apply in -truth. - -The personality of Kettle had in it something subtle; something -essential yet elusive; something not to be defined. He was a great -talker in the Johnsonian sense. As a story-teller, it was not so much -the point of his tale that counted as his telling of it. The -divagations from the text in which he loved to indulge were the delight -of his auditors. With truth it may be said that his rich humour, his -brilliant, mordant wit, caused his listeners to hang upon his words. -And his outlook was so wide, his soul so big, his mind so broad, and a -deep love of humanity so permeated him that his talk, or one might more -fittingly say, his discourse, was educating and uplifting. But he was a -man of moods, descending from heights of Homeric humour to the depths of -a divine despair. Those privileged to hear him thus expounding will -cherish the memory while they live. We, too, as it were, have "seen -Shelley plain." He charmed, he fascinated. This, in truth, describes -him for his spell wrought even on those who actually disliked him. - -In the numerous notices printed of him since he died much has been -written of the promise of his career. More appropriate it would be to -write of his performance. He crowded into thirty-six years of life far -more than most men achieve in twice that span. Now the orator is -silent, the brilliant wit has ceased to sparkle, the skilful pen will -ply no more. Tom Kettle knows at last the answer to the riddle that -baffled him, the Riddle of the Universe. - -Well may we mourn-- - - _For Lycidas is dead;_ - _Young Lycidas: dead ere his prime,_ - _And hath not left his peer._ - - WILLIAM DAWSON. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PERSONAL - -Dedication Sonnet: To my Wife -To my daughter Betty, the gift of God -On Leaving Ireland -Epigram - - - EARLY POEMS - -To Young Ireland -Sowing -Dreams and Duty -A Song of Vengeance - - - TRANSLATIONS - -1At Achensee, Tirol`_ -1The Monks`_ - - - MISCELLANEOUS - -The Lady of Life -When others see us as we see ourselves -Ennui -Ballad Autumnal -The Lost Ball - - - POLITICAL - -Parnell -The House of Lords: An Epitaph -Reason in Rhyme -Asquith in Dublin -Ulster -To Ireland - - - WAR POEMS - -Paddy -Sergeant Mike O'Leary -A Nation's Freedom -A Song of the Irish Armies - - - - -Permission to reprint several of the poems in this Volume has been -kindly granted by the proprietors of the _Daily Chronicle, Freeman's -Journal, Cork Examiner,_ Messrs. MAUNSEL & Co., Ltd.. and THE TALBOT -PRESS - - - - - PERSONAL - - - "Memorial I would have - ... a constant presence - with those that love me" - - - - DEDICATION SONNET - - - TO MY WIFE - - "Not the sea, only, wrecks the hopes of men, - Look deeper, there is shipwreck everywhere," - So mourned the exquisite Roman's rich despair, - Too high in death for that ignoble pen. - Nero, his wrecker, is amply wrecked since then, - And all that Rome's a whiff of charnel air; - But to subdue Petronius' mal-de-mer - Have we found drugs? I pray you, What? and When? - - Shipwreck, one grieves to say, retains its vogue: - Or let the keel win on in stouter fashion, - And look! your golden lie of Tir-na-n'Og - Is sunset and waste waters, chill and ashen-- - Faith lasts? Nay, since I knew your yielded eyes, - I am content with sight .... of Paradise. - - - - - TO MY DAUGHTER BETTY, - THE GIFT OF GOD - - (ELIZABETH DOROTHY) - - In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown - To beauty proud as was your mother's prime, - In that desired, delayed, incredible time, - You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own, - And the dear heart that was your baby throne, - To dice with death. And oh! they'll give you rhyme - And reason: some will call the thing sublime, - And some decry it in a knowing tone. - So here, while the mad guns curse overhead, - And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor, - Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead, - Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor, - But for a dream, born in a herdsman's shed, - And for the secret Scripture of the poor. - - the field, before Guillemont, Somme, - September 4, 1916. - - - - - ON LEAVING IRELAND - - (JULY 14, 1916) - -The pathos of departure is indubitable. - -I never felt my own essay "On saying Good-Bye" so profoundly _aux -trfonds du coeur_. The sun was a clear globe of blood which we caught -hanging over Ben Edar, with a trail of pure blood vibrating to us across -the waves. It dropped into darkness before we left the deck. Some lines -came to me, suggested by a friend who thought the mood cynical. - - As the sun died in blood, and hill and sea - Grew to an altar, red with mystery, - One came who knew me (it may be over-much) - Seeking the cynical and staining touch, - But I, against the great sun's burial - Thought only of bayonet-flash and bugle-call, - And saw him as God's eye upon the deep, - Closed in the dream in which no women weep, - And knew that even I shall fall on sleep. - - - - - EPIGRAM - - If grief, like fire, smoked up against our sight, - The Earth were scarfd in eternal night. - - - - - EARLY POEMS - - - - TO YOUNG IRELAND - - (WRITTEN IN 1899) - - Dead! art thou dead or sleepest, in this blank, twilight time, - When hearts are sere and pithless? Land of the sword and lyre! - Thy waxen lips are silent, thy brow is bound with rime, - Hast thou late wed with winter, child of earth's primal fire? - - The sheathd blade rusts foully, through bitter, barren years, - And harp and pen are bond slaves, thralls to thy children's - shame. - We garner cockle harvests, vain words and little fleers. - From waste lands sown with rancour, search them with proving - flame! - - We droop'd, stark sons of warfare, we blushed and slunk from - day, - While Love and Truth and Honour died in mere fretful fume. - Free brain, free brawn, is given us, then sweep we from our way - These shamers of our mother, this idle, noisome spume. - - For, lo! an army gathers around a standard clean; - I gird me dinted armour, and press to touch the throng. - Hark! Hark! The minstrels' war-hymn in very strength serene, - My harp is harsh of utterance, yet take a pupil's song. - - Then stout heart join our battle! who hail an eastern sun, - Our toil shall set this people upon earth's purest height. - Then faint heart join our battle! and if our sands be run, - At least we caoin a swan-lay upon the edge of night. - - - - - SOWING - - (WRITTEN IN 1899) - - One mocked: "Thy brain is mad with wine; - The fairies spin the threads of night, - And pour their vials of sour blight - About the roots of health, yet thine - And thou, ye garner into verse - Bright flowers to trick a solemn hearse: - The cowslip, maiden-love of spring, - The burning incense of the rose, - The austere lily, her that blows - By winter's marge--each gracious thing - Past or unborn. Weak, trusting fool! - Old Time shall file thee in his school." - - "I know not Time, his last or first; - With master hands I despoil all - His hoarded sweetness and his gall. - I crush the aeons for my thirst, - And so am mad. Pencils of fire - Limn visions of soul-large desire. - - In Faith I cast on frozen ground - An obscure life of sweat and tears; - In the far Autumn of the years - Men reap full harvests, springing round, - And judge them gifts of kindly chance, - My deed laughs through each mellow lance." - - - - - DREAMS AND DUTY - - Life is an inconstant April laughing into May, - Weeping with the aftergust of March storms laid away, - Light o' love! Her mood is gracious, fondling sunbeams stray - Out across the cloud-smoke purple of her cloud robes gray. - Let us dream among the daisies, troll a roundelay - Where the gorse gold is lavished, and the lilies pray, - Mary's nuns, whose stainless gift is Heaven's chaliced ray, - Let us twine a wreath of science, let us play our play, - Ere we fight the fight of ages, one sweet prelude-day. - - * * * * * - - The stranger heard and mocked us from the usurped throne, - Reeled in his scornful laughter, eater of hearts, blood-blown. - But the Lord God heard and heeded, therefore we do not moan; - For He has whispered to us, 'The secret shuttles fly, - Ye know not warp or weaver, yet neither swerve or sigh, - The eater of hearts shall wither, the drinker of blood shall - die. - I have set you labour, work it; I will give you increase, - For first is winter-ploughing, after, my guerdon, peace; - Ye shall pluck strength from sorrow, ripe when the sorrows - cease; - Ye shall win strength and wisdom to break the stranger's rule, - But if ye slink and babble ye are but as the fools, - Ye are but as the stranger, fit for the thorny schools." - - - - - A SONG OF VENGEANCE - - FOR COMMANDANT SCHEEPERS - (Murdered January 18, 1902) - - It is done inexpiably; thrust him deep in shameful clay, - Charge his name with every foulness, rule the world's ear as you - may-- - But the shadow at your banquet that you cannot put away! - - Weak you thought him, sickness-vanquished, given to your eager - hate. - So you played him and you slew him with your feline shows of - state, - Weak--and lo! the sanctifying touch of death has made him great. - - As a seed that broadening splits the rock on which a palace - stands, - As a trickling breach that godlike parts one land in hostile - lands, - Is the memory of Scheepers and his slaying at your hands. - - Hill and plain and stream shall guard it, town and fireside, - phrase and song; - Young men's unsubdued aspiring, old men's striving wise and - strong; - And though Hope die, Hatred may not for remembrance of his - wrong. - - Murdered leader--may God fold you in the mercy of His temple, - Sleep as sleep our unborn children, bravest hero and example-- - Float the flag or sink for ever, your red eric shall be ample. - - - - - TRANSLATIONS - - - - AT ACHENSEE, TIROL - - (From the German of A. Pickler.--Died, 1893) - - The old path up, the wood's ranked gloomy legions, - The lap and the rustle of the lake behind, - And, roused by these, from Death's more timely regions - The old thoughts fluttering in a lonely mind; - - About my way the pine-stems thick and thicker - Huddle, the mossed stone drips abundantly, - And, thro' the screen of woven branches, flicker - The bright and heaving waves of Achensee. - - Pinewood and primrose scents, the air has mixt them; - Poised butterflies, a shining sun-bathed fleet, - Sky's blue, gaunt granite jags, and buoyed betwixt them, - The cloud-fleece flushing with the day's defeat. - - The spell is on me, nor can aught deliver; - Slowly my spirit fails from life and light, - And Past and Future like a pauseless river, - Slide darkly down into a darker night. - - The red glow wans, the blackbird's trill and quaver - Dies in the sudden gloom, the broad world sleeps; - And, mixed with moon-fire flakes, the billows waver, - As though dead hands tossed vainly in their deeps. - - I think of the high dead, and that all-daring - First bard whom Orcus' self might not withstand, - I think of his vast love, and fruitless faring, - To pluck one rose from Proserpine's hand. - - The Past is an ill riddle, over-subtle, - The Thing-to-Be a rumour of a cloud, - Would know the last weft of Fate's whirring shuttle? - You _shall_ know, when they wind you in your shroud. - - Innsbruck, 18th July, 1904. - - - - - THE MONKS - - A translation from EMILE VERHAEREN. - Dedicated to Father Benedict, 1905. - - I do invoke you here, Monks Apostolical, - Fountains of dawn, torches of faith, wrought candlesticks; - Stars shedding day across the ages mystical; - Builders whose walls for scutcheon bear the Crucifix. - - Hermits who sat on white, high mountains for a throne; - Hewn marble quick with will, and strength, and angry truth; - Preachers with arms uplift and long sleeves loosely blown - Over bowed heads, and hearts gnawn of the sateless tooth. - - Windows athrob with dawn, rich with all Eastern dyes; - Vases of chastity whose fulness might not cease; - Mirrors whose depths enfold, as lakes the dreaming skies, - Hills where our dreams have breath, fair valleys brimmed with - peace. - - Seers whose souls, foreknowing death's enfranchisement, - Walked secretly where walks the mere flesh of no feet; - Titans whose breath was more than squadroned argument; - Kings strange to Rome set up in Rome's imperial seat. - - Swords hung above the pride of kings and emperors; - Lords of a prouder crown and a more grievious loss; - Warriors whose flag was spread in more tremendous wars, - Slayers of heresy with great blows of the Cross. - - Arches and aqueducts of Christian sanctity, - Pillars of silver, channels pouring from the East - Rivers of grace at which the peoples thirstily - Have drunk, and quaffed desire for the unending Feast. - - Tocsins with war and wounds in your most sombre roll; - Clarions whose proud, full throats salute the captain Christ; - Towers of the sun, whose crosses wear an aureole - Litten of that far Sun Who was the Sacrificed. - - - - - MISCELLANEOUS - - - - THE LADY OF LIFE - - I sat with her, and spoke right goldenly - Of love and beauty, and because her hair - Brushed me, I plucked down Sirius like a pear, - To braid it, and had laughter for my fee; - Yea, suing her to heavier slavery. - Had all but plucked the fruitage of her lips, - When, lo! inked clouds and absolute eclipse, - Courteous, but unmistakable ennui. - - Then did I mind me of the sorrow wailed - Thro' poets' books, and how the streaming torch - Of suns greater than Sirius has failed, - And as I shambled out the menial's door - I heard new feet sound in the statued porch - And salutations I had heard before. - - - - - WHEN OTHERS SEE US AS WE SEE OURSELVES! - - Day, with his blotting trumpet, overthrew - My city of dream, and, with his marshalled spears, - My thought that had the unperforming years - Amended and laid the base of heaven true; - But pitying, signed me priest with chrismal dew, - And I went telling of expatriate tears, - Of Hate cast out with all his sworded peers, - And tower-tops spiring to the gods anew. - One gibed, one wept, one with his drowsd air - Chilled me to very stone, but no man hearkened; - So to my love I went--ah! once love darkened - Her eyes, and in that darkness I could hide-- - Why should they couch them? In her alien stare - I knew she knew all Christs I had denied. - - - - - ENNUI - - I saw the loath moon rise, - The sun go sweatily down; - There was famine of sleep in his eyes; - She was a floating frown. - - They nodded heavily - Over an ancient roof, - With a pout o' the shoulders, she, - He with a grind o' the hoof. - - And the moon said to the sun: - "Another day to irk us!" - The sun to the touzled moon, - "Imagine it a circus." - - - - - BALLAD AUTUMNAL - -(In which Any Old Fool of an idealistic turn, explains--probably without -the palest colour of truth--to Any Other, infected with the same -disease, the failure of their lives, labours, and dreams, and the -triumph of the wise of this world.) - - Hair greying, ashen eyes, uncomely ridges, - Autumn of things ill-done, and things undone: - How all that water, slipped beneath the bridges, - Chills the adieux of our defeated sun! - What paltry, unresisted jettison - Of dear hopes held, and there the graveyard West, - With mud, miasma, mastless hulks, and midges!-- - We have not lived as wisely as the rest. - - That wasteful trick of yours, that gust prodigious - Of dreams too great for their comparison, - Blew stars ablaze, but drowned us in the ditches. - Sad, generous, valiant, tired ephemeron! - Had we but coined the vision when it shone - We, too, had ruled, and mocked the dispossessed. - Well! we have rags, the prudent have the riches-- - We have not lived as wisely as the rest. - - They squeezed us, and forgot: your Je m'en fiche's - Struck in too bloodily to pass for fun. - Our bread was nibbled by the water-witches, - All that we have is given, and is gone. - Some penny, wheedled for a currant bun, - Some shirtless, soapless starveling, uncaressed, - Still thanks us for, but not our fed ambitious-- - We have not lived as wisely as the rest. - - - ENVOI - - Prince, lift your heart up out of Acheron, - Death bows us gravely to that cleaner test. - Yea! when all books are closed, all races run, - We may have lived as wisely as the rest. - - - - - THE LOST BALL - - (A golfing rhapsody suggested by "The Lost Chord.") - - Playing one day at the seaside, I was topping my balls on the - tees, - And the sand and the bent were littered with fragments of double - D's; - Piffle supreme I was playing, and varying "slice" with "pull," - But I hit one ball a wallop like a kick of a Spanish bull. - - It whistled its way towards Heaven in a rocket's magic flight; - It cancelled the crimson sunset like the shroud of a moonless - night; - It knocked the paint off a rainbow and scattered the stars like - bees; - And sped thro' the stellar spaces as tho' it would never cease. - - It looped the loop like Pgoud in parabolic curves; - It was salve to my wounded feelings and balm to my ruffled - nerves; - It clove my opponent's gizzard like the stab of a Lascar's - knife; - And produced the hardest swearing I have ever heard in my life. - - I have sought in the bent and the bushes that one magnificent - ball; - It may be Antartic crystals were broken by its fall; - It may be that Death as Caddy may light on the spot it fell; - I may have holed out in Heaven or find myself trapped in Hell. - - - - - POLITICAL - - - - PARNELL - - (For the unveiling, 1st October, 1911) - - Tears will betray all pride, but when ye mourn him, - Be it in soldier wise; - As for a captain who hath gently borne him, - And in the midnight dies. - - Fewness of words is best; he was too great - For ours or any phrase. - Love could not guess, nor the slipped hound of hate - Track that soul's secret ways. - - Signed with a sign, unbroken, unrevealed, - His Calvary he trod; - So let him keep, where all world-wounds are healed - The silences of God. - - Yet is he Ireland's too: a flaming coal - Lit at the stars, and sent - To burn the sin of patience from her soul, - The scandal of content. - - A name to be a trumpet of attack; - And, in the evil stress, - For England's iron No! to fling her back - A grim granatic Yes. - - He taught us more, this best as it was last: - When comrades go apart - They shall go greatly, cancelling the past, - Slaying the kindlier heart. - - Friendship and love, all clean things and unclean, - Shall be as drifted leaves, - Spurned by our Ireland's feet, that queenliest Queen - Who gives not but receives. - - So freedom comes, and comes no other wise; - He gave--"The Chief"--gave well; - Limned in his blood across your clearing skies - Look up and read; Parnell! - - - - - THE HOUSE OF LORDS: AN EPITAPH - - So you proscribe, and you forbid - Peace, and the trooping ghosts of hate - Enfranchise of the coffin-lid-- - Your lordships' lordship speaks too late. - - That word had held when yours, for you, - Thieving and reaving smote us first: - If souls were crooked, swords were true; - They took and kept because they durst. - - Still, though the pride of naked swords - Passed to a meaner, stouter hand, - You said, and it was done, my lords, - Yours was the law, and yours the land. - - You clove the priest, you robbed the shrine, - With spoil of Paul and Peter fat, - Brimmed altar-cups with altar-wine - To toast your new Magnificat. - - The poor, who are the lords of death, - To you were mud in foundered ways; - Your sun was red Elizabeth, - Your noon, the Dutchman's Penal days. - - Hunger and halters, grey despair, - Marah of exile, coastless seas, - Baal for master-minister-- - You gave, my lords, and took your ease. - - And then, in Paris, patience broke; - "Who is this thing that should oppress?" - Men asked: "And shall we bear his yoke. - This idle whiff of nothingness?" - - That was your lordships' epitaph; - Still might you sell a nation's soul, - Spit on its tomb, and yawn and laugh, - But, thief to thief, the judgment stole. - - This Ireland whom my lords despised-- - Languid behind inverted thumbs-- - She who believed and agonised - Leads on the loud, victorious drums. - - Wave huddled wave, and now the last - Havocs your castle, built of sand-- - We take the future, you the past, - Ours is the State, the Flag, the Land. - - - - - REASON IN RHYME - - Will Watson, of the still unanchored art; - What random gust, what overwhelming sea - Has riven you apart - From us, and from the flagship of the free? - You whose rich phrase, and vibrant, wont to be - Trumpet and drum of onset and attack; - Who, when of Abdul's ways you stooped to sing, - Would give us just the dire, full-throated thing; - Now, when that much-damned man has got the sack, - You change your tune, and make to pipe us back - From honour, and the task of Liberty! - Why argue, though? The plain position is - You are mistaken in your premises. - You blind your sight with hot, emotional mists, - Your way of thought is greatly too morose - And moist and lachrymose, - For us, a muddled State's last realists. - We Irish, to be brief, - Are nowise grievers for the sake of grief. - I pray you, dry those sympathetic tears, - They rust the will; and, Will, your nation's sin - Is no dead shame, meet to be covered in, - But a live fact that sears. - Cancel the past? Soothly when it befalls - That ye amend the present, and are just, - Go knock your head on Dublin Castle walls: - Are they irrelevant, historic dust, - Or a hard present-tense? - Search through the large print of the Statute Book - For your much-valued Lords' benevolence, - And swept in vision westward, snatch a look - At that dim land, where hunger claims to be - The honoured guest in every family; - And the slain sun writes, in a scribble of shame, - The word of utter Hell, Clanricarde's name. - Go South and North; - Weep, if you will, along the dismal quays, - Watching the unreturning ships go forth - To fling our seed of strength and hope and worth - In far, untributary ways. - And then the soul is something--at least in verse. - Ours, poet, is to be a thing of straw, - A stained, numb thing, that sits without the law - Of yours, great master of the universe? - Most nobly planned! But, Watson, there's a text-- - Done in stout English in King James's reign-- - Which says that souls are not to be annexed, - Not for the whole world's gain. - Cancel the past! Why, yes! We, too, have thought - Of conflict crowned and drowned in olives of peace; - But when Cuchullin and Ferdiadh fought - There lacked no pride of warrior courtesies, - And so must this fight end. - Bond, from the toil of hate we may not cease: - Free, we are free to be your friend. - And when you make your banquet, and we come, - Soldier with equal soldier must we sit, - Closing a battle, not forgetting it. - With not a name to hide, - This mate and mother of valiant "rebels" dead - Must come with all her history on her head. - We keep the past for pride: - No deepest peace shall strike our poets dumb: - No rawest squad of all Death's volunteers, - No rudest man who died - To tear your flag down in the bitter years, - But shall have praise, and three times thrice again, - When at that table men shall drink with men. - - - - - ASQUITH IN DUBLIN - - (AUGUST, 1912) - - You stepped your steps, and the music marched, and the torches - tossed - As you filled your streets with your comic Pentecost, - And the little English went by and the lights grew dim; - We, dumb in the shouting crowd, we thought of Him. - - Of Him, too great for our souls and ways, - Too great for laughter or love, praise or dispraise, - Of Him, and the wintry swords, and the closing gloom-- - Of Him going forth alone to His lonely doom. - - No shouts, my Dublin then! Not a light nor a cry-- - You kept them all till now, when the little English go by! - - - - - ULSTER - - (A REPLY TO RUDYARD KIPLING) - - The red, redeeming dawn - Kindled in Easter skies, - Falls like God's judgment on - Lawyers, and lords, and lies. - What care these evil things, - Though menaced and perplexed, - While Kipling's banjo strings - Blaspheme a sacred text? - - Never did freemen stand, - Never were captains met, - From Dargai to the Rand, - From Parnell to De Wet, - Never, on native sod, - Weak Justice fared the worst, - But Kipling's Cockney "Gawd" - Most impotently cursed. - - So now, when Lenten years - Burgeon, at last, to bless - This land of Faith and Tears - With fruitful nobleness, - The poet, for a coin, - Hands to the gabbling rout - A bucketful of Boyne - To put the sunrise out. - - "Ulster" is ours, not yours, - Is ours to have and hold, - Our hills and lakes and moors - Have shaped her in our mould. - Derry to Limerick Walls - Fused us in battle flame; - Limerick to Derry calls - One strong-shared Irish name. - - We keep the elder faith, - Not slain by Cromwell's sword; - Nor bribed to subtler death - By William's broken word. - Free from those chains, and free - From hate for hate endured, - We share the liberty - Our lavish blood assured. - - One place, one dream, one doom, - One task and toil assigned, - Union of plough and loom - Have bound us and shall bind. - The wounds of labour healed, - Life rescued and made fair-- - There lies the battlefield - Of Ulster's holy war. - - - - - TO IRELAND - - Men so worthy - Suffered for Thee, - Men so poor can die; - Then come gather - All, or rather - Those who ask not why. - - - - - WAR POEMS - - - - PADDY - - (After Mr. Kipling) - - I went into the talkin' shop to see about the Bill; - The Premier 'e ups and says: "We're waitin' ... waitin' still!" - The Tories grinned, and Balfour strung our gamble Haman-high, - I outs into the street again, and to meself sez I: - O, it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, an' "A cattle-driven crew!" - But 'twas "Murphy o' the Munsters!" when the trump of battle - blew. - When the wind of battle blew, my boys, when the blast of battle - blew, - It was Burke, and Shea and Kelly when we marched to Waterloo. - - I looked into a newspaper to see about the land - That bred the man who broke the sin that Bonaparte planned; - They'd room for cricket scores, and tips, and trash of every - kind, - But when I asked of Ireland's cause, it seemed to be behind. - For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, and "Don't annoy us, - please!" - But it's "Irish Rifles forward--Fast!" when the bullets talk - like bees, - When the bullets yawn like bees, my boys, when the bullets yawn - like bees, - It's "Connaught blood is good enough" when they're chanting - R.I.P's. - - Yes! Sneerin' round at Irishmen, and Irish speech and ways - Is cheaper--much--than snatchin' guns from battle's red amaze: - And when the damned Death's-Head-Dragoons roll up the ruddy tide - The _Times_ won't spare a Smith to tell how Dan O'Connell died. - For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, and "The Fifth'll prate and - prance!" - But it's "Corks and Inniskillings--Front!" when Hell is loose in - France, - When Clare and Kerry take the call that crowns the shrapnel - dance, - O, it's "Find the Dublin Fusiliers!" when Hell is loose in - France. - - We ain't no saints or scholars much, but fightin' men and clean, - We've paid the price, and three times thrice for Wearin' o' the - Green. - We held our hand out frank and fair, and half forgot Parnell, - For Ireland's hope and England's too--and it's yours to save or - sell. - For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, "Who'll stop the Uhlan - blade?" - But Tommy Fitz from Malahide, and Monaghan's McGlade, - When the ranks are set for judgment, lads, and the roses droop - and fade, - It's "Ireland in the firin' line!" when the price of God is - paid. - - - - - SERGEANT MIKE O'LEARY - - It was Sergeant Mike O'Leary who broke the barricade, - Who took the chance, and won the Cross that crowns the bayonet - trade; - 'Twas "M'anam do Dhia," and "How's your heart," and "How could - we forget?" - But Michael from Inchigeela will fill a ballad yet. - - Oh! a fair and pleasant land is Cork for wit and courtesy, - Ballyvourney East and Baile Dubh and Kilworth to the sea: - And when they light the turf to-night, spit, stamp, swear as of - yore, - It's the Sergeant Mike O'Leary's ghosts that ward the southern - shore. - - - - - A NATION'S FREEDOM - - Word of the Tsar! and the drowse malign is broken; - The stone is rolled from the tomb and Poland free, - This is the strong evangel. The guns have spoken; - And the scribble of flame of the guns is Liberty. - - Have you not met her, my lords, a-walk in the garden, - Ranging the dawn, even she, the three times dead? - Nay! But in bondage, sundered from light and pardon-- - But now the water is wine, and the marriage read. - - Word of the Tsar! My lords, I think of another - Crowned with dolour, forbidden the sun abased, - Bloodied, unbroken, abiding--Ah! Queen, my Mother, - I have prayed the feet of the Judgment of God to haste. - - Count me the price in blood that we have not squandered, - Spendthrifts of blood from our cradle, wastefully true, - Name me the sinister fields where the Wild Geese wandered, - Lille and Cremona and Landen and Waterloo. - - When the white steel-foam swept on the tidal onset, - When the last wave lapsed, and the sea turned back to its sleep, - We were there in the waste and the wreckage, Queen of the - Sunset! - Paying the price of the dreams that cannot sleep. - - The altar is set; we uplift again the chalice; - The priest is in purple; the bell booms to the sacrifice. - The trumpets summon to death, and Ireland rallies-- - Tool or free? We have paid, and over-paid, the price. - - Word of the Tsar! And Russia rises to vision, - Poland and Ireland--thus, my lords, was an augured fate. - The days draw in, and the ways narrow down to decision-- - Will they chaffer, and cheapen, and ruin, or yield to be great? - -Written in Belgium, August, 1914 - - - - - A SONG OF THE IRISH ARMIES - - A wind blew out of the Prussian plain; - It scourged Liege, and it broke Louvain, - And Belgium shook with the tramp of Cain, - That a Kaiser might be mad. - "Iron is God!"--and they served him well-- - "Honour a mark for shot and shell." - So they loosed the devils out of Hell - From Birr to Allahabad. - - - THE OLD SOLDIERS SING: - - But we took them from Mons to the banks of the Marne, - And helped them back on their red return; - We can swim the Rhine if the bridges burn, - And Mike O'Leary's the lad! - - Not for this did our fathers fall; - That truth, and pity, and love, and all - Should break in dust at a trumpet call, - Yea! all things clean and old. - Not to this had we sacrificed: - To sit at the last where the slayers diced, - With blood-hot hands for the robes of Christ, - And snatch at the Devil's gold. - - - THE NEW SOLDIERS SING: - - To Odin's challenge we cried Amen! - We stayed the plough, and laid by the pen, - And we shouldered our guns like gentlemen, - That the wiser weak should hold. - - Blood on the land, and blood on the sea? - So it stands as ordained to be, - Stamp, and signet, and guarantee - Of the better ways we knew. - - Time for the plough when the sword has won; - The loom will wait on the crashing gun, - And the hands of peace drop benison - When the task of death is through. - - - OLD AND NEW SOLDIERS SING: - - Then lift the flag of the Last Crusade! - And fill the ranks of the Last Brigade! - March on to the fields where the world's re-made, - And the Ancient Dreams come true! - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS AND PARODIES *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38898 - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission -and without paying copyright royalties. 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Kettle -<br /> -<br />Release Date: December 06, 2012 [EBook #38898] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>POEMS AND PARODIES</span><span> ***</span></p> <div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> </div> <p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> @@ -1842,346 +1812,6 @@ of this world.)</span></p> <!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> <div class="backmatter"> </div> -<p class="pfirst" id="pg-end-line"><span>*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>POEMS AND PARODIES</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="cleardoublepage"> -</div> -<div class="language-en level-2 pgfooter section" id="a-word-from-project-gutenberg" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<span id="pg-footer"></span><h2 class="level-2 pfirst section-title title"><span>A Word from Project Gutenberg</span></h2> -<p class="pfirst"><span>We will update this book if we find any errors.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This book can be found under: </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38898"><span>http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38898</span></a></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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-
-.. meta::
- :PG.Id: 38898
- :PG.Title: Poems and Parodies
- :PG.Released: 2012-12-06
- :PG.Rights: Public Domain
- :PG.Producer: Al Haines
- :DC.Creator: \T. \M. Kettle
- :DC.Title: Poems and Parodies
- :DC.Language: en
- :DC.Created: 1916
- :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg
-
-==================
-POEMS AND PARODIES
-==================
-
-.. clearpage::
-
-.. pgheader::
-
-.. container:: coverpage
-
- .. vspace:: 3
-
- .. figure:: images/img-cover.jpg
- :align: center
- :alt: Cover
-
- Cover
-
- .. vspace:: 4
-
-.. container:: frontispiece
-
- .. figure:: images/img-front.jpg
- :align: center
- :alt: \T. \M. Kettle
-
- \T. \M. Kettle
-
- .. vspace:: 4
-
-.. container:: titlepage center white-space-pre-line
-
- .. class:: x-large
-
- POEMS & PARODIES
-
- .. vspace:: 2
-
- .. class:: medium
-
- BY
- \T. \M. KETTLE
-
- .. vspace:: 3
-
- .. class:: center medium
-
- DUBLIN
- THE TALBOT PRESS
- 1916
-
- .. vspace:: 4
-
-.. container:: verso center white-space-pre-line
-
- .. class:: center small
-
- Printed by
- The Educational Company of Ireland
- at
- THE TALBOT PRESS
- 89 Talbot St., Dublin
-
- .. vspace:: 4
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- TOM KETTLE
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- 1880-1916
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-Two simple words, charged now for some of
-us with sad and infinite memories. It is not the
-death of the Professor, nor of the soldier, nor of
-the politician--nor even of the poet or the
-essayist--that causes the heart-ache that we feel. It
-is the loss of that rare, charming, wondrous
-personality summed up in those two simple words,
-TOM KETTLE.
-
-A genial cynic, a pleasant pessimist, an earnest
-trifler, he was made up of contradictions. A
-fellow of infinite jest--and infinite sadness. His
-prototypes were Hamlet or the Melancholy
-Jacques. Among the delightful essays he has
-left us in that charming little book, *The Day's
-Burden*, is one entitled "A new way of
-misunderstanding *Hamlet*." He was himself a veritable
-Hamlet in this twentieth century Ireland. One
-may ask, did he quite understand himself? Master
-of paradox, enunciator of enigma, he was a paradox
-and an enigma in, and to, himself. Shall we seek
-now to pluck out the heart of his mystery? The
-lines are hackneyed beyond hope, but in this
-instance they apply in truth.
-
-The personality of Kettle had in it something
-subtle; something essential yet elusive;
-something not to be defined. He was a great talker
-in the Johnsonian sense. As a story-teller, it
-was not so much the point of his tale that counted
-as his telling of it. The divagations from the text
-in which he loved to indulge were the delight of
-his auditors. With truth it may be said that his
-rich humour, his brilliant, mordant wit, caused
-his listeners to hang upon his words. And his
-outlook was so wide, his soul so big, his mind so
-broad, and a deep love of humanity so permeated
-him that his talk, or one might more fittingly
-say, his discourse, was educating and uplifting.
-But he was a man of moods, descending from
-heights of Homeric humour to the depths of a
-divine despair. Those privileged to hear him
-thus expounding will cherish the memory while
-they live. We, too, as it were, have "seen
-Shelley plain." He charmed, he fascinated. This,
-in truth, describes him for his spell wrought even
-on those who actually disliked him.
-
-In the numerous notices printed of him since
-he died much has been written of the promise of
-his career. More appropriate it would be to
-write of his performance. He crowded into
-thirty-six years of life far more than most men
-achieve in twice that span. Now the orator is
-silent, the brilliant wit has ceased to sparkle,
-the skilful pen will ply no more. Tom Kettle
-knows at last the answer to the riddle that baffled
-him, the Riddle of the Universe.
-
-Well may we mourn--
-
- | *For Lycidas is dead;*
- | *Young Lycidas: dead ere his prime,*
- | *And hath not left his peer.*
- |
- | WILLIAM DAWSON.
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- CONTENTS
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- PERSONAL
-
-.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line
-
- `Dedication Sonnet: To my Wife`_
- `To my daughter Betty, the gift of God`_
- `On Leaving Ireland`_
- `Epigram`_
-
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- EARLY POEMS
-
-.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line
-
- `To Young Ireland`_
- `Sowing`_
- `Dreams and Duty`_
- `A Song of Vengeance`_
-
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- TRANSLATIONS
-
-.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line
-
- 1At Achensee, Tirol`_
- 1The Monks`_
-
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- MISCELLANEOUS
-
-.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line
-
- `The Lady of Life`_
- `When others see us as we see ourselves`_
- `Ennui`_
- `Ballad Autumnal`_
- `The Lost Ball`_
-
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- POLITICAL
-
-.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line
-
- `Parnell`_
- `The House of Lords: An Epitaph`_
- `Reason in Rhyme`_
- `Asquith in Dublin`_
- `Ulster`_
- `To Ireland`_
-
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- WAR POEMS
-
-.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line
-
- `Paddy`_
- `Sergeant Mike O'Leary`_
- `A Nation's Freedom`_
- `A Song of the Irish Armies`_
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. class:: noindent small
-
- Permission to reprint several of the
- poems in this Volume has been kindly
- granted by the proprietors of the
- *Daily Chronicle, Freeman's Journal,
- Cork Examiner,* Messrs. MAUNSEL &
- Co., Ltd.. and THE TALBOT PRESS
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`DEDICATION SONNET: To My Wife`:
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- PERSONAL
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-..
-
- | "Memorial I would have
- | ... a constant presence
- | with those that love me"
-
-.. vspace:: 3
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- DEDICATION SONNET
-
-.. vspace:: 2
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- TO MY WIFE
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | "Not the sea, only, wrecks the hopes of men,
- | Look deeper, there is shipwreck everywhere,"
- | So mourned the exquisite Roman's rich despair,
- | Too high in death for that ignoble pen.
- | Nero, his wrecker, is amply wrecked since then,
- | And all that Rome's a whiff of charnel air;
- | But to subdue Petronius' mal-de-mer
- | Have we found drugs? I pray you, What? and When?
- |
- | Shipwreck, one grieves to say, retains its vogue:
- | Or let the keel win on in stouter fashion,
- | And look! your golden lie of Tir-na-n'Og
- | Is sunset and waste waters, chill and ashen--
- | Faith lasts? Nay, since I knew your yielded eyes,
- | I am content with sight .... of Paradise.
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`TO MY DAUGHTER BETTY, THE GIFT OF GOD`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- TO MY DAUGHTER BETTY,
- THE GIFT OF GOD
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- (ELIZABETH DOROTHY)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
- | To beauty proud as was your mother's prime,
- | In that desired, delayed, incredible time,
- | You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
- | And the dear heart that was your baby throne,
- | To dice with death. And oh! they'll give you rhyme
- | And reason: some will call the thing sublime,
- | And some decry it in a knowing tone.
- | So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
- | And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,
- | Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
- | Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,
- | But for a dream, born in a herdsman's shed,
- | And for the secret Scripture of the poor.
- |
- | the field, before Guillemont, Somme,
- | September 4, 1916.
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`on leaving ireland`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- ON LEAVING IRELAND
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- (JULY 14, 1916)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: smaller
-
-The pathos of departure is indubitable.
-
-.. class:: smaller
-
-I never felt my own essay "On saying Good-Bye"
-so profoundly *aux tréfonds du coeur*. The sun was a
-clear globe of blood which we caught hanging over Ben
-Edar, with a trail of pure blood vibrating to us across the
-waves. It dropped into darkness before we left the deck.
-Some lines came to me, suggested by a friend who thought
-the mood cynical.
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | As the sun died in blood, and hill and sea
- | Grew to an altar, red with mystery,
- | One came who knew me (it may be over-much)
- | Seeking the cynical and staining touch,
- | But I, against the great sun's burial
- | Thought only of bayonet-flash and bugle-call,
- | And saw him as God's eye upon the deep,
- | Closed in the dream in which no women weep,
- | And knew that even I shall fall on sleep.
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`epigram`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- EPIGRAM
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | If grief, like fire, smoked up against our sight,
- | The Earth were scarfèd in eternal night.
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`to young ireland`:
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- EARLY POEMS
-
-.. vspace:: 3
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- TO YOUNG IRELAND
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- (WRITTEN IN 1899)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | Dead! art thou dead or sleepest, in this blank, twilight time,
- | When hearts are sere and pithless? Land of the sword and lyre!
- | Thy waxen lips are silent, thy brow is bound with rime,
- | Hast thou late wed with winter, child of earth's primal fire?
- |
- | The sheathèd blade rusts foully, through bitter, barren years,
- | And harp and pen are bond slaves, thralls to thy children's shame.
- | We garner cockle harvests, vain words and little fleers.
- | From waste lands sown with rancour, search them with proving flame!
- |
- | We droop'd, stark sons of warfare, we blushed and slunk from day,
- | While Love and Truth and Honour died in mere fretful fume.
- | Free brain, free brawn, is given us, then sweep we from our way
- | These shamers of our mother, this idle, noisome spume.
- |
- | For, lo! an army gathers around a standard clean;
- | I gird me dinted armour, and press to touch the throng.
- | Hark! Hark! The minstrels' war-hymn in very strength serene,
- | My harp is harsh of utterance, yet take a pupil's song.
- |
- | Then stout heart join our battle! who hail an eastern sun,
- | Our toil shall set this people upon earth's purest height.
- | Then faint heart join our battle! and if our sands be run,
- | At least we caoin a swan-lay upon the edge of night.
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`sowing`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- SOWING
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: center medium
-
- (WRITTEN IN 1899)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | One mocked: "Thy brain is mad with wine;
- | The fairies spin the threads of night,
- | And pour their vials of sour blight
- | About the roots of health, yet thine
- | And thou, ye garner into verse
- | Bright flowers to trick a solemn hearse:
- | The cowslip, maiden-love of spring,
- | The burning incense of the rose,
- | The austere lily, her that blows
- | By winter's marge--each gracious thing
- | Past or unborn. Weak, trusting fool!
- | Old Time shall file thee in his school."
- |
- | "I know not Time, his last or first;
- | With master hands I despoil all
- | His hoarded sweetness and his gall.
- | I crush the aeons for my thirst,
- | And so am mad. Pencils of fire
- | Limn visions of soul-large desire.
- |
- | In Faith I cast on frozen ground
- | An obscure life of sweat and tears;
- | In the far Autumn of the years
- | Men reap full harvests, springing round,
- | And judge them gifts of kindly chance,
- | My deed laughs through each mellow lance."
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`dreams and duty`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- DREAMS AND DUTY
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | Life is an inconstant April laughing into May,
- | Weeping with the aftergust of March storms laid away,
- | Light o' love! Her mood is gracious, fondling sunbeams stray
- | Out across the cloud-smoke purple of her cloud robes gray.
- | Let us dream among the daisies, troll a roundelay
- | Where the gorse gold is lavished, and the lilies pray,
- | Mary's nuns, whose stainless gift is Heaven's chaliced ray,
- | Let us twine a wreath of science, let us play our play,
- | Ere we fight the fight of ages, one sweet prelude-day.
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: center white-space-pre-line
-
- \* \* \* \* \*
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | The stranger heard and mocked us from the usurped throne,
- | Reeled in his scornful laughter, eater of hearts, blood-blown.
- | But the Lord God heard and heeded, therefore we do not moan;
- | For He has whispered to us, 'The secret shuttles fly,
- | Ye know not warp or weaver, yet neither swerve or sigh,
- | The eater of hearts shall wither, the drinker of blood shall die.
- | I have set you labour, work it; I will give you increase,
- | For first is winter-ploughing, after, my guerdon, peace;
- | Ye shall pluck strength from sorrow, ripe when the sorrows cease;
- | Ye shall win strength and wisdom to break the stranger's rule,
- | But if ye slink and babble ye are but as the fools,
- | Ye are but as the stranger, fit for the thorny schools."
-
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`A SONG OF VENGEANCE`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- A SONG OF VENGEANCE
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: center medium white-space-pre-line
-
- FOR COMMANDANT SCHEEPERS
- (Murdered January 18, 1902)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | It is done inexpiably; thrust him deep in shameful clay,
- | Charge his name with every foulness, rule the world's ear as you may--
- | But the shadow at your banquet that you cannot put away!
- |
- | Weak you thought him, sickness-vanquished, given to your eager hate.
- | So you played him and you slew him with your feline shows of state,
- | Weak--and lo! the sanctifying touch of death has made him great.
- |
- | As a seed that broadening splits the rock on which a palace stands,
- | As a trickling breach that godlike parts one land in hostile lands,
- | Is the memory of Scheepers and his slaying at your hands.
- |
- | Hill and plain and stream shall guard it, town and fireside, phrase and song;
- | Young men's unsubdued aspiring, old men's striving wise and strong;
- | And though Hope die, Hatred may not for remembrance of his wrong.
- |
- | Murdered leader--may God fold you in the mercy of His temple,
- | Sleep as sleep our unborn children, bravest hero and example--
- | Float the flag or sink for ever, your red eric shall be ample.
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`AT ACHENSEE, TIROL`:
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- TRANSLATIONS
-
-.. vspace:: 3
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- AT ACHENSEE, TIROL
-
-.. class:: center smaller
-
- (From the German of A. Pickler.--Died, 1893)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | The old path up, the wood's ranked gloomy legions,
- | The lap and the rustle of the lake behind,
- | And, roused by these, from Death's more timely regions
- | The old thoughts fluttering in a lonely mind;
- |
- | About my way the pine-stems thick and thicker
- | Huddle, the mossed stone drips abundantly,
- | And, thro' the screen of woven branches, flicker
- | The bright and heaving waves of Achensee.
- |
- | Pinewood and primrose scents, the air has mixt them;
- | Poised butterflies, a shining sun-bathed fleet,
- | Sky's blue, gaunt granite jags, and buoyed betwixt them,
- | The cloud-fleece flushing with the day's defeat.
- |
- | The spell is on me, nor can aught deliver;
- | Slowly my spirit fails from life and light,
- | And Past and Future like a pauseless river,
- | Slide darkly down into a darker night.
- |
- | The red glow wans, the blackbird's trill and quaver
- | Dies in the sudden gloom, the broad world sleeps;
- | And, mixed with moon-fire flakes, the billows waver,
- | As though dead hands tossed vainly in their deeps.
- |
- | I think of the high dead, and that all-daring
- | First bard whom Orcus' self might not withstand,
- | I think of his vast love, and fruitless faring,
- | To pluck one rose from Proserpine's hand.
- |
- | The Past is an ill riddle, over-subtle,
- | The Thing-to-Be a rumour of a cloud,
- | Would know the last weft of Fate's whirring shuttle?
- | You *shall* know, when they wind you in your shroud.
- |
- | Innsbruck, 18th July, 1904.
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`the monks`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- THE MONKS
-
-.. class:: center smaller white-space-pre-line
-
- A translation from EMILE VERHAEREN.
- Dedicated to Father Benedict, 1905.
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | I do invoke you here, Monks Apostolical,
- | Fountains of dawn, torches of faith, wrought candlesticks;
- | Stars shedding day across the ages mystical;
- | Builders whose walls for scutcheon bear the Crucifix.
- |
- | Hermits who sat on white, high mountains for a throne;
- | Hewn marble quick with will, and strength, and angry truth;
- | Preachers with arms uplift and long sleeves loosely blown
- | Over bowed heads, and hearts gnawn of the sateless tooth.
- |
- | Windows athrob with dawn, rich with all Eastern dyes;
- | Vases of chastity whose fulness might not cease;
- | Mirrors whose depths enfold, as lakes the dreaming skies,
- | Hills where our dreams have breath, fair valleys brimmed with peace.
- |
- | Seers whose souls, foreknowing death's enfranchisement,
- | Walked secretly where walks the mere flesh of no feet;
- | Titans whose breath was more than squadroned argument;
- | Kings strange to Rome set up in Rome's imperial seat.
- |
- | Swords hung above the pride of kings and emperors;
- | Lords of a prouder crown and a more grievious loss;
- | Warriors whose flag was spread in more tremendous wars,
- | Slayers of heresy with great blows of the Cross.
- |
- | Arches and aqueducts of Christian sanctity,
- | Pillars of silver, channels pouring from the East
- | Rivers of grace at which the peoples thirstily
- | Have drunk, and quaffed desire for the unending Feast.
- |
- | Tocsins with war and wounds in your most sombre roll;
- | Clarions whose proud, full throats salute the captain Christ;
- | Towers of the sun, whose crosses wear an aureole
- | Litten of that far Sun Who was the Sacrificed.
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`the lady of life`:
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- MISCELLANEOUS
-
-.. vspace:: 3
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- THE LADY OF LIFE
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | I sat with her, and spoke right goldenly
- | Of love and beauty, and because her hair
- | Brushed me, I plucked down Sirius like a pear,
- | To braid it, and had laughter for my fee;
- | Yea, suing her to heavier slavery.
- | Had all but plucked the fruitage of her lips,
- | When, lo! inked clouds and absolute eclipse,
- | Courteous, but unmistakable ennui.
- |
- | Then did I mind me of the sorrow wailed
- | Thro' poets' books, and how the streaming torch
- | Of suns greater than Sirius has failed,
- | And as I shambled out the menial's door
- | I heard new feet sound in the statued porch
- | And salutations I had heard before.
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`WHEN OTHERS SEE US AS WE SEE OURSELVES`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- WHEN OTHERS SEE US AS WE SEE OURSELVES!
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | Day, with his blotting trumpet, overthrew
- | My city of dream, and, with his marshalled spears,
- | My thought that had the unperforming years
- | Amended and laid the base of heaven true;
- | But pitying, signed me priest with chrismal dew,
- | And I went telling of expatriate tears,
- | Of Hate cast out with all his sworded peers,
- | And tower-tops spiring to the gods anew.
- | One gibed, one wept, one with his drowséd air
- | Chilled me to very stone, but no man hearkened;
- | So to my love I went--ah! once love darkened
- | Her eyes, and in that darkness I could hide--
- | Why should they couch them? In her alien stare
- | I knew she knew all Christs I had denied.
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`ennui`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- ENNUI
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | I saw the loath moon rise,
- | The sun go sweatily down;
- | There was famine of sleep in his eyes;
- | She was a floating frown.
- |
- | They nodded heavily
- | Over an ancient roof,
- | With a pout o' the shoulders, she,
- | He with a grind o' the hoof.
- |
- | And the moon said to the sun:
- | "Another day to irk us!"
- | The sun to the touzled moon,
- | "Imagine it a circus."
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`BALLAD AUTUMNAL`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- BALLAD AUTUMNAL
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: small
-
-(In which Any Old Fool of an idealistic turn,
-explains--probably without the palest colour of truth--to Any
-Other, infected with the same disease, the failure of their
-lives, labours, and dreams, and the triumph of the wise
-of this world.)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | Hair greying, ashen eyes, uncomely ridges,
- | Autumn of things ill-done, and things undone:
- | How all that water, slipped beneath the bridges,
- | Chills the adieux of our defeated sun!
- | What paltry, unresisted jettison
- | Of dear hopes held, and there the graveyard West,
- | With mud, miasma, mastless hulks, and midges!--
- | We have not lived as wisely as the rest.
- |
- | That wasteful trick of yours, that gust prodigious
- | Of dreams too great for their comparison,
- | Blew stars ablaze, but drowned us in the ditches.
- | Sad, generous, valiant, tired ephemeron!
- | Had we but coined the vision when it shone
- | We, too, had ruled, and mocked the dispossessed.
- | Well! we have rags, the prudent have the riches--
- | We have not lived as wisely as the rest.
- |
- | They squeezed us, and forgot: your Je m'en fiche's
- | Struck in too bloodily to pass for fun.
- | Our bread was nibbled by the water-witches,
- | All that we have is given, and is gone.
- | Some penny, wheedled for a currant bun,
- | Some shirtless, soapless starveling, uncaressed,
- | Still thanks us for, but not our fed ambitious--
- | We have not lived as wisely as the rest.
- |
- |
- | ENVOI
- |
- | Prince, lift your heart up out of Acheron,
- | Death bows us gravely to that cleaner test.
- | Yea! when all books are closed, all races run,
- | We may have lived as wisely as the rest.
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`the lost ball`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- THE LOST BALL
-
-.. class:: center small white-space-pre-line
-
- (A golfing rhapsody suggested by "The Lost Chord.")
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | Playing one day at the seaside, I was topping my balls on the tees,
- | And the sand and the bent were littered with fragments of double D's;
- | Piffle supreme I was playing, and varying "slice" with "pull,"
- | But I hit one ball a wallop like a kick of a Spanish bull.
- |
- | It whistled its way towards Heaven in a rocket's magic flight;
- | It cancelled the crimson sunset like the shroud of a moonless night;
- | It knocked the paint off a rainbow and scattered the stars like bees;
- | And sped thro' the stellar spaces as tho' it would never cease.
- |
- | It looped the loop like Pégoud in parabolic curves;
- | It was salve to my wounded feelings and balm to my ruffled nerves;
- | It clove my opponent's gizzard like the stab of a Lascar's knife;
- | And produced the hardest swearing I have ever heard in my life.
- |
- | I have sought in the bent and the bushes that one magnificent ball;
- | It may be Antartic crystals were broken by its fall;
- | It may be that Death as Caddy may light on the spot it fell;
- | I may have holed out in Heaven or find myself trapped in Hell.
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`parnell`:
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- POLITICAL
-
-.. vspace:: 3
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- PARNELL
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-.. class:: center small
-
- (For the unveiling, 1st October, 1911)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | Tears will betray all pride, but when ye mourn him,
- | Be it in soldier wise;
- | As for a captain who hath gently borne him,
- | And in the midnight dies.
- |
- | Fewness of words is best; he was too great
- | For ours or any phrase.
- | Love could not guess, nor the slipped hound of hate
- | Track that soul's secret ways.
- |
- | Signed with a sign, unbroken, unrevealed,
- | His Calvary he trod;
- | So let him keep, where all world-wounds are healed
- | The silences of God.
- |
- | Yet is he Ireland's too: a flaming coal
- | Lit at the stars, and sent
- | To burn the sin of patience from her soul,
- | The scandal of content.
- |
- | A name to be a trumpet of attack;
- | And, in the evil stress,
- | For England's iron No! to fling her back
- | A grim granatic Yes.
- |
- | He taught us more, this best as it was last:
- | When comrades go apart
- | They shall go greatly, cancelling the past,
- | Slaying the kindlier heart.
- |
- | Friendship and love, all clean things and unclean,
- | Shall be as drifted leaves,
- | Spurned by our Ireland's feet, that queenliest Queen
- | Who gives not but receives.
- |
- | So freedom comes, and comes no other wise;
- | He gave--"The Chief"--gave well;
- | Limned in his blood across your clearing skies
- | Look up and read; Parnell!
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`THE HOUSE OF LORDS: AN EPITAPH`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- THE HOUSE OF LORDS: AN EPITAPH
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | So you proscribe, and you forbid
- | Peace, and the trooping ghosts of hate
- | Enfranchise of the coffin-lid--
- | Your lordships' lordship speaks too late.
- |
- | That word had held when yours, for you,
- | Thieving and reaving smote us first:
- | If souls were crooked, swords were true;
- | They took and kept because they durst.
- |
- | Still, though the pride of naked swords
- | Passed to a meaner, stouter hand,
- | You said, and it was done, my lords,
- | Yours was the law, and yours the land.
- |
- | You clove the priest, you robbed the shrine,
- | With spoil of Paul and Peter fat,
- | Brimmed altar-cups with altar-wine
- | To toast your new Magnificat.
- |
- | The poor, who are the lords of death,
- | To you were mud in foundered ways;
- | Your sun was red Elizabeth,
- | Your noon, the Dutchman's Penal days.
- |
- | Hunger and halters, grey despair,
- | Marah of exile, coastless seas,
- | Baal for master-minister--
- | You gave, my lords, and took your ease.
- |
- | And then, in Paris, patience broke;
- | "Who is this thing that should oppress?"
- | Men asked: "And shall we bear his yoke.
- | This idle whiff of nothingness?"
- |
- | That was your lordships' epitaph;
- | Still might you sell a nation's soul,
- | Spit on its tomb, and yawn and laugh,
- | But, thief to thief, the judgment stole.
- |
- | This Ireland whom my lords despised--
- | Languid behind inverted thumbs--
- | She who believed and agonised
- | Leads on the loud, victorious drums.
- |
- | Wave huddled wave, and now the last
- | Havocs your castle, built of sand--
- | We take the future, you the past,
- | Ours is the State, the Flag, the Land.
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`reason in rhyme`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- REASON IN RHYME
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | Will Watson, of the still unanchored art;
- | What random gust, what overwhelming sea
- | Has riven you apart
- | From us, and from the flagship of the free?
- | You whose rich phrase, and vibrant, wont to be
- | Trumpet and drum of onset and attack;
- | Who, when of Abdul's ways you stooped to sing,
- | Would give us just the dire, full-throated thing;
- | Now, when that much-damned man has got the sack,
- | You change your tune, and make to pipe us back
- | From honour, and the task of Liberty!
- | Why argue, though? The plain position is
- | You are mistaken in your premises.
- | You blind your sight with hot, emotional mists,
- | Your way of thought is greatly too morose
- | And moist and lachrymose,
- | For us, a muddled State's last realists.
- | We Irish, to be brief,
- | Are nowise grievers for the sake of grief.
- | I pray you, dry those sympathetic tears,
- | They rust the will; and, Will, your nation's sin
- | Is no dead shame, meet to be covered in,
- | But a live fact that sears.
- | Cancel the past? Soothly when it befalls
- | That ye amend the present, and are just,
- | Go knock your head on Dublin Castle walls:
- | Are they irrelevant, historic dust,
- | Or a hard present-tense?
- | Search through the large print of the Statute Book
- | For your much-valued Lords' benevolence,
- | And swept in vision westward, snatch a look
- | At that dim land, where hunger claims to be
- | The honoured guest in every family;
- | And the slain sun writes, in a scribble of shame,
- | The word of utter Hell, Clanricarde's name.
- | Go South and North;
- | Weep, if you will, along the dismal quays,
- | Watching the unreturning ships go forth
- | To fling our seed of strength and hope and worth
- | In far, untributary ways.
- | And then the soul is something--at least in verse.
- | Ours, poet, is to be a thing of straw,
- | A stained, numb thing, that sits without the law
- | Of yours, great master of the universe?
- | Most nobly planned! But, Watson, there's a text--
- | Done in stout English in King James's reign--
- | Which says that souls are not to be annexed,
- | Not for the whole world's gain.
- | Cancel the past! Why, yes! We, too, have thought
- | Of conflict crowned and drowned in olives of peace;
- | But when Cuchullin and Ferdiadh fought
- | There lacked no pride of warrior courtesies,
- | And so must this fight end.
- | Bond, from the toil of hate we may not cease:
- | Free, we are free to be your friend.
- | And when you make your banquet, and we come,
- | Soldier with equal soldier must we sit,
- | Closing a battle, not forgetting it.
- | With not a name to hide,
- | This mate and mother of valiant "rebels" dead
- | Must come with all her history on her head.
- | We keep the past for pride:
- | No deepest peace shall strike our poets dumb:
- | No rawest squad of all Death's volunteers,
- | No rudest man who died
- | To tear your flag down in the bitter years,
- | But shall have praise, and three times thrice again,
- | When at that table men shall drink with men.
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`asquith in dublin`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- ASQUITH IN DUBLIN
-
-.. class:: small center
-
- (AUGUST, 1912)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | You stepped your steps, and the music marched, and the torches tossed
- | As you filled your streets with your comic Pentecost,
- | And the little English went by and the lights grew dim;
- | We, dumb in the shouting crowd, we thought of Him.
- |
- | Of Him, too great for our souls and ways,
- | Too great for laughter or love, praise or dispraise,
- | Of Him, and the wintry swords, and the closing gloom--
- | Of Him going forth alone to His lonely doom.
- |
- | No shouts, my Dublin then! Not a light nor a cry--
- | You kept them all till now, when the little English go by!
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`ulster`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- ULSTER
-
-.. class:: center small
-
- (A REPLY TO RUDYARD KIPLING)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | The red, redeeming dawn
- | Kindled in Easter skies,
- | Falls like God's judgment on
- | Lawyers, and lords, and lies.
- | What care these evil things,
- | Though menaced and perplexed,
- | While Kipling's banjo strings
- | Blaspheme a sacred text?
- |
- | Never did freemen stand,
- | Never were captains met,
- | From Dargai to the Rand,
- | From Parnell to De Wet,
- | Never, on native sod,
- | Weak Justice fared the worst,
- | But Kipling's Cockney "Gawd"
- | Most impotently cursed.
- |
- | So now, when Lenten years
- | Burgeon, at last, to bless
- | This land of Faith and Tears
- | With fruitful nobleness,
- | The poet, for a coin,
- | Hands to the gabbling rout
- | A bucketful of Boyne
- | To put the sunrise out.
- |
- | "Ulster" is ours, not yours,
- | Is ours to have and hold,
- | Our hills and lakes and moors
- | Have shaped her in our mould.
- | Derry to Limerick Walls
- | Fused us in battle flame;
- | Limerick to Derry calls
- | One strong-shared Irish name.
- |
- | We keep the elder faith,
- | Not slain by Cromwell's sword;
- | Nor bribed to subtler death
- | By William's broken word.
- | Free from those chains, and free
- | From hate for hate endured,
- | We share the liberty
- | Our lavish blood assured.
- |
- | One place, one dream, one doom,
- | One task and toil assigned,
- | Union of plough and loom
- | Have bound us and shall bind.
- | The wounds of labour healed,
- | Life rescued and made fair--
- | There lies the battlefield
- | Of Ulster's holy war.
-
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`to ireland`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- TO IRELAND
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | Men so worthy
- | Suffered for Thee,
- | Men so poor can die;
- | Then come gather
- | All, or rather
- | Those who ask not why.
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`PADDY`:
-
-.. class:: center large
-
- WAR POEMS
-
-.. vspace:: 3
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- PADDY
-
-.. class:: center small
-
- (After Mr. Kipling)
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | I went into the talkin' shop to see about the Bill;
- | The Premier 'e ups and says: "We're waitin' ... waitin' still!"
- | The Tories grinned, and Balfour strung our gamble Haman-high,
- | I outs into the street again, and to meself sez I:
- | O, it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, an' "A cattle-driven crew!"
- | But 'twas "Murphy o' the Munsters!" when the trump of battle blew.
- | When the wind of battle blew, my boys, when the blast of battle blew,
- | It was Burke, and Shea and Kelly when we marched to Waterloo.
- |
- | I looked into a newspaper to see about the land
- | That bred the man who broke the sin that Bonaparte planned;
- | They'd room for cricket scores, and tips, and trash of every kind,
- | But when I asked of Ireland's cause, it seemed to be behind.
- | For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, and "Don't annoy us, please!"
- | But it's "Irish Rifles forward--Fast!" when the bullets talk like bees,
- | When the bullets yawn like bees, my boys, when the bullets yawn like bees,
- | It's "Connaught blood is good enough" when they're chanting R.I.P's.
- |
- | Yes! Sneerin' round at Irishmen, and Irish speech and ways
- | Is cheaper--much--than snatchin' guns from battle's red amaze:
- | And when the damned Death's-Head-Dragoons roll up the ruddy tide
- | The *Times* won't spare a Smith to tell how Dan O'Connell died.
- | For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, and "The Fifth'll prate and prance!"
- | But it's "Corks and Inniskillings--Front!" when Hell is loose in France,
- | When Clare and Kerry take the call that crowns the shrapnel dance,
- | O, it's "Find the Dublin Fusiliers!" when Hell is loose in France.
- |
- | We ain't no saints or scholars much, but fightin' men and clean,
- | We've paid the price, and three times thrice for Wearin' o' the Green.
- | We held our hand out frank and fair, and half forgot Parnell,
- | For Ireland's hope and England's too--and it's yours to save or sell.
- | For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, "Who'll stop the Uhlan blade?"
- | But Tommy Fitz from Malahide, and Monaghan's McGlade,
- | When the ranks are set for judgment, lads, and the roses droop and fade,
- | It's "Ireland in the firin' line!" when the price of God is paid.
-
-
-.. vspace:: 4
-
-.. _`SERGEANT MIKE O'LEARY`:
-
-.. class:: center large white-space-pre-line
-
- SERGEANT MIKE O'LEARY
-
-.. vspace:: 1
-
-..
-
- | It was Sergeant Mike O'Leary who broke the barricade,
- | Who took the chance, and won the Cross that crowns the bayonet trade;
- | 'Twas "M'anam do Dhia," and "How's your heart," and "How could we forget?"
- | But Michael from Inchigeela will fill a ballad yet.
- |
- | Oh! a fair and pleasant land is Cork for wit and courtesy,
- | Ballyvourney East and Baile Dubh and Kilworth to the sea:
- | And when they light the turf to-night, spit, stamp, swear as of yore,
- | It's the Sergeant Mike O'Leary's ghosts that ward the southern shore.
-
-
-
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-.. _`a nation's freedom`:
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- A NATION'S FREEDOM
-
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-..
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- | Word of the Tsar! and the drowse malign is broken;
- | The stone is rolled from the tomb and Poland free,
- | This is the strong evangel. The guns have spoken;
- | And the scribble of flame of the guns is Liberty.
- |
- | Have you not met her, my lords, a-walk in the garden,
- | Ranging the dawn, even she, the three times dead?
- | Nay! But in bondage, sundered from light and pardon--
- | But now the water is wine, and the marriage read.
- |
- | Word of the Tsar! My lords, I think of another
- | Crowned with dolour, forbidden the sun abased,
- | Bloodied, unbroken, abiding--Ah! Queen, my Mother,
- | I have prayed the feet of the Judgment of God to haste.
- |
- | Count me the price in blood that we have not squandered,
- | Spendthrifts of blood from our cradle, wastefully true,
- | Name me the sinister fields where the Wild Geese wandered,
- | Lille and Cremona and Landen and Waterloo.
- |
- | When the white steel-foam swept on the tidal onset,
- | When the last wave lapsed, and the sea turned back to its sleep,
- | We were there in the waste and the wreckage, Queen of the Sunset!
- | Paying the price of the dreams that cannot sleep.
- |
- | The altar is set; we uplift again the chalice;
- | The priest is in purple; the bell booms to the sacrifice.
- | The trumpets summon to death, and Ireland rallies--
- | Tool or free? We have paid, and over-paid, the price.
- |
- | Word of the Tsar! And Russia rises to vision,
- | Poland and Ireland--thus, my lords, was an augured fate.
- | The days draw in, and the ways narrow down to decision--
- | Will they chaffer, and cheapen, and ruin, or yield to be great?
-
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- Written in Belgium, August, 1914
-
-
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-.. _`A SONG OF THE IRISH ARMIES`:
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- A SONG OF THE IRISH ARMIES
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- | A wind blew out of the Prussian plain;
- | It scourged Liege, and it broke Louvain,
- | And Belgium shook with the tramp of Cain,
- | That a Kaiser might be mad.
- | "Iron is God!"--and they served him well--
- | "Honour a mark for shot and shell."
- | So they loosed the devils out of Hell
- | From Birr to Allahabad.
- |
- |
- | THE OLD SOLDIERS SING:
- |
- | But we took them from Mons to the banks of the Marne,
- | And helped them back on their red return;
- | We can swim the Rhine if the bridges burn,
- | And Mike O'Leary's the lad!
- |
- | Not for this did our fathers fall;
- | That truth, and pity, and love, and all
- | Should break in dust at a trumpet call,
- | Yea! all things clean and old.
- | Not to this had we sacrificed:
- | To sit at the last where the slayers diced,
- | With blood-hot hands for the robes of Christ,
- | And snatch at the Devil's gold.
- |
- |
- | THE NEW SOLDIERS SING:
- |
- | To Odin's challenge we cried Amen!
- | We stayed the plough, and laid by the pen,
- | And we shouldered our guns like gentlemen,
- | That the wiser weak should hold.
- |
- | Blood on the land, and blood on the sea?
- | So it stands as ordained to be,
- | Stamp, and signet, and guarantee
- | Of the better ways we knew.
- |
- | Time for the plough when the sword has won;
- | The loom will wait on the crashing gun,
- | And the hands of peace drop benison
- | When the task of death is through.
- |
- |
- | OLD AND NEW SOLDIERS SING:
- |
- | Then lift the flag of the Last Crusade!
- | And fill the ranks of the Last Brigade!
- | March on to the fields where the world's re-made,
- | And the Ancient Dreams come true!
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diff --git a/38898-rst/images/img-cover.jpg b/38898-rst/images/img-cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index b54ab7f..0000000 --- a/38898-rst/images/img-cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/38898-rst/images/img-front.jpg b/38898-rst/images/img-front.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index d6327c8..0000000 --- a/38898-rst/images/img-front.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/38898.txt b/38898.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e10eed7..0000000 --- a/38898.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1485 +0,0 @@ - POEMS AND PARODIES - - - - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost -no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.org/license. - - - -Title: Poems and Parodies -Author: T. M. Kettle -Release Date: December 06, 2012 [EBook #38898] -Language: English -Character set encoding: US-ASCII - - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS AND PARODIES *** - - - - -Produced by Al Haines. - - - - -[Illustration: Cover] - - - - -[Illustration: T. M. Kettle] - - - - - POEMS & PARODIES - - - BY - T. M. KETTLE - - - - DUBLIN - THE TALBOT PRESS - 1916 - - - - - Printed by - The Educational Company of Ireland - at - THE TALBOT PRESS - 89 Talbot St., Dublin - - - - - TOM KETTLE - - 1880-1916 - - -Two simple words, charged now for some of us with sad and infinite -memories. It is not the death of the Professor, nor of the soldier, nor -of the politician--nor even of the poet or the essayist--that causes the -heart-ache that we feel. It is the loss of that rare, charming, -wondrous personality summed up in those two simple words, TOM KETTLE. - -A genial cynic, a pleasant pessimist, an earnest trifler, he was made up -of contradictions. A fellow of infinite jest--and infinite sadness. -His prototypes were Hamlet or the Melancholy Jacques. Among the -delightful essays he has left us in that charming little book, _The -Day's Burden_, is one entitled "A new way of misunderstanding _Hamlet_." -He was himself a veritable Hamlet in this twentieth century Ireland. -One may ask, did he quite understand himself? Master of paradox, -enunciator of enigma, he was a paradox and an enigma in, and to, -himself. Shall we seek now to pluck out the heart of his mystery? The -lines are hackneyed beyond hope, but in this instance they apply in -truth. - -The personality of Kettle had in it something subtle; something -essential yet elusive; something not to be defined. He was a great -talker in the Johnsonian sense. As a story-teller, it was not so much -the point of his tale that counted as his telling of it. The -divagations from the text in which he loved to indulge were the delight -of his auditors. With truth it may be said that his rich humour, his -brilliant, mordant wit, caused his listeners to hang upon his words. -And his outlook was so wide, his soul so big, his mind so broad, and a -deep love of humanity so permeated him that his talk, or one might more -fittingly say, his discourse, was educating and uplifting. But he was a -man of moods, descending from heights of Homeric humour to the depths of -a divine despair. Those privileged to hear him thus expounding will -cherish the memory while they live. We, too, as it were, have "seen -Shelley plain." He charmed, he fascinated. This, in truth, describes -him for his spell wrought even on those who actually disliked him. - -In the numerous notices printed of him since he died much has been -written of the promise of his career. More appropriate it would be to -write of his performance. He crowded into thirty-six years of life far -more than most men achieve in twice that span. Now the orator is -silent, the brilliant wit has ceased to sparkle, the skilful pen will -ply no more. Tom Kettle knows at last the answer to the riddle that -baffled him, the Riddle of the Universe. - -Well may we mourn-- - - _For Lycidas is dead;_ - _Young Lycidas: dead ere his prime,_ - _And hath not left his peer._ - - WILLIAM DAWSON. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - PERSONAL - -Dedication Sonnet: To my Wife -To my daughter Betty, the gift of God -On Leaving Ireland -Epigram - - - EARLY POEMS - -To Young Ireland -Sowing -Dreams and Duty -A Song of Vengeance - - - TRANSLATIONS - -1At Achensee, Tirol`_ -1The Monks`_ - - - MISCELLANEOUS - -The Lady of Life -When others see us as we see ourselves -Ennui -Ballad Autumnal -The Lost Ball - - - POLITICAL - -Parnell -The House of Lords: An Epitaph -Reason in Rhyme -Asquith in Dublin -Ulster -To Ireland - - - WAR POEMS - -Paddy -Sergeant Mike O'Leary -A Nation's Freedom -A Song of the Irish Armies - - - - -Permission to reprint several of the poems in this Volume has been -kindly granted by the proprietors of the _Daily Chronicle, Freeman's -Journal, Cork Examiner,_ Messrs. MAUNSEL & Co., Ltd.. and THE TALBOT -PRESS - - - - - PERSONAL - - - "Memorial I would have - ... a constant presence - with those that love me" - - - - DEDICATION SONNET - - - TO MY WIFE - - "Not the sea, only, wrecks the hopes of men, - Look deeper, there is shipwreck everywhere," - So mourned the exquisite Roman's rich despair, - Too high in death for that ignoble pen. - Nero, his wrecker, is amply wrecked since then, - And all that Rome's a whiff of charnel air; - But to subdue Petronius' mal-de-mer - Have we found drugs? I pray you, What? and When? - - Shipwreck, one grieves to say, retains its vogue: - Or let the keel win on in stouter fashion, - And look! your golden lie of Tir-na-n'Og - Is sunset and waste waters, chill and ashen-- - Faith lasts? Nay, since I knew your yielded eyes, - I am content with sight .... of Paradise. - - - - - TO MY DAUGHTER BETTY, - THE GIFT OF GOD - - (ELIZABETH DOROTHY) - - In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown - To beauty proud as was your mother's prime, - In that desired, delayed, incredible time, - You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own, - And the dear heart that was your baby throne, - To dice with death. And oh! they'll give you rhyme - And reason: some will call the thing sublime, - And some decry it in a knowing tone. - So here, while the mad guns curse overhead, - And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor, - Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead, - Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor, - But for a dream, born in a herdsman's shed, - And for the secret Scripture of the poor. - - the field, before Guillemont, Somme, - September 4, 1916. - - - - - ON LEAVING IRELAND - - (JULY 14, 1916) - -The pathos of departure is indubitable. - -I never felt my own essay "On saying Good-Bye" so profoundly _aux -trefonds du coeur_. The sun was a clear globe of blood which we caught -hanging over Ben Edar, with a trail of pure blood vibrating to us across -the waves. It dropped into darkness before we left the deck. Some lines -came to me, suggested by a friend who thought the mood cynical. - - As the sun died in blood, and hill and sea - Grew to an altar, red with mystery, - One came who knew me (it may be over-much) - Seeking the cynical and staining touch, - But I, against the great sun's burial - Thought only of bayonet-flash and bugle-call, - And saw him as God's eye upon the deep, - Closed in the dream in which no women weep, - And knew that even I shall fall on sleep. - - - - - EPIGRAM - - If grief, like fire, smoked up against our sight, - The Earth were scarfed in eternal night. - - - - - EARLY POEMS - - - - TO YOUNG IRELAND - - (WRITTEN IN 1899) - - Dead! art thou dead or sleepest, in this blank, twilight time, - When hearts are sere and pithless? Land of the sword and lyre! - Thy waxen lips are silent, thy brow is bound with rime, - Hast thou late wed with winter, child of earth's primal fire? - - The sheathed blade rusts foully, through bitter, barren years, - And harp and pen are bond slaves, thralls to thy children's - shame. - We garner cockle harvests, vain words and little fleers. - From waste lands sown with rancour, search them with proving - flame! - - We droop'd, stark sons of warfare, we blushed and slunk from - day, - While Love and Truth and Honour died in mere fretful fume. - Free brain, free brawn, is given us, then sweep we from our way - These shamers of our mother, this idle, noisome spume. - - For, lo! an army gathers around a standard clean; - I gird me dinted armour, and press to touch the throng. - Hark! Hark! The minstrels' war-hymn in very strength serene, - My harp is harsh of utterance, yet take a pupil's song. - - Then stout heart join our battle! who hail an eastern sun, - Our toil shall set this people upon earth's purest height. - Then faint heart join our battle! and if our sands be run, - At least we caoin a swan-lay upon the edge of night. - - - - - SOWING - - (WRITTEN IN 1899) - - One mocked: "Thy brain is mad with wine; - The fairies spin the threads of night, - And pour their vials of sour blight - About the roots of health, yet thine - And thou, ye garner into verse - Bright flowers to trick a solemn hearse: - The cowslip, maiden-love of spring, - The burning incense of the rose, - The austere lily, her that blows - By winter's marge--each gracious thing - Past or unborn. Weak, trusting fool! - Old Time shall file thee in his school." - - "I know not Time, his last or first; - With master hands I despoil all - His hoarded sweetness and his gall. - I crush the aeons for my thirst, - And so am mad. Pencils of fire - Limn visions of soul-large desire. - - In Faith I cast on frozen ground - An obscure life of sweat and tears; - In the far Autumn of the years - Men reap full harvests, springing round, - And judge them gifts of kindly chance, - My deed laughs through each mellow lance." - - - - - DREAMS AND DUTY - - Life is an inconstant April laughing into May, - Weeping with the aftergust of March storms laid away, - Light o' love! Her mood is gracious, fondling sunbeams stray - Out across the cloud-smoke purple of her cloud robes gray. - Let us dream among the daisies, troll a roundelay - Where the gorse gold is lavished, and the lilies pray, - Mary's nuns, whose stainless gift is Heaven's chaliced ray, - Let us twine a wreath of science, let us play our play, - Ere we fight the fight of ages, one sweet prelude-day. - - * * * * * - - The stranger heard and mocked us from the usurped throne, - Reeled in his scornful laughter, eater of hearts, blood-blown. - But the Lord God heard and heeded, therefore we do not moan; - For He has whispered to us, 'The secret shuttles fly, - Ye know not warp or weaver, yet neither swerve or sigh, - The eater of hearts shall wither, the drinker of blood shall - die. - I have set you labour, work it; I will give you increase, - For first is winter-ploughing, after, my guerdon, peace; - Ye shall pluck strength from sorrow, ripe when the sorrows - cease; - Ye shall win strength and wisdom to break the stranger's rule, - But if ye slink and babble ye are but as the fools, - Ye are but as the stranger, fit for the thorny schools." - - - - - A SONG OF VENGEANCE - - FOR COMMANDANT SCHEEPERS - (Murdered January 18, 1902) - - It is done inexpiably; thrust him deep in shameful clay, - Charge his name with every foulness, rule the world's ear as you - may-- - But the shadow at your banquet that you cannot put away! - - Weak you thought him, sickness-vanquished, given to your eager - hate. - So you played him and you slew him with your feline shows of - state, - Weak--and lo! the sanctifying touch of death has made him great. - - As a seed that broadening splits the rock on which a palace - stands, - As a trickling breach that godlike parts one land in hostile - lands, - Is the memory of Scheepers and his slaying at your hands. - - Hill and plain and stream shall guard it, town and fireside, - phrase and song; - Young men's unsubdued aspiring, old men's striving wise and - strong; - And though Hope die, Hatred may not for remembrance of his - wrong. - - Murdered leader--may God fold you in the mercy of His temple, - Sleep as sleep our unborn children, bravest hero and example-- - Float the flag or sink for ever, your red eric shall be ample. - - - - - TRANSLATIONS - - - - AT ACHENSEE, TIROL - - (From the German of A. Pickler.--Died, 1893) - - The old path up, the wood's ranked gloomy legions, - The lap and the rustle of the lake behind, - And, roused by these, from Death's more timely regions - The old thoughts fluttering in a lonely mind; - - About my way the pine-stems thick and thicker - Huddle, the mossed stone drips abundantly, - And, thro' the screen of woven branches, flicker - The bright and heaving waves of Achensee. - - Pinewood and primrose scents, the air has mixt them; - Poised butterflies, a shining sun-bathed fleet, - Sky's blue, gaunt granite jags, and buoyed betwixt them, - The cloud-fleece flushing with the day's defeat. - - The spell is on me, nor can aught deliver; - Slowly my spirit fails from life and light, - And Past and Future like a pauseless river, - Slide darkly down into a darker night. - - The red glow wans, the blackbird's trill and quaver - Dies in the sudden gloom, the broad world sleeps; - And, mixed with moon-fire flakes, the billows waver, - As though dead hands tossed vainly in their deeps. - - I think of the high dead, and that all-daring - First bard whom Orcus' self might not withstand, - I think of his vast love, and fruitless faring, - To pluck one rose from Proserpine's hand. - - The Past is an ill riddle, over-subtle, - The Thing-to-Be a rumour of a cloud, - Would know the last weft of Fate's whirring shuttle? - You _shall_ know, when they wind you in your shroud. - - Innsbruck, 18th July, 1904. - - - - - THE MONKS - - A translation from EMILE VERHAEREN. - Dedicated to Father Benedict, 1905. - - I do invoke you here, Monks Apostolical, - Fountains of dawn, torches of faith, wrought candlesticks; - Stars shedding day across the ages mystical; - Builders whose walls for scutcheon bear the Crucifix. - - Hermits who sat on white, high mountains for a throne; - Hewn marble quick with will, and strength, and angry truth; - Preachers with arms uplift and long sleeves loosely blown - Over bowed heads, and hearts gnawn of the sateless tooth. - - Windows athrob with dawn, rich with all Eastern dyes; - Vases of chastity whose fulness might not cease; - Mirrors whose depths enfold, as lakes the dreaming skies, - Hills where our dreams have breath, fair valleys brimmed with - peace. - - Seers whose souls, foreknowing death's enfranchisement, - Walked secretly where walks the mere flesh of no feet; - Titans whose breath was more than squadroned argument; - Kings strange to Rome set up in Rome's imperial seat. - - Swords hung above the pride of kings and emperors; - Lords of a prouder crown and a more grievious loss; - Warriors whose flag was spread in more tremendous wars, - Slayers of heresy with great blows of the Cross. - - Arches and aqueducts of Christian sanctity, - Pillars of silver, channels pouring from the East - Rivers of grace at which the peoples thirstily - Have drunk, and quaffed desire for the unending Feast. - - Tocsins with war and wounds in your most sombre roll; - Clarions whose proud, full throats salute the captain Christ; - Towers of the sun, whose crosses wear an aureole - Litten of that far Sun Who was the Sacrificed. - - - - - MISCELLANEOUS - - - - THE LADY OF LIFE - - I sat with her, and spoke right goldenly - Of love and beauty, and because her hair - Brushed me, I plucked down Sirius like a pear, - To braid it, and had laughter for my fee; - Yea, suing her to heavier slavery. - Had all but plucked the fruitage of her lips, - When, lo! inked clouds and absolute eclipse, - Courteous, but unmistakable ennui. - - Then did I mind me of the sorrow wailed - Thro' poets' books, and how the streaming torch - Of suns greater than Sirius has failed, - And as I shambled out the menial's door - I heard new feet sound in the statued porch - And salutations I had heard before. - - - - - WHEN OTHERS SEE US AS WE SEE OURSELVES! - - Day, with his blotting trumpet, overthrew - My city of dream, and, with his marshalled spears, - My thought that had the unperforming years - Amended and laid the base of heaven true; - But pitying, signed me priest with chrismal dew, - And I went telling of expatriate tears, - Of Hate cast out with all his sworded peers, - And tower-tops spiring to the gods anew. - One gibed, one wept, one with his drowsed air - Chilled me to very stone, but no man hearkened; - So to my love I went--ah! once love darkened - Her eyes, and in that darkness I could hide-- - Why should they couch them? In her alien stare - I knew she knew all Christs I had denied. - - - - - ENNUI - - I saw the loath moon rise, - The sun go sweatily down; - There was famine of sleep in his eyes; - She was a floating frown. - - They nodded heavily - Over an ancient roof, - With a pout o' the shoulders, she, - He with a grind o' the hoof. - - And the moon said to the sun: - "Another day to irk us!" - The sun to the touzled moon, - "Imagine it a circus." - - - - - BALLAD AUTUMNAL - -(In which Any Old Fool of an idealistic turn, explains--probably without -the palest colour of truth--to Any Other, infected with the same -disease, the failure of their lives, labours, and dreams, and the -triumph of the wise of this world.) - - Hair greying, ashen eyes, uncomely ridges, - Autumn of things ill-done, and things undone: - How all that water, slipped beneath the bridges, - Chills the adieux of our defeated sun! - What paltry, unresisted jettison - Of dear hopes held, and there the graveyard West, - With mud, miasma, mastless hulks, and midges!-- - We have not lived as wisely as the rest. - - That wasteful trick of yours, that gust prodigious - Of dreams too great for their comparison, - Blew stars ablaze, but drowned us in the ditches. - Sad, generous, valiant, tired ephemeron! - Had we but coined the vision when it shone - We, too, had ruled, and mocked the dispossessed. - Well! we have rags, the prudent have the riches-- - We have not lived as wisely as the rest. - - They squeezed us, and forgot: your Je m'en fiche's - Struck in too bloodily to pass for fun. - Our bread was nibbled by the water-witches, - All that we have is given, and is gone. - Some penny, wheedled for a currant bun, - Some shirtless, soapless starveling, uncaressed, - Still thanks us for, but not our fed ambitious-- - We have not lived as wisely as the rest. - - - ENVOI - - Prince, lift your heart up out of Acheron, - Death bows us gravely to that cleaner test. - Yea! when all books are closed, all races run, - We may have lived as wisely as the rest. - - - - - THE LOST BALL - - (A golfing rhapsody suggested by "The Lost Chord.") - - Playing one day at the seaside, I was topping my balls on the - tees, - And the sand and the bent were littered with fragments of double - D's; - Piffle supreme I was playing, and varying "slice" with "pull," - But I hit one ball a wallop like a kick of a Spanish bull. - - It whistled its way towards Heaven in a rocket's magic flight; - It cancelled the crimson sunset like the shroud of a moonless - night; - It knocked the paint off a rainbow and scattered the stars like - bees; - And sped thro' the stellar spaces as tho' it would never cease. - - It looped the loop like Pegoud in parabolic curves; - It was salve to my wounded feelings and balm to my ruffled - nerves; - It clove my opponent's gizzard like the stab of a Lascar's - knife; - And produced the hardest swearing I have ever heard in my life. - - I have sought in the bent and the bushes that one magnificent - ball; - It may be Antartic crystals were broken by its fall; - It may be that Death as Caddy may light on the spot it fell; - I may have holed out in Heaven or find myself trapped in Hell. - - - - - POLITICAL - - - - PARNELL - - (For the unveiling, 1st October, 1911) - - Tears will betray all pride, but when ye mourn him, - Be it in soldier wise; - As for a captain who hath gently borne him, - And in the midnight dies. - - Fewness of words is best; he was too great - For ours or any phrase. - Love could not guess, nor the slipped hound of hate - Track that soul's secret ways. - - Signed with a sign, unbroken, unrevealed, - His Calvary he trod; - So let him keep, where all world-wounds are healed - The silences of God. - - Yet is he Ireland's too: a flaming coal - Lit at the stars, and sent - To burn the sin of patience from her soul, - The scandal of content. - - A name to be a trumpet of attack; - And, in the evil stress, - For England's iron No! to fling her back - A grim granatic Yes. - - He taught us more, this best as it was last: - When comrades go apart - They shall go greatly, cancelling the past, - Slaying the kindlier heart. - - Friendship and love, all clean things and unclean, - Shall be as drifted leaves, - Spurned by our Ireland's feet, that queenliest Queen - Who gives not but receives. - - So freedom comes, and comes no other wise; - He gave--"The Chief"--gave well; - Limned in his blood across your clearing skies - Look up and read; Parnell! - - - - - THE HOUSE OF LORDS: AN EPITAPH - - So you proscribe, and you forbid - Peace, and the trooping ghosts of hate - Enfranchise of the coffin-lid-- - Your lordships' lordship speaks too late. - - That word had held when yours, for you, - Thieving and reaving smote us first: - If souls were crooked, swords were true; - They took and kept because they durst. - - Still, though the pride of naked swords - Passed to a meaner, stouter hand, - You said, and it was done, my lords, - Yours was the law, and yours the land. - - You clove the priest, you robbed the shrine, - With spoil of Paul and Peter fat, - Brimmed altar-cups with altar-wine - To toast your new Magnificat. - - The poor, who are the lords of death, - To you were mud in foundered ways; - Your sun was red Elizabeth, - Your noon, the Dutchman's Penal days. - - Hunger and halters, grey despair, - Marah of exile, coastless seas, - Baal for master-minister-- - You gave, my lords, and took your ease. - - And then, in Paris, patience broke; - "Who is this thing that should oppress?" - Men asked: "And shall we bear his yoke. - This idle whiff of nothingness?" - - That was your lordships' epitaph; - Still might you sell a nation's soul, - Spit on its tomb, and yawn and laugh, - But, thief to thief, the judgment stole. - - This Ireland whom my lords despised-- - Languid behind inverted thumbs-- - She who believed and agonised - Leads on the loud, victorious drums. - - Wave huddled wave, and now the last - Havocs your castle, built of sand-- - We take the future, you the past, - Ours is the State, the Flag, the Land. - - - - - REASON IN RHYME - - Will Watson, of the still unanchored art; - What random gust, what overwhelming sea - Has riven you apart - From us, and from the flagship of the free? - You whose rich phrase, and vibrant, wont to be - Trumpet and drum of onset and attack; - Who, when of Abdul's ways you stooped to sing, - Would give us just the dire, full-throated thing; - Now, when that much-damned man has got the sack, - You change your tune, and make to pipe us back - From honour, and the task of Liberty! - Why argue, though? The plain position is - You are mistaken in your premises. - You blind your sight with hot, emotional mists, - Your way of thought is greatly too morose - And moist and lachrymose, - For us, a muddled State's last realists. - We Irish, to be brief, - Are nowise grievers for the sake of grief. - I pray you, dry those sympathetic tears, - They rust the will; and, Will, your nation's sin - Is no dead shame, meet to be covered in, - But a live fact that sears. - Cancel the past? Soothly when it befalls - That ye amend the present, and are just, - Go knock your head on Dublin Castle walls: - Are they irrelevant, historic dust, - Or a hard present-tense? - Search through the large print of the Statute Book - For your much-valued Lords' benevolence, - And swept in vision westward, snatch a look - At that dim land, where hunger claims to be - The honoured guest in every family; - And the slain sun writes, in a scribble of shame, - The word of utter Hell, Clanricarde's name. - Go South and North; - Weep, if you will, along the dismal quays, - Watching the unreturning ships go forth - To fling our seed of strength and hope and worth - In far, untributary ways. - And then the soul is something--at least in verse. - Ours, poet, is to be a thing of straw, - A stained, numb thing, that sits without the law - Of yours, great master of the universe? - Most nobly planned! But, Watson, there's a text-- - Done in stout English in King James's reign-- - Which says that souls are not to be annexed, - Not for the whole world's gain. - Cancel the past! Why, yes! We, too, have thought - Of conflict crowned and drowned in olives of peace; - But when Cuchullin and Ferdiadh fought - There lacked no pride of warrior courtesies, - And so must this fight end. - Bond, from the toil of hate we may not cease: - Free, we are free to be your friend. - And when you make your banquet, and we come, - Soldier with equal soldier must we sit, - Closing a battle, not forgetting it. - With not a name to hide, - This mate and mother of valiant "rebels" dead - Must come with all her history on her head. - We keep the past for pride: - No deepest peace shall strike our poets dumb: - No rawest squad of all Death's volunteers, - No rudest man who died - To tear your flag down in the bitter years, - But shall have praise, and three times thrice again, - When at that table men shall drink with men. - - - - - ASQUITH IN DUBLIN - - (AUGUST, 1912) - - You stepped your steps, and the music marched, and the torches - tossed - As you filled your streets with your comic Pentecost, - And the little English went by and the lights grew dim; - We, dumb in the shouting crowd, we thought of Him. - - Of Him, too great for our souls and ways, - Too great for laughter or love, praise or dispraise, - Of Him, and the wintry swords, and the closing gloom-- - Of Him going forth alone to His lonely doom. - - No shouts, my Dublin then! Not a light nor a cry-- - You kept them all till now, when the little English go by! - - - - - ULSTER - - (A REPLY TO RUDYARD KIPLING) - - The red, redeeming dawn - Kindled in Easter skies, - Falls like God's judgment on - Lawyers, and lords, and lies. - What care these evil things, - Though menaced and perplexed, - While Kipling's banjo strings - Blaspheme a sacred text? - - Never did freemen stand, - Never were captains met, - From Dargai to the Rand, - From Parnell to De Wet, - Never, on native sod, - Weak Justice fared the worst, - But Kipling's Cockney "Gawd" - Most impotently cursed. - - So now, when Lenten years - Burgeon, at last, to bless - This land of Faith and Tears - With fruitful nobleness, - The poet, for a coin, - Hands to the gabbling rout - A bucketful of Boyne - To put the sunrise out. - - "Ulster" is ours, not yours, - Is ours to have and hold, - Our hills and lakes and moors - Have shaped her in our mould. - Derry to Limerick Walls - Fused us in battle flame; - Limerick to Derry calls - One strong-shared Irish name. - - We keep the elder faith, - Not slain by Cromwell's sword; - Nor bribed to subtler death - By William's broken word. - Free from those chains, and free - From hate for hate endured, - We share the liberty - Our lavish blood assured. - - One place, one dream, one doom, - One task and toil assigned, - Union of plough and loom - Have bound us and shall bind. - The wounds of labour healed, - Life rescued and made fair-- - There lies the battlefield - Of Ulster's holy war. - - - - - TO IRELAND - - Men so worthy - Suffered for Thee, - Men so poor can die; - Then come gather - All, or rather - Those who ask not why. - - - - - WAR POEMS - - - - PADDY - - (After Mr. Kipling) - - I went into the talkin' shop to see about the Bill; - The Premier 'e ups and says: "We're waitin' ... waitin' still!" - The Tories grinned, and Balfour strung our gamble Haman-high, - I outs into the street again, and to meself sez I: - O, it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, an' "A cattle-driven crew!" - But 'twas "Murphy o' the Munsters!" when the trump of battle - blew. - When the wind of battle blew, my boys, when the blast of battle - blew, - It was Burke, and Shea and Kelly when we marched to Waterloo. - - I looked into a newspaper to see about the land - That bred the man who broke the sin that Bonaparte planned; - They'd room for cricket scores, and tips, and trash of every - kind, - But when I asked of Ireland's cause, it seemed to be behind. - For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, and "Don't annoy us, - please!" - But it's "Irish Rifles forward--Fast!" when the bullets talk - like bees, - When the bullets yawn like bees, my boys, when the bullets yawn - like bees, - It's "Connaught blood is good enough" when they're chanting - R.I.P's. - - Yes! Sneerin' round at Irishmen, and Irish speech and ways - Is cheaper--much--than snatchin' guns from battle's red amaze: - And when the damned Death's-Head-Dragoons roll up the ruddy tide - The _Times_ won't spare a Smith to tell how Dan O'Connell died. - For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, and "The Fifth'll prate and - prance!" - But it's "Corks and Inniskillings--Front!" when Hell is loose in - France, - When Clare and Kerry take the call that crowns the shrapnel - dance, - O, it's "Find the Dublin Fusiliers!" when Hell is loose in - France. - - We ain't no saints or scholars much, but fightin' men and clean, - We've paid the price, and three times thrice for Wearin' o' the - Green. - We held our hand out frank and fair, and half forgot Parnell, - For Ireland's hope and England's too--and it's yours to save or - sell. - For it's Paddy this, and Paddy that, "Who'll stop the Uhlan - blade?" - But Tommy Fitz from Malahide, and Monaghan's McGlade, - When the ranks are set for judgment, lads, and the roses droop - and fade, - It's "Ireland in the firin' line!" when the price of God is - paid. - - - - - SERGEANT MIKE O'LEARY - - It was Sergeant Mike O'Leary who broke the barricade, - Who took the chance, and won the Cross that crowns the bayonet - trade; - 'Twas "M'anam do Dhia," and "How's your heart," and "How could - we forget?" - But Michael from Inchigeela will fill a ballad yet. - - Oh! a fair and pleasant land is Cork for wit and courtesy, - Ballyvourney East and Baile Dubh and Kilworth to the sea: - And when they light the turf to-night, spit, stamp, swear as of - yore, - It's the Sergeant Mike O'Leary's ghosts that ward the southern - shore. - - - - - A NATION'S FREEDOM - - Word of the Tsar! and the drowse malign is broken; - The stone is rolled from the tomb and Poland free, - This is the strong evangel. The guns have spoken; - And the scribble of flame of the guns is Liberty. - - Have you not met her, my lords, a-walk in the garden, - Ranging the dawn, even she, the three times dead? - Nay! But in bondage, sundered from light and pardon-- - But now the water is wine, and the marriage read. - - Word of the Tsar! My lords, I think of another - Crowned with dolour, forbidden the sun abased, - Bloodied, unbroken, abiding--Ah! Queen, my Mother, - I have prayed the feet of the Judgment of God to haste. - - Count me the price in blood that we have not squandered, - Spendthrifts of blood from our cradle, wastefully true, - Name me the sinister fields where the Wild Geese wandered, - Lille and Cremona and Landen and Waterloo. - - When the white steel-foam swept on the tidal onset, - When the last wave lapsed, and the sea turned back to its sleep, - We were there in the waste and the wreckage, Queen of the - Sunset! - Paying the price of the dreams that cannot sleep. - - The altar is set; we uplift again the chalice; - The priest is in purple; the bell booms to the sacrifice. - The trumpets summon to death, and Ireland rallies-- - Tool or free? We have paid, and over-paid, the price. - - Word of the Tsar! And Russia rises to vision, - Poland and Ireland--thus, my lords, was an augured fate. - The days draw in, and the ways narrow down to decision-- - Will they chaffer, and cheapen, and ruin, or yield to be great? - -Written in Belgium, August, 1914 - - - - - A SONG OF THE IRISH ARMIES - - A wind blew out of the Prussian plain; - It scourged Liege, and it broke Louvain, - And Belgium shook with the tramp of Cain, - That a Kaiser might be mad. - "Iron is God!"--and they served him well-- - "Honour a mark for shot and shell." - So they loosed the devils out of Hell - From Birr to Allahabad. - - - THE OLD SOLDIERS SING: - - But we took them from Mons to the banks of the Marne, - And helped them back on their red return; - We can swim the Rhine if the bridges burn, - And Mike O'Leary's the lad! - - Not for this did our fathers fall; - That truth, and pity, and love, and all - Should break in dust at a trumpet call, - Yea! all things clean and old. - Not to this had we sacrificed: - To sit at the last where the slayers diced, - With blood-hot hands for the robes of Christ, - And snatch at the Devil's gold. - - - THE NEW SOLDIERS SING: - - To Odin's challenge we cried Amen! - We stayed the plough, and laid by the pen, - And we shouldered our guns like gentlemen, - That the wiser weak should hold. - - Blood on the land, and blood on the sea? - So it stands as ordained to be, - Stamp, and signet, and guarantee - Of the better ways we knew. - - Time for the plough when the sword has won; - The loom will wait on the crashing gun, - And the hands of peace drop benison - When the task of death is through. - - - OLD AND NEW SOLDIERS SING: - - Then lift the flag of the Last Crusade! - And fill the ranks of the Last Brigade! - March on to the fields where the world's re-made, - And the Ancient Dreams come true! - - - - - - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS AND PARODIES *** - - - - -A Word from Project Gutenberg - - -We will update this book if we find any errors. - -This book can be found under: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38898 - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no one -owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and -you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission -and without paying copyright royalties. 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