" v.^'i'^ * 'j*"? c.-*75^V * /\ "- ** .• o •j'^, ' • • - >. '* - -^o ^ ?* • • O • I ''^. -i: %/^^*'/ b^.* .^' % -.^ff/ . -j.'^' -^^ ^ /7V»* A -Jk* . t • . r •^^ IRISH POEMS By Arthur Stringer New Tork Mitchell Kennerley 1911 Copyright igii by Mitchell Kennerley Press of J. J. Little bf Ives Co. East Twenty-fourth Street New Tork ;a-ci.A:if325i)o CONTENTS The Pipe Player PAGE 9 In the Tropics II ^ Cloidna of the Isle i6 Spring in the City i8 The Half-Door 20 ^ I'll Niver Go Home Again 22 Nora 24 Caoch O'Lynn 26 Stormy Eily 28 Childer' 30 The Meeting 32 The Good Man 34 Exile 35 Memories 36 At the Wharf End 38 The Randyvoo 39 The Kelt a Dreamer Is 41 MacGilligan's Grove 42 The Man of Means 44 Rivals 45 Contents PAGE The Blatherskite 47 Whistlin^ Dannie 48 Soft Ways 49 OuLD Doctor Ma'Ginn 5 1 The Philanderer 52 The People of Dreams 55 Man to Man 56 Messages 57 The Thrushes 59 O'Hara the Bird-Man 60 The Comether 61 The Throuble 62 The Snowbird 63 SouPLE Terence 64 The Sisterhood 65 The Way Wid Singin' 67 Mother Ireland 68 Lost Songs 69 WiMMEN Folk 70 The Throublin^ Things 71 The Ould World's Way 72 The Seekers 73 Possession 74 Noreen of Ballybree 75 The Pride of Erin 77 WiMMEN 80 Contents PAGE The Sirens 8i The Discovery 83 The Dancing Days 85 By the Sea Wall 87 The Evening Up 89 The Wise Man 91 The End 93 The Old Men 94 The Mornin's Mornin' 96 The Old Hound 98 Says Old Doctor Ma'Ginn 100 Thk Fo'castle Sage lOI The Wearing of the Green 103 Moisty Weather 104 Wings 105 The Wife 107 Barney Creegan 110 A FOREWORD T T will be obvious to even the more casual ^ reader of this volume that the three-score dramatic lyrics between its covers are not the utterance of one particular individual. To the more critical reader it will be equally obvious that the dialect I have made use of is not the dialect of one particular Irish county. The entire volume, I might venture to say, is de- signed more as a small gallery of small por- traits, or to be more exact, as a record of fleeting impressions caught from the West of Ireland character — as often in exile, confess- edly, as in the midst of its native hills. There is ''sorra" need for me here to dwell on either the loveableness or the humorous ir- responsibility of this character, on either the whimsical gayeties or the nostalgic mournful- ness of these people who were, and are, partly my own people. But in my attempted recountal of these impressions I must confess to a certain compromise. I have again and again, in the matter of the written word, been coerced into Foreword something not unlike a sacrifice of actuality on the altar of literary convention. This has been due, not so much to the consciousness that a ''foreignized" and laboriously achieved spell- ing is as exasperating to the eye as it is ex- hausting to the mind, but more to the fact that the dialect of one Irish county or countryside is, more Hibernico, usually a contradiction of the dialect of its neighboring county or countryside. And further, what is commonly spoken of as the Irishman's ''brogue," it must be confessed, is a speech or method of speech much too elusive to be captured and tied down to an ink- pot. The imitation brogue, the near-brogue, the brogue which ''belaves" a ''Quane" might "swape" a flock of forty ''shape" inside of a "wake's" time, is a creation peculiar to the vaudeville-boards and the joke-monger's col- umn. It is a speech that is about as common in Connaught and her sister counties as snakes are in Ireland. Even the broadening of the diphthong "ea" into the long "a" is too prone to exaggeration. Yet there are tricks of speech so characteristic and so persistent they cannot be ignored. One, for instance, is the flattening of the dental digraph "th" into something ap- proaching a "d." To write it down always as a 6 Foreword <<^'? d" Is a somewhat clumsy artifice. It remains, however, the only adequate device for the ex- pression of that quaintly hardening tendency which translates *Vith" into something so closely akin to *'wid." Still another practice is the lowering, the ''de-dentalating," of the sibil- lant, readily recognized in the ^^smile" which becomes ^'shmile" and the ''street'' which must be recorded as ''shtreet," though here again the inserted ''h" is a somewhat awkward instrument to denote that tenuous rustle of breath with which Erin wafts out its hissing consonant. In the same way, the tendency to express the soft- ened ''of" by "av" may not always be entirely satisfying; yet, when it comes to a matter of ink and paper, the resort to it seems the only reasonable avenue out of the difficulty. And beyond this there are many more difficulties, dif- ficulties of idiom, and of mental attitude. And as an excuse for a newcomer's invasion of that land of brogues and accents and intonations, which are as elusive as quicksilver even while they are as penetrating as turf-smoke and as soft as a bog-land breeze, I can only add that it is a field in which there are many anomalies and no finalities. A. S. IRISH POEMS THE PIPE PLAYER piPER-MAN, Piper-Man, -^ Puttin* into Song Love and tears that make us turn As we pass along! Piper-Man, Piper -Man, Whereas your sense av shame, P^radin' wid unholy noise Things we'd niver name? Piper-Man, Piper-Man, Whin the tears are told. What have ye f take the place Av the things ye've sold? 9 Irish Poems But Piper-Mafi, Piper-Man, Is it, faith, a loss, Passin^ us your broken dreams Whin your palm we cross? Givin' us your achin^ heart For the gold we toss? lO Arthur Stringer IN THE TROPICS {O to he in Ireland wid me youth again, Half a world from palm-three, half a world from this! O to be in Ireland, where the coolin^ rain Falls across the green hills like a woman's kiss!) T T P and down the withered turf ^^ Here I pace the ould Parade, Listenin' to the Tropic surf Where the Band-stand music brayed. Here the gintry go and come, Shlow beneath a milk-white moon Round as yonder kettle-drum Throbbin' out its home-sick toon. Round and round they drift and pass. Thro' the palms they wheel and roam, Where the Regimintal Brass Plays its wishtful songs av Home. II Irish Poems Shlow and stately as the dead, On they move from light to light, Soljer-men in glarin' red, Ladies in their ghostly white. Long I've watched thim as they pass Where the sea-wall shmells av musk And the palm-fronds green as brass Whisper thro' the Thrade-swept dusk. Long I've marked thim come and go Where the swayin' lantherns shine, Where the white electhrics glow, Where the Band-stand cornets whine; Where the trombones pulse and blare Wid some shlow and stately toon, Where the sea-wind shtirs the air And the coral beaches croon. Long I've watched thim here alone, Till the palms and music seem Ghosts av things I've scarcely known, Ghosts that thrail across a dream; And the soft and shleepy Cross, Shinin' from its shleepy dome. Seems to tell thim av their loss, Half a world away from Home. 12 Arthur Stringer But IVe left no Home behind, And there's naught beyont the Sea, Naught av kith nor wimmen-kind Waitin' for the likes av me. Yet I listen, wid the ache Av a man who's known his dead. While the ould toons shtir and wake Things I've put beyont me head. And I watch thim wid a blur Creepin' thro' the ould Parade, Where the cliff-palms wake and shtir In the soft and sultry Thrade. {O to be in Ireland where the cool rain falls, Where the meltiv! green shlopes meet the ten- der light, Where across the whin the tawney owlet calls, Where the settlin^ grouse-crow tells av comin' night!) Life I've lived, and Youth I've had, Yet no home is home to me : Faith, I've loved it, good and bad. Lane and city, land and sea! 13 Irish Poems But I sthill must take me way To the ends av all the earth, Fine me port, and drain me day, Askin' what the game is worth. So I watch the gintry walk. Heart-sick wimmen white as foam, Heat-sick faces white as chalk. Half a world away from Home. And I hark the sad ould croon, Av the swingin' Tropic Sea, Till the palm and Cross and moon Seem but ghosts av things to me. And I wander thro' a dream. And the men I walk beside Nothin' more than spirits seem — And I know me youth has died! — Died and went this many a year With a gerrl they buried deep Where the hawthorn's growin' near And the coolin' lough-winds creep! O to he in Ireland where that blue lough lies! O to hear the home-like clap av pigeon^ s wing! O to see the bog-lands greet the mornin^ skies! O to be in Ireland, waitin' for the Spring! X4 Arthur Stringer But ni niver more he seein' my ould Home, Niver hear the ould voice callin' thro' the rain, Niver see the Headlands flashin' wid their foam. And niver win me lost youth back to me again! 15 Irish Poems CLOIDNA OF THE ISLE T HAD me bit av hay-land callin' for the ^ scythe, When who should hurry hiUward, wishtful- loike and blithe, But Cloidna av the Isle, that gerrl av pink an' white, Wid eyes av Irish blue an' hair as black as night! I had me hay to mow an' gather into rick. But when ye talk wid handsome gerrls, och, time goes quick! **Aroo," says she to me, wid her slow an meltin' shmile, ^Tm lookin' for a man, this many an' many a mile! '*Me hay's all ripe," says she; *Vhativer will I do Widout a bit av help?" . . . Bedad, her eye was blue ! i6 Arthur Stringer Och, what's the use av moilin' till your life's all done ! An' what's a rick or two, beside a bit av fun ! I swung me singin' scythe thro' Cloidna's fields o' hay, An' wid it swung me singin' heart each livelong day, An' on me, iv'ry swath, she shmiled wid tender eyes Faith, when yotiWe wid a handsome woman, how time flies! 17 Irish Poems SPRING IN THE CITY ^T^ HERE'S a lad sellin' bird-whistles made out av lead; There's a Greek boy wid vilet-clumps big as your head! There's a promise av buds on the patient ould trees ; There's a whisper av Spring in the shmoke- laden breeze ! There's a haze on the house-tops, a croon in the air; There's a hand-organ throbbin' through Madi- son Square ; And the childer' are dancin' on cobble and flag, And the Avenoo's thrilled wid the horn from a drag! There's a wee sparrow chirpin' as glad as a lark, And daffodils show in the beds av the Park, i8 Arthur Stringer And the gcrrls have such posies and pinks on their heads Ye'd be dreamin' their hats were all hyacinth- beds! There's a rumble av wheels and the roar av a car, And the patther av hoofs, and the odor of tar! And the riveters, high on yon sky-scraper sills, Are all rappin' and tappin' like wood-pecker bills; And there's house-windys open and doors slam- min' shut, And there's clatther and dust, and the Divil knows what ! But in faith I would give it, the first and the last. For wan glimpse av the ould Springs over and past, For the call av the cuckoo, the peewit's ould cry. And the purple av moorlands against the ould sky. And the lough, and the heather, and the valleys av green. And the old shleepy hill-town without a traneen ! 19 Irish Poems THE HALF-DOOR ^ I ''HAT whin-bred gerrl In heat or cold Would iver leave the door swung wide, Faith, wide as in her home av old Where hares wanst played and peewits cried. 'Te're in a throublin' city now, And och, it seems the city's way To steal and pilfer. Gawd knows how," They told her twinty times a day. *Taith, I could niver ate nor sleep Widout a bit av sun," says she; 'Tor sure at home we used to keep The half-door wide as wide could be." That whin-bred gerrl, as gerrls have done. Full wide and open kept her door. And thought to find her bit av sun As home-sick gerrls have thried before. 20 Arthur Stringer And faith, there soon went thraipsin' thro', Widout a sash or bar to part, A city lad wid eyes av blue. Who left a gerrl wid achin' heart. Ay, left a girleen av the moors Shut in widout her thrace av sun, And wandered on to other doors As other laughin' lads have done. *'At home," she sobbed, *^there's half-doors in Each singin' heart and cottage wall — But in the town wid all its sin Ye can't be free at all, at all!" 21 Irish Poems I'LL NIVER GO HOME AGAIN ril nher go home affain, Home to the ould sad hills, Home through the ould soft rain, Where the curlew calls and thrills! « T^OR I thought to find the ould wcc house, ■*" Wid the moss along the wall ! And I thought to hear the crackle-grouse, And the brae-birds call! And I sez, I'll find the glad wee burn, And the bracken in the glen, And the fairy-thorn beyont the turn, And the same ould men ! But the ways I'd loved and walked, avick, Were no more home to me, Wid their sthreets and turns av starin' bride, And no ould face to see I 22 Arthur Stringer And the ould glad ways I'd helt in mind, Loike the home av Moira Bawn, And the ould green turns I'd dreamt to find, They all were lost and gone ! And the white shebeen beside the leap Where the racin' wathers swirled And the burnin' kelp-shmoke used to creep — 'Tis now another world! And all thrampled out long years ago By feet IVe niver seen ^ Are the fairy- rings that used to show Along the low boreen ! And the bairns that romped by TuUagh Burn Whin they saw me sthopped their play — Through a mist av tears I tried to turn And ghost-like creep away ! And ril niver go home again! Home to the ould lost years, Home where the soft warm rain Drifts loike the drip av tears! 23 Irish Poems NORA XX7HY IS It, now, me Nora ^^ Will niver shpeak av Hugh? Will niver pass a joke wid him The way she used to do ? Toime was that gerrl'd blather Av Hughie, noon and night! Now iv'ry time he swings the gate Her face goes starin' white I I've spied no row nor ruction; They meet as friend wid friend; And still, I'm toldt, he walks with her Beyondt the boreen's end. I've done me best by Nora ; That gerrPs as thrue as day, Wid all her big and wishtful eyes, Wid all her bashful way! 24 Arthur Stringer But white before me turf-fire She sits widout a word, This gerrl av mine who used to sing As mad as any bird! Faith, since she lost her muther, I've left that colleen free To come and go — but times there are When men are slow to see ! For wanst I spied her rockin* And sobbin, here, alone — Now, can there he some throuble up Her muther might *ve known? 25i Irish Poems CAOCH O'LYNN /^CH, here I am wid arms and legs, ^^ Wid all me thravellin's far from home I Wid all me curlin' seas to cross And all me clamorin' world to roam I Wid all me jiggin', port to port, Carousin', rovin', round the earth — But wanst the thing's been said and done, What's all me mad adventurin' worth? For here lies little Caoch O'Lynn, Who's niver fared from bed nor house; Wid crooked leg and twisted spine, As chirpy as a grackle-grouse ! He tells me av the thrips he takes ; The landin'-parties wanst he led, The foreign ports so spiced and fine, Betwixt the spindles av his bed I 26 Arthur Stringer He tells me av the secret thrail That leads to some ould Castle stair Where shleeps a Princess sad and pale Wid half a mile av golden hair! He tells me av Tangier and Fez, Av Cartagena, Suakim, And all the flashin, lashin' seas That iver wait and wave for him ! From Chiny round to Spanish Main He sings and thravels — in his mind — A King of Dreams who^s clean forgot The crooked hack he's left behind! 27 Irish Poems STORMY EILY (Said Kildree Tim: *^ There's niver words Betwixt me wife an* me! AroOy we live hike matin* birds, Widout a peckr says he; ^^Aye, niver a row or ruction, lad, Me mild-shpoke mate an* Fve wanst had!**) C INCE first I've loved me Eily ^ We've wrangled, walked away, An' fought an' kissed an' fallen out An' stormed be night an' day! Faith, since I've first loved Eily, On throubled seas I've swung! That woman's two-thirds made av fire, An' wan-third made av tongue 1 But then she ends in weepin'. An' sobbin' I'm to blame — ('Tis th' fire that makes wan quick to fight Drives wan to love the same!) 28 Arthur Stringer For next she's wrapped me^ shmilin' Like the Lord^s own sky above, In the softest, warmest, maddest arms That iver ached wid love! 29 Irish Poems CHILDER* THEY'RE longin' for a wee lad Up in Tullagh Hail- Where niver wanst a cradle was, An' niver child at all! They're shpeakin' all in whispers, They're threadin' on their toes, An' tin-and-twinty sewin'-gerrls Is thrimmin' satin clothes ! A deal av fuss an' feathers Gintry makes, aroo, Wid all their frightened wimmen-folk When wan to wan is two ! They've twinty-hundred acres Hid be jealous wall — Yet niver throd a little foot Thro' lonely Tullagh Hall ! 30 Arthur Stringer But here beneath the ould thatch Childer' come so fast, In faith, we put the first f bed For room to rock the last! 31 Irish Poems THE MEETING T'D niver seen the face av her; ^ And she knew naught av me. She'd fared that day from Shela Hills, And I'd swung in from sea. It may have been the warm, soft night, The soft and moitherin' moon! It may have been the lonely streets And the ould sea's lonely chune ! It may have all been doomed, in faith. For many an' many a year. That soft and mad and wishtful night Without a laugh or tear! She belt me face betwixt her hands And out av wishtful eyes For long she watched me sunburnt face Wid wonder and surprise. 32 Arthur Stringer For long against her quiet breast She helt me throubled head; And when I kisst her shmilin' mouth, *Te'll ne'er come back!" she said. And out she fared to Shela Hills, And I swung back to sea : But och, the ache and loneliness That wan night left wid me ! 33' Irish Poems THE GOOD MAN TVTACKILLRAY was a dour man, ItX Workin' night and day, Thryin' to build a grand house, And frettin' life away. When he'd built his fine house, High beyont the furze, Not a gerrl in Kindree Sought to make it hers ! II Larry was a young de'il, Idlin' youth away, A-pipin' and philanderin' And laughin' all the day. Niver was a colleen Trod the Kindree sod But homeless would have fared forth At homeless Larry's nod! 34 Arthur Stringer EXILE TN the dead av the night, acushla, ^ When the new big house is still, I think av the childer' thick as hares In the ould house under the hill ! And I think av the times, alanna. That we harkened the peewit's cry, And how we ran to the broken gate When the piper av Doon went by ! In the dead of the year, acushla, When me wide new fields are brown, I think av that wee ould house. At the edge av the ould gray town ! I think av the rush-lit faces. Where the room and loaf was small: Yet the new years seem the lean years, And the ould years, best av all! 35 Irish Poems MEMORIES /^ F my ould loves, of their ould ways, ^^ I sit an' think, these bitther days. (IVe kissed — 'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhyme- More mouths than one in my mad time !) Of their soft ways and words I dream, But far off now, in faith, they seem. Wid betther lives, wid betther men. They've all long taken up again ! For me an' mine they're past an' done — Aye, all but one — yes, all but one ! Since I kissed her 'neath TuUagh Hill That one gerrl stays close wid me still. Och ! up to mine her face still lifts. And round us still the white May drifts; 36 Arthur Stringer And her soft arm, in some ould way, Is here beside me, night an' day; But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep, Wid all that love she couldn't keep. Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere, This many a year — this many a year! 37 Irish Poems AT THE WHARF END "VTE'LL weep it out, and sleep it out, -■• Faith, forget me in a day ! Ye'U talk it out, and walk it out — Yis, rU be long away! But what a heavin' shoulder this To rock a lad to sleep ! Och, me gerrl, that one kiss. Ye knew it couldn't keep ! Some cry it out, and sigh it out, But we'll forgit the ache ! Ye'U laugh it off, and chaff it off, And learn to give and take ! And that's the gray ship waitin' me — » Sure, what's the good o' tears ! It's got to be, and ought to be — One kiss — for twinty years I 38 Arthur Stringer THE RANDYVOO TXrE see thim thrailin' in and out wid nlver ^^ wanst a shmile At Fairy-Thorn or buddin' May that's scentin' many a mile; I see thim streelin' in and out wid salt tears on their face, For yon's the Acre av the Dead and thought a dourish place, Wid gravestones thick as barley tops and yews forninst the wall. Where leverocks soar and sing so mad, and matin' cuckoos call. II And dark it is, in faith, to thim who hold the place in dread. And dour enough it still may be for thim who know their dead; 39 Irish Poems But, och, for me 'tis still the home av iv'ry singin' lark And iv'ry note and hawthorn scent that steals across the dark; For wanst, where black between the stones the yew tree shadows hung, I found and knew me first lovers kiss, when all the world was young. 40 Arthur Stringer THE KELT A DREAMER IS TXT" ID a jorum wanst under me arm, faith, ^^ the thought av it Could warm me almost as though I had drunk down the lot av it ! Me mind could half burn wid the fire av it; Widout all the sting and the tire av it I'd swim wid the dream and desire av itl When down be ould Donnievale Wall I sat waitin' and dreamin' 'Twasn't her when she came; 'twas the watchin^ and longin' and seemin' ! 'Tis love, says I, but you tire av it; 'Tis only in dream the desire av it Outstays both the ache and the fire av it ! But now that I've wasted and lived through the last av it, Aye, now that it's lost, how I dream av the past av it ! For broodin' av Death, and the dire av it, I'd now face Hell and the fire av it, For me ould mad youth and the mire av it ! 41 Irish Poems MAC GILLIGAN'S GROVE /^CH, me hearin' is failin' an' me eyesight ^^ is bad; And I haven't a leg for the stratspeys I had, Nor the tirrl av a bow that I loved as a lad ! Och, me ould head now, sure, 'tis bald to the crown, An' I walk wid a limp, an' I look wid a frown, An' me ould bones ache wid the years they have known I But wheniver I thrail be that bit av a wood Where the throstles are singin' as wanst, too, I could. An' other lads stand where wanst, too, I stood ; Wheniver I sniff me the buds on its trees, Wheniver the May-day's alive wid its bees. The song of its lark, an' the smell av its breeze; 42 Arthur Stringer I shtill see a gerrl an' a shlip av a boy, (Such sayin's an' doin's, cometherin', coy; Such moitherin' meetin' an' achin' wid joy) — They're shpeakin' the same word some other lad said; They're draggin' me back thro' the years that are dead, An' throublin' an' mixin' me empty ould head ! An' that shtreel av a blatherskite niver is me, Says I to meself • . . then a gleek av the bee An' a trill av the lark an' a shmell av the tree Says that ghost av a shtreel is the ghost av me! 43 Irish Poems THE MAN OF MEANS T ' VE got me a tilloch av land ; -*• I drink me potheen as I may; I'm ten-and-six-stone as I stand, And I thravel to Gleen in a shay ! I've gathered me pittance and more; I've feathered me bit av a nest; And they call me the fr'ind av the poor, Me, needin' as much as the rest ! For I'd barther me last stone av meal, If wanst through the Ballybree rain She'd waken and whisper and steal, That ghost av dead Moira McShane! Aye, the lee and the long av it stands. That I'd give thim me meadow and bawn. And me fool av a shay, and me lands. For that wisp av a gerrl that's gone ! 44 Arthur Stringer RIVALS "1 XT' ID her shmile that is wishtful and sad, ^ ^ Wid her hand folded close like a wing, Wid her blue eyes so throubled and wide, She waits for the letther I bring. Wid a laugh and a toss av the head She blows me a kiss from the wall; But the letther she holds to her breast, And she's weepin' at nothin' at all ! And she'll sob and she'll brood on a scrawl From this habbage gone many a year — While she stabs me wid kisses and shmiles, But crowns me not wanst wid a tear ! 4? Irish Poems THE TIME FOR LOVE WHEN the moon was the size av a cart- wheel, And as sootherin' soft as cream; When the lough lay strange wid the night-mist, And the down was a sea av dream — When the voice av a gerrl was music, And your own, like a linnet's wing, Was fluttherin' full av the moonlight And the mad glad fire av Spring — Och, yon was the time for lovin', Those moitherin^ bantherin' years When I was a Billy-Go-Fister blade And the world was young, me dears ! 46 Arthur Stringer THE BLATHERSKITE /^CH, never give your whole heart up — take ^■^ it from one that knows ! The first may seem a gooldie, but the second's like a rose, And kissin' still is kissin', lad, from Antrim down to Clare, And the world is full av women — so the divil take the care ! Aye, kiss away their tears, me lad, and hold them at a song ; The heart that's lovin' lightest is the heart that's lovin' long! So leave the gerrl beyont the hill, and greet the one above — Och, don't be lovin' women, lad, but just thry lovin' Love! 47 Irish Poems WHISTLIN* DANNIE T?AITH, such a whistler was Dannie, ^ A-chirrupin' all the day! 'Twas more like a thrush on the holm-side A-singin' its life away! His thatch stood a sieve for the wather, And his belly went empty av bread; But he made his potheen out av Music, And whistled his throubles to bed! And divil a man did he care for. And divil a wife would be take. And divil a rag had he wanst to his name — But och, what a chune he could make! 48 Arthur Stringer SOFT WAYS I A LANNA, what a soft land the Ould Sod ^ ^ used to be; The soft lush green o' hillsides, the soft en- circlin' sea; The still and purple moorlands, where the plov- ers call; The soft and misty bog-land, the lough and purrin' fall; The heather on the brake-side, the sleepy fields o' hay; The Fairy-Thorn and Whin-Bush, the gold Gorse and the May; The low wall and the roof thatch, so mild wid moss and mold; The soft cries av the childer', the soft eyes av the ould ; And best and last, the Springtime, all muffled wid the rain: But never wanst those soft ways for me and mine again! 49 Irish Poems II This new land has no soft ways; 'tis mortial hard and stern; 'Tis work and fret your way out, 'tis moilin' iv'ry turn ! Alanna, all the soft things the throubled city sees Is laughin' gerrls wid soft mouths still swarm- in' thick as bees ! And me that's used to ould ways, with nothin' else to find, I seek me out a soft mouth, and leave the rest behind; I seek the only soft thing their frettin' streets can hold — For women in the New World are kind as in the Ould! 50 Arthur Stringer OULD DOCTOR MA'GINN ^ I ^HE ould doctor had only wan failin\ ^ It stayed wid him, faith, till he died; And that was the habit av wearin' His darby a thrifle wan side ! And twenty times daily 'twas straightened, But try as he would for a year, Not thinkin', he'd give it a teether A thrifle down over wan ear! It sat him lop-sided and aisy; It throubled his kith and his kin — But och, 'twas the only thing crooked About our ould Doctor Ma'Ginn ! And now that he's gone to his Glory — Excuse me, a bit av a tear — Here^s twenty to wan that his halo Is slantin' down over his ear! 51 Irish Poems THE PHILANDERER I /^CH, take a shmile and give wan, and meet ^^ a mouth and kiss wan, And whin ye're off to furrin parts ye'll niver mourn or miss wan ! But the Divil take those gray eyes I left beyont the sea ! Sthill, if kissin' wanst was killin' We'd be dyin' less unwillin* — But I wonder if that wistful gerrl is waitin* there for me ! n Aye, take your kiss and keep it and draw your latch and leave it, But niver say the last word or all your life ye'U grieve it — The gerrl beyont the wather is the gerrl beyont your care ! 52 Arthur Stringer Sure, some other mouth she'll find her, Wid as sootherin' ways to blind her — Yet I'm thinkin' av those ould eyes, those gray eyes watchin' there ! And I'm dreamin' av a waitin' gerrl with sea- mist on her hair! Ill If ye are cold wid wimmen, 'tis thrue in law and letther, They'll lave ye wid their moitherin', and learn to love ye bettherl So niver go the whole lingth . . . but keep your fancy free ! Och, if she'd only been afraid; If only she'd not clung and sthayed, That gerrl and all her gray eyes would not be pesterin'me! IV Few wimmen love a month long, and most, in faith, a minute ! But when she gave her mouth up her pleadin' soul was in it ! 53 Irish Poems A heap av tears and throuble, sure, this kissin' brings to some ! But niver such a shlip again . , And niver such a lip again, Wid all these calm-eyed wimmen that's kiss and go and come, Wid all these laughin' furrin mouths Fm takin' nothin' from! '54 Arthur Stringer THE PEOPLE OF DREAMS T DREAM av the good days gone, •*" Av the luck I still might find ; But the lurin'-most times these eyes look on Are the years left far behind! Aroo, how a Kelt heart clings To the Dreamin' and not the truth ! How it harps on the ould good ways and sings In the teeth av its wasted youth ! We thravel too early or late For the shpot where the sunlight glowed; And it's niver the place we watch and wait That the rainbow meets the road ! 55 Irish Poems MAN TO MAN '^^E'LL find two kinds av wimmen, lad, -*■ When ye have aged a bit; And faix, they're all not good nor bad — And that's the worst av it! Ye'll find some wimmen longin' so For love, lad, if ye would! Ye know it well, and whilst ye know Ye can't, and niver could! And some ye'll kiss who sthill stay cold; Aye, thim who might and won't — And thim ye'd walk through Hell to hold, And love, because they don't ! 56 Arthur Stringer MESSAGES T N faith, I knew av wireless talk ^ This twinty years and more : Widout a sign, widout a word. As I passed Sheela's door, That gerrl could send a message clear Past iv'ry gapin' head! Ay, past their ring av watchin' eyes I'd know what Sheela said ! I'd read each message sent from her At sixty rod away: *'Och, meet me out be Tullagh Hill !" As plain as words could say! **In faith I will!" I'd answer back, Wid but wan look or two ; "And all me heart is achin' sore Wid all me love for youl" 57 Irish Poems Or passin' in a side-car, Wid all her haughty folk, Her soul would up and say to me As plain as tho' she spoke: *'They pesther me wid watchin', They cross me ivry turn, But soul and body I'll be yours This night be TuUagh Burn!" 58 Arthur Stringer THE THRUSHES /^ CH, wee thrush a-thirstin' to sing out ^^ Such music an' sootherin' song, Such heart-breakin' longin' to wring out, Such swearin' the world's all wrong — Faith, all the lone heart that ye fling out Should be lovin' a whole life long ! II Oh, wood-thrush, I listen an' listen. For a song from yon wee nest above. Since matin' your music I'm missin'. For there's nothin' left out to sing of — ^Tis the lip that ye' II never see kissin' Is singin' foriver of love! 59 Irish Poems O'HARA THE BIRD-MAN npOMORROW they're hangin' O'Hara av •^ Glenn, For a Fenian or two as was kilt in a fight. O'Hara the Bird-Man's to hang from a tree For a bit av a killin' he did over-night ! There's sorra hope left if they're stringin' up lads Wid a sowl like O'Hara's, that's saying the least— Och, what a mistake to be hangin' a man So fond av each little wee birdie and beast! 60 Arthur Stringer THE COMETHER "VTE'VE not a traneen, nor a foot like a *■" queen," Said Creina to Oonagh McCaulter; **And Fm thinkin* it queer that twice in wan year Ye're leadin' a man to the altar!" She heard Oonagh say in her shleepy soft way: ** 'Tis niver a kiss, nor a sigh! Nor even a shmile nor a face, be a mile, But the Come-Hither Look in the eyeV^ 6i Irish Poems THE THROUBLE /^ CH, why should I think av that shlip av a ^^ gerrl, Av that soft little whisp av a thing? Och, why should she throuble a ranger like me, Who's thraveled and taken me fling? Aroo, and a pea is a mite av a thing, Tho' shut in your shoe and 'twill shmart! But a mite av a gerrl will throuble ye more When she's tight on the tip av your heart! 62 Arthur Stringer THE SNOWBIRD Q TILL wid his wee ould bosom warm, ^ Och, mad as hare or hatter, He pipes and jigs through iv'ry storm — So what can Winter matter? Faith, laugh and leave your tears behind. And sing thro' toil and throuble, — There's still a kind of bein' blind, That's more than seein' double! 63 Irish Poems SOUPLE TERENCE T 'M wishful to live as the story-books say, -^ Vm achin' to love as they loved av old; I want to be drunken and swimmin' in bliss, And weepin' and sighin' and ravin' away Loike the old tales said and the old songs told— But, faith, and how do ye love like this? II I've loved In me day, and Fm hopin' to more; Fve taken me chance, and Fve stolen me kiss; But, faith, and Fve niver gone mad over it! The further Fve thraveled away from the shore The tighter Fve held on to that and to this, And, och! but Fve had me eye open a bit ! 64 Arthur Stringer THE SISTERHOOD T 'VE knocked about the Sivin Seas, ^ I've thraveled long and thraveled light, From Cardiff down to Carib keys, From Shanghai round to Benin Bight. From Rotterdam to 'Frisco Bay, From Bristol clear to Singapore, I've swung and sung and had me way Wid wimmen that I'll see no more. In fjord, atoll and harbor town. Far North, and far beyont the Line, I've had thim, black and white and brown — And shpeakin' iv'ry tongue but mine ! Aye, kissin' back wid furrin words I'd niver know the meanin' of. And cooin' soft loike shleepy birds Wid lips so tired and full av love ! 65 Irish Poems But, white or black or brown, I knew Not wanst their hathen tongue or name Yet in the end Fve found it's thrue Most ivWy woman weeps the same! 66 Arthur Stringer THE WAY WID SINGIN^ T7AITH, niver the sail calls the frith-wind, ^ Nor the turf comethers the rain; And niver the Fairy-Thorn frets for the spring, Or the brae for the summer again ! And niver a boreen can ask for a bird. Or beg for a whin-chat's strain ! Not took from me head are these planxties; These chunes they are nothin' av men ! They come as the whin-chat comes in spring And the grackle-thrush back to the glen ! They come loike the rain to the turf, me lad, And the Saints know how and when ! 67 Irish Poems MOTHER IRELAND A TRUE and dark-eyed Mother Land, yeVe •^ ^ mourned thim day be day, The chllder' av your achin' breast who've fared a world away! Be moorland and be lough and whin, yeVe mourned for all your lost, But still yeVe smiled and still yeVe watched and counted not the cost! And dark, in faith, the ould hours fell and cold the ashes grew. But Ireland, Mother Ireland, still yeVe waited fond and thrue ; And now the Night has vanished, wid the sor- rows it has known, We'll hear the call av Ireland, lads, av Ireland to her own 1 68 Arthur Stringer LOST SONGS A ROO, but there's singin' Fve struck up Wid niver a note to be heard, When me heart widout sthirrin' the silence Shtood by me and sang like a bird ! So if all the ould dreams that escaped me Were sung to the chunes that got free, I'd be weavin' ye rainbows av rapture And shamin' the thrush, ma-chree! But och, 'tis the birds that are ailin\ Bide close by our coaxin' and sing; *Tis the music worth housin' and keepin^ Foriver makes of on the wing! 69 Irish Poems WIMMEN FOLK ^ I ^IME was I thought av wimmen, sure, -^ As made to reverince, limb be limb; As something holy-like and pure Thro' all the snow white length av thim! I dreamed av gerrls as angels, lad, Wid all their wistful holy ways. To leave you thremblin' when ye'd had A word wid thim ... in oulder days ! But now I've learned me topsail lore And roved the sea from rim to rim, I seldom wait and quake before The soft and snow white length av thim! For when gerrls love you well, me lad, They're thrue to nayther law nor letther; 'Tis when they're most disheartenin' bad Ye' II learn to love such angels betther! 70 Arthur Stringer THE THROUBLIN' THINGS T7AITH, linnets are a throuble, lad; ^ They must be screened an' fed, An' sunned beyont your cabin door, An' carried back to bed ! Faith, love it is a burthen, gerrl; 'Tis iver give an' take ; Aye, knowin' how ye give too much An' niver count the ache ! Och, childer,' ma'am, are worrisome, An' fret an' throuble fall On wimmen whin their childer' come; They have no peace at all ! But song an^ love an' childer\ faith, These things you're gettin' free, These things you've held to pest ye so, Are th' things ye'll find can rest ye so, Are th' things ye'll mind have blest ye so, Whin you're as ould as me! 71 Irish Poems THE OULD WORLD'S WAY CURE, many's the sailorin' lad ^ Went singin' and rockin' free Out over the Ocean's rim As happy as us, machree! But many's the time, me lad — Such ends the ould world brings — - That over the laugh and last av him 'Tis the sea that rocks and swings! And many's the boy wid a plough Who'd sing at the break av day As he turned the mold wid his share And buried the grass away! But many's the same lad, now That sootherin' greensward won, And over his gray hones there 'Tis the grass that sings in the sun! 72 Arthur Stringer THE SEEKERS Says She: ^^nr^IS a long way yeVe thraveled, me thrue ^ love, 'Tis a long thrip yeVe made on the sea, For the sake av a shlip av a gerrl loike me, For a bit av a kiss No betther than this — *Tis a long road yeVe thraveled, Machreel Says He: *Twas a long way and lone way, Mavourneen, But it^s millions av miles, as He knows, That a hungerin', wanderin' sunbeam goes To be gettin' a kiss No warmer than this From the lips av no sweeter a rose ! 73 Irish Poems POSSESSION T CAGED me wanst a lark and let him go 1 ''^ I caught me wanst a squirr'l and set him free! I left a Galway colleen sobbin' low, And off I wint to sea, Aye, off I wint to sea ! II IVe had me turn at things, and now I'm old; But those I've lost shtand most bewilderin' near! And those I loved and niver dreamed to hold I've kept this many a year, In faith, this many a year I 74 Arthur Stringer NOREEN OF BALLYBREE T SAILED in me fine new hooker To Ballybree, over the bay, Where Noreen O'Regen, me ould love, Is livin' this many a day. ('Twas Noreen took up wid a poacher, A Ballybree blade called Neal, Wid niver a ham nor a hare-skin But what the poor habbage could steal!) And Noreen I found, faith, wid childer' As thick as the hairs on a goat, All squealin' and crowdin' like rabbits While I showed her me jule av a boat! **But have ye no wife nor childer' ?" Says she, wid a perk av the head, (And her bosom as flat as a deck-board. And her brats all squealin' for bread!) 75 Irish Poems '*Och, sallin\" says she, *'may be sailin', But when it's all shpoken and done, ^Tis us wid our fine homes and childer^ Are livin' and havin' our funP^ ^6 Arthur Stringer THE PRIDE OF ERIN CO she says, lad, she'd only take up wid a ^ man Who was wan av the best, faith, the crame av the clan. And the pride av the counthry and salt av the earth? So she's leavin' you, lad, not knowin' your worth, And she holds she can't mate wid a Kerry like you. Since she's plannin' to take on wid blood that is blue ! And the Divil go wid her, but couldn't she see You'd the blood av O'Gorman, Fitzpatrick, Magee? And the stock that is first in both fightin' and work, From the line av O'Brien and Kelly and Burke? —From O'Failey, O'Dailey, O'Reily, O'Neil To O'Connell, O'Cooney, O'Shea and O'Sheil! 77 Irish Poems McCaffray, McCurchy, McCarroU, Mc- Cann, All rulers and fighters since fightin' began ! OTeary, OTarrell, O'Carroll, O'Kane, McCormack, McGurly, McManus, Mc- Shane, And Gorman, Fitzpatrick and Fightin' McGirr, And iv'ry last man av thim betther than her! So she says you're no betther than Irish, me lad, But a counthry-bred, swine-drivin' fenian, be- dad! The whiffet! the upshtart! the meal-fed boo- thoon ! And could she be tellin', though fed on a spoon. The crame av the world from ould Brian Boru? Faith, how could she hope for a Kerry like you? — With the pride av your sivin ould kings in your veins, Wid your mother O'Toole, and your sire av McShanes? 78 Arthur Stringer Wid your ancistry iv'ry wan wearin' his crown, From Rhu and O'Brien to Big HoUeran down! — FromO'Failey, O'Dailey, O'Reily, O'Neil To O'Connell, O'Cooney, O'Shea and O'Sheil! McCaffray, McCurchy, McCarrolI, Mc- Cun, McCIone and McCoy — and kings iv'ry one! O'Leary, O'Farrell, O'CarrolI, O'Kane, McCormack, McGurly, McManus, Mc- Shane, And Tagon O'Regen and Mighty Mc- Glone, The finest av fighters and kings to the bone ! 79 Irish Poems WIMMEN ^T^HERE are wimmen's faces, lad, •*• That are wind and fire, Shtirrin' up the whole world, Wakin' ould desire! And there's other wimmen, faith, Calm and shtill through all, Shtickin' to their wan love Till the hivens fall ! Wan's as foine as hell fire; Wan's as thrue as life ! Wan ye^ll leave and weep for, And wan ye^ll take as wife! 80 Arthur Stringer THE SIRENS /^ FTEN in the night-time I can hear thim ^^ callin' me, Callin', callin' shweeter than a woman to her love, In acrosst the city wid its sthreets av brick and stone, Wid its roarin' wheels below and thrailin' shmoke above; Through the crowded places I can shmell the open Sea And I hear her sirens callin', callin' for their own! I can wake and hear thim boomin' thro' the harbor rain. Hear thim thro' the river-fog where yellow lantherns burn ; At the break av mornin' I can hear thim growl and cough, Till I see the bone-white deck and shmokin' funnel plain, 8i Irish Poems Till I see the shlappin', lappin' harbor-wather churn Round the rusty side-plates and the lighters crowdin' offl Faith, I know then I must go and take the End- less Thrail, For the shtreets become a throuble and all life becomes a fret And the city seems a prison built av sthone and stheel — But there's manhood in the facin', racin' av a gale Wid the dippin', drippin' hawse-holes and the decks a-reel ! For the Sea is like a woman that you'll ne'er forget, And she's callin' thro' the night-time, callin' thro' the dawn — And Fm goin' to know her last kiss before me life is gone! 82 Arthur Stringer THE DISCOVERY nr^HE Ice and the long av it now that ye' re -*• through Seems under the sun ye can find nothin' new — So faith, ril be whisperin' what ye might do. Go study some colleen's cometherin' eye, And whin ye have banthered and blarnied her thry A flattherin' sadness, a bit av a sigh. And whin ye have found that she's taken wid you, Faith, whether ye laugh or whether ye rue, Ye'U go the same way your betthers all do ! Ye'll come to your sinses, me solemn gossoon, And drunk wid the wine av some warm night in June, Ye'll be kissin' her mouth and watchin' the moon! 83 Irish Poems And under the sun, faith, nothin* is new — But under that moon ye'll find that ifs thrue There's stranger ould wonders thin iver ye knew/ 84 Arthur Stringer^ THE DANCING DAYS > 'Tp IS a year and a day back to Kindree ^ Where the gerrls had no shoes to their feet ! 'Tis many a mile to the ould town Where the childer' wanst danced in the street ! Here's bread to be had for the breakin' ; Here's moilin' and f rettin' and froth ! But thinkin' av Home, how me heart's blood Must jig like a wave o' Lake Roth! Av Home, och, where down thro' the ould street Wid his pipin' went Ragged MacGee — And faith, how the colleens thrailed round at his heels And all jigged like the leaves av a tree! 85 Irish Poems The walls were a tumble av stone-heaps, The skim-milk wid wather was thinned, And the thatch it was broken and moss- grown — But we danced like the grass in the wind 1 Not worth a traneen was the village, But no wan was sthoppin* to f ret— And ni wager theyWe goin* like a tree^top today J Faith, dancin^ and starvin^ there yetl 86 Arthur Stringer BY THE SEA-WALL \7[7E should niver have walked to the ould sea-wall And hearkened the ould grey Sea ; We should niver have watched the Southern Cross, That newrf ound love and me ! I should niver have left that bamboo room Wid its scent and its winkin' lamp And walked thro' the sthill av the Tropic night Where the Thrades blew warm and damp ! I should niver have watched the ould tides swim Wid their shimmerin' glimmerin' glow That led me back to my lost Thrue Love And the hills av long ago ! I should niver have turned to think or dream Av that Thrue Love lost to me, And the ways I went for my Thrue Love's sake Who niver my love would be ! 87 Irish Poems And that brown-armed shlip av an Island gerrl Should niver have let me go Where the winds av the East came lashin' up And the ould Sea whispered low ! For the wind and the palm and the throubled surf They tould me as plain as day : '*Ye're kissin' a ghost in a world av ghosts And your Thrue Love's worlds away!" For whiniver I watched the ould sad stars I could see but me Thrue Love's eyes — And the love that has swept and kept a man Is niver the love he buys ! So the warmth went out av me wonderin' heart And we kissed no more at all, That gerrl wid the painted mouth and me As we sat on the ould sea-wall I 88 Arthur Stringer THE EVENING UP \T 7HIN Shamus O'Regen was sellin' me hay, ^ ^ And as sheuch-rank as iver was mowed, He'd seat his gerrl Moira, for such was his way. On the top av his thimble-rig load. And he'd bring me his scrapin's av thistle and whin. And I'd take thim wid niver a word; But I'd hold for a breath, as the cart jolted in, Moira's hand, that was soft as a bird. For Moira was wishtful and white as the May, And her eyes they would throuble your heart Till any ould bramble seemed special fine hay Wid her face at the top av the cart. Yet me horse and me cattle wint lean as a kite, Wid their feedin' on Shamus's hay. And I'd figure me loss to a rick over-night — But, in faith, I had nothin' to say. 89 Irish Poems For, Moira and me, we secretly met At the end av ould Ballybree Wall, And she gave me the word that soon made me forget Fd ivcr been cheated at all! 90 Arthur Stringer THE WISE MAN T\/rlCHAEL has a book-shelf ^^^ Stacked amazin' high! Michael reads in sivin tongues Wid a rheumy eye ! Faith, he's called a wise man, Readin' half the night; Delvin' into stoodjous things Betther kept from sight! Michael spends a Spring day Squintin' o'er a script — Michael niver kisst a gerrl Warm and rosy-lipped! Faith, I've studied long, now, Wimmen and their ways — And judgin' where it's took me Thim were stoodjous days! 91 Irish Poems Little rote IVe learnt me, Little have I read — But I know a thing or two Not in Michael's head! 92 Arthur Stringer THE END WAN touch av lip to lip it seemed Would ease and end desire; Wan mad kiss at the most, I dreamed, Would quench the ache and fire. When wishtful-eyed she gave wan kiss, The touch I'd hungered for, The thrue end, faith, I saw was this : Not wan, but fifty more ! And heart to heart she gave thim free, Soft kisses, day by day; But still some end that throubled me Stood off a world away ! And while we yearned and ere we learned We groped to wan gift more; And havin' that, the end was earned, And Sorrow shut the door ! 93 Irish Poems THE OLD MEN npHROUGH the noise av the crowded ^ sthreet The thrappin's av sable crept; Where the light av the sun lay sweet The black-clothed mourners stept. And him — who'd feared at the sight Av coffin and hearse and sthone, He'll shleep widout fear this night In the churchyard wid his own ! But och, at the sight av his hearse, For a breath, how we all lay cold In the gloom and the clutch and the curse Av Death and His drippin' mould ! For a minute our ould backs bowed Wid the weight av his graveyard clay: Then the feelin' passed off like a cloud And wc wakened and went our way* 94 Arthur Stringer Yet faix, now, Fm wonderin' if Death Deep under the loam and the lorn Is throubled, in turn, for a breath, When he^s toldt av a child bein' born, 95 Irish Poems THE MORNIN'S MORNIN' OAYS O^Curran to me wid a bttthersome eye, ^ Watchin! the wather thafd flooded his sty, And blinkin' up into a girlin' moist sky: "Ochone and me heart is that heavy, me lad! Aroo, and Til niver be laughin' again; For the world holds nothin' but what's gone bad, And I'm losin' me pigs wid the rain ! And I've worried it out to the bitthermost end; I see it as plain as the nose on your face. Och, we go to our grave wid niver a friend — And I'm tired av this throublesome place !" Says O^Curran to me wid a shmile and a wink Afther Fd passt him me hit av a drink, And he^d studied the sky and shtarted to think: 96 Arthur Stringer **Sure, It's fine to be shtandin' and takin' your ease, And watchin 'the Hivens fair rainin' wid joy ! Faith, it's good to be livin' on mornin's like these — 'Tis a laughin' ould world, me boy! For faith, if wan couldn't be ailin' a bit We'd niver be feelin' the other way, lad; We'd niver know joy and be achin' for it. And niver be jiggin' and glad!" And he looked out at me wid a chirrupy eye And I passt him the bottle in over the sty Where his drowned pigs pointed their feet to the sky! 97 Irish Poems THE OLD HOUND '^^/^HEN Shamus made shift wid a turf-hut He'd naught but a hound to his name; And whither he went thrailed the ould friend, Dog-faithful and iver the same ! And he'd gnaw thro' a rope in the night-time, He'd eat thro' a wall or a door, He'd shwim thro' a lough in the winther, To be wid his master wanst more ! And the two, faith, would share their last bannock; They'd share their last callop and bone; And deep in the starin' ould sad eyes Lean Shamus would stare wid his own! And loose hung the flanks av the ould hound When Shamus lay sick on his bed — Ay, waitin' and watching wid sad eyes Where he'd eat not av bone or av bread I 98 Arthur Stringer But Shamus be Spring-time grew betther, And a throuble came into his mind ; And he'd take himself off to the village And be leavin' his hound behind I And deep was the whine av the ould dog Wid a love that was deeper than life — But be Michaelmas, faith, it was whispered That Shamus was takin' a wife! A wife and a fine house he got him; In a shay he went drivin' around; And I met him be chance at the Cross Roads And I says to him : ^'How's the ould hound?" "Me wife niver took to that ould dog,'* Says he wid a shrug av his slats, ^*So we^ve got us a new dog from Galway, And och, he^s the divil for ratsP^ 99 Irish Poems SAYS OLD DOCTOR MA'GINN T F the Diviltry mixed wid Man Is leavin' us far from good, Faith, let us be honest at least, me lad, As Divil or Saint we should ! And though few av us walk the path That the Holier Men have trod, To be fair wid the Sinner as well as the Saint Is keepin' in touch wid God I 100 Arthur Stringer THE FO'CASTLE SAGE VT^E'LL watch for the palms thro' the dusk, -*• And ye'U come to a hill-side av light, And ye'll sniff at a stray scent av musk And be stealin' off land'ard at night! Ye'll be crowdin' past hathen and hoor And convarsin' wid wimmen, me lad; And the quicker they seem to allure, The slower ye'll reason they're bad! But beware av the bantherin' lip. And beware av the moitherin' eye; And beware av the olive-brown slip That sings as a lad goes by! And take heed, for the sake av your soul, Av the song the city may sing; And beware av the midnight bowl, And the touch av the trailin' wing I lOI Irish Poems Stand off from the hive av the Bad; Keep back from the drip av the comb ; And take thought av your luck, me lad, Wid the whole clean Sea for a home ! For, on land 'tis all throubles begin; And your home 'tis on wather and brine, And not in their harbours av Sin, Wid their music and laughin' and wine I So take heed by what happened to me, And if ye're for keepin' from harm. Stick close to your ship and the Sea, Where there's nothin' but wather and storm I I02 ^Arthur Stringer THE WEARING OF THE GREEN 'IXT'E'RE wearin' av the green, boys, ^^ Beneath their English rose; We're wearin' av the deeper green That Home and Ireland knows ! The green av holm and bogland, The green av lough and lake, The green that takes us back again And brings the olden ache ! The green av Aran wathers. The green av Rathlin waves, The green av all the hills av Home, And the green av Ireland's graves I 103 Irish Poems MOISTY WEATHER ^TpHESE, in faith, are Irish days, ■^ Days av rain and days av haze ; Misty, moisty, spit and drool; Iv'ry street-turn wid its pool; Iv'ry hedge and thatch a-drip; Wather, sure, to float a ship ! Not a boreen, not a brick, Not a road, and not a rick, Not a throat, and not a sty, Ye'll find, this day, in Ireland dry! — And all the hay-crop 's goin' bad. But what can laugh like wather, lad? 104 Arthur Stringer WINGS I T TAMED me wanst a wee bird ^ Taken from the rain; I warmed it by me turf-fire And it grew strong again. ''And Hiven help/' says I, ''the cat That harms a wee soft thing like that!" No hurt nor harm came to it Close behind me wall, But wan fine day in April I heard a wood-thrush call; And as I watched me startled bird, Faith, off it went widout a word! II I reared me wanst a wee gerri As gentle as the May; I kept her from the cold world, I watched her in her play: 105 Irish Poems **Gawd help the shtreel who'd iver try To take that gerrl from me!" says I. And yestereve I watched her Go creepin' through the gate, And, hidin' like a white hare, Beyont the lough-head wait: And when I spoke, ^Tm of/' says sh€, ^^To wed the lad who's 'waitin' me And matin' me . . . across the Seal'' io6 Arthur Stringer THE WIFE /^H, Muther, Muther, sure ye'll mind the ^^ madness av it all ! Ye'll mind I had no shmile for him, no eye for him at all ! Och, Muther, I was mad wid love for laughin' Kindree Tim ; Vd given up me sobbin' lips and all me heart to him ! And Shamus was a dour man ; And och, he seemed a sour man; **And yon," says I, when first I sent him on his way again, Wid all his sad and patient eyes so clouded up wid pain, "Faith, yon's a cold man, And yon's an old man. And I'm for warrm and laughin* ways, and Fm forlovin'Tim!" The way wid life and lovin' sure ye'll niver learn at school; It seldom goes be raison, and it niver goes be rule! 107 Irish Poems 'Twas half wid pity, Muther, half wid pique at struttin' Tim, I let dour Shamus speak the word that bound me up wid him. Widout a thrill av rapture and widout a throb av hope, I took him for me wedded mate — him, solemn as a Pope, Ay, him widout a chune or laugh, and wid his solemn way; He took me from ye, Muther, and off across The Bay, — And och the bitther tears And the thought av empty years And sobbin' that I'd rather die than face an- other day! I've borne him childer', Muther, and I've been an honest wife; We've had our thrials together, faith, our ups and downs wid life ; I've minded what ye tolt me, Muther, kept me throubles still. And bent me way to Shamus's and made his wish me will — But here's the wonder av it! Muther, Muther, tell me why io8 Arthur Stringer The mid-day love grows stronger when the mornin' love must die, The solemn love grows dearer when the mad- der love goes by? For here I'm waitin' like a gerrl to hear me Shamus call, Ay, here Fm waitin' for the man who's now me all in all, And when I see him throubled sure it cuts me like a knife — And faith it's not a sad world, And sure it's not a mad world, For I love him, Muther, Muther, och, I love him more than life ! 109 Irish Poems BARNEY CREEGAN TTERE'S to you, Barney Creegan, -■- -^ Where iver ye may be ; And Hivin knows yeVe thravelled Be many a land and sea ! We've et and drunk together, We've known our ups and downs, We've seen our heap av throubles, And we've worn our fadin' crowns! Ye'd steal a kiss, or ham-bone, Ye'd rob a grave wid joy; And a shirr'd egg stand's, the only thing Ye'd niver poach, me boy ! Ye're twinty times a blagyard; Your worldly goods ye've spent — •- But rip and thief and ne'er-do-well. Ye knew what Friendship meant ! And if ye stick to me, still, As I have stuck to you, Faith, Barney Creegan, friends we'll be Until the shamrock's blue! no fcH17 89 ', °v '>'f'. ' .-5^"^'^. V -s o 4 9^ HECKMAN BINDERY INC. ^^ DEC 88 TO=i!P N. MANCHESTER, ^^a^ INDIANA 46962 ..'^""-^ a »« o ^_ .-^^ ♦f'^^^