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1 
 
POEMS 
 
WAI.Tr:R J. DOHERTY 
 
POEMS 
 
 By 
 
 WALTER J. DOHERTY 
 
 1911 
 
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 4^, 
 
 
 Copyright, 1911, by Walter J. Doherty 
 
 (gCI.A292581 
 
DEDICATION 
 
 I dedicate these poems to the memory of my 
 beloved daughter, Mrs. Mary Cecilia Gaudin, 
 whose spirit guided and whose death prompted 
 me in their composition and completion. 
 
 She hved an innocent and happy life, and 
 departed this world at the joyful moment of 
 motherhood. The various poems on death, and 
 " The Vacant Home," were written from impres- 
 sions of her memory. 
 
 The two poems on the " Baby " refer to her 
 baby, which was left to be in part a consolation 
 for her transformation from this world to her 
 eternal home. Thank God. 
 
 Walter J. Doherty. 
 
In hours of pleasure and of pain. 
 
 Those thoughts ran quickly through my brain. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 The Poet's Wail 11 
 
 Dedicated to the Memory of Mrs. John R. Gaudin 
 
 (Photo) 13 
 
 The Vacant Home 14 
 
 The Baby 15 
 
 The Baby 16 
 
 What a Year Brings Around 17 
 
 Death 19 
 
 Must Die 20 
 
 All Must Die 22 
 
 The Spirit Land 24 
 
 Blessed are the Dead 25 
 
 Death is Calling 27 
 
 The Morning Sky 29 
 
 The Gloom of Death 30 
 
 The Other World 31 
 
 The Silent City 32 
 
 The Hermit 34 
 
 The Priest 36 
 
 Letter to Rev. J. M. Byrne 38 
 
 The Eternal City 41 
 
 Love of Nature 44 
 
 Nature 47 
 
 The Honey Bee 50 
 
 The Bird of Passage 51 
 
 The Morning Sun 53 
 
 The Beautiful Moon 55 
 
 Down on the Farm 55 
 
 The River 57 
 
 Flow and Ebb 60 
 
An Answer to an Inquiry Concerning The Maid 
 
 OF THE Mist 61 
 
 Texas Thirty Years Ago 62 
 
 Texas is Good Enough for Me 63 
 
 Texas Bf^t 64 
 
 The Prairie Schooner 65 
 
 Manitou, Colo 67 
 
 The Glowing West 69 
 
 The Blue and the Gray 70 
 
 The Stars and Stripes and Stars and Bars 71 
 
 The Gentleman 73 
 
 The Man of Renown 75 
 
 Elegy on Woman 78 
 
 Blonde or Brunette 80 
 
 The Haunted House 81 
 
 The American Boy 82 
 
 The Yankee Girl 84 
 
 The German School Boy 87 
 
 Childhood Days 88 
 
 My Boy 89 
 
 The Love-Sick Swain 90 
 
 Love's Rambles 91 
 
 A Toast 92 
 
 Man and Maid 93 
 
 The Lady with Husbands to Burn 95 
 
 Epitaph on G. Cullop 96 
 
 The Cold Frozen North 97 
 
 The Sunny South 99 
 
 No Rain 101 
 
 Killarney 102 
 
 My Country 104 
 
 Christmas is Gone, No. 1 106 
 
 Christmas is Gone, No. 2 108 
 
 Pallasdale 109 
 
 Letter to Mrs. F. C. Haynes 110 
 
 Letter to Mrs. C. L. Clark 113 
 
 Letter to Mr. Wallace Graves 115 
 
 Poets are all Dead 117 
 
THE POET'S WAIL 
 
 We should always remember, as all have agreed, 
 That poets, like prophets, are not well received 
 In their own country, or in their own town. 
 But they should not feel grieved, as they are men 
 of renown. 
 
 That they are rejected by those that they know, 
 For it must be expected, as it has always been so ; 
 As Homer, the scholar, who portrayed the Greeks, 
 In hunger and squalidity walked through the 
 streets. 
 
 No one recognized him when begging for bread, 
 But all lionized him when they knew he was dead. 
 We heard of poor scholars who since gained 
 
 renown, 
 Who walked cold and hungry through the streets 
 
 of the town. 
 
 It was nobody's business, and nobody cared. 
 
 For it was none of their troubles how others had 
 
 fared ; 
 But it has ever been so, although it seems hard. 
 That those most deserving should get least reward. 
 
 11 
 
The prophets of old were ahead of their time, 
 And those whom they preached to thought it a 
 
 crime 
 That they be reproved, — they were so puffed up 
 
 with pride, — 
 So they could not endure them and cast them aside. 
 
 They cast them aside to their own loss and ruin, 
 Which proved in the end to be their undoing; 
 But geniuses, like patriots, look not for power. 
 Although at the world they may sometimes feel 
 sour. 
 
 They give their best efforts for country and home. 
 And never forget them when writing a poem; 
 They write up their praises and make it appear. 
 That those who may sing them they cannot but 
 cheer. 
 
 Their writings are criticized by those who lack 
 
 lore, 
 Who would make corrections on them by the score. 
 But such things are expected, as they ever have 
 
 been, 
 As this life is a warfare and each place is the 
 
 scene. 
 
 13 
 
r 
 
 MRS. JOHN R. GAUDIN 
 
DEDICATED TO MRS. JOHN R. GAUDIN 
 
 She came into our home one day, 
 
 A babe, from heaven sent 
 To cheer us on our weary way 
 
 And make our lives content — 
 
 A babe with bright and shining eyes, 
 
 Blue as the heavens above, 
 To where her soul has taken flight. 
 
 Where all is peace and love. 
 
 To us she was a guiding star. 
 
 Her life was always bright, 
 But since she's gone our eyes are dim. 
 
 For day has turned to night. 
 
 She was too good to stay on earth. 
 To frail to stand its storms; 
 
 While here she filled our home with mirth. 
 She's now in God^s own arms. 
 
 We miss her bright and happy face, 
 Which from our home was led; 
 
 She spent her life in God's good grace — 
 And now that babe is dead. 
 
 But, though she is now dead to us. 
 
 Some day the dead will rise; 
 And while to us she is a loss, 
 To heaven she's a prize. 
 
 Her Father. 
 IS 
 
THE VACANT HOME 
 
 The vacant home, — where once there dwelt 
 A child of beauty in face and form, 
 
 Whose every wish expressed was law, 
 
 And loved ones shielded her from harm. 
 
 Those empty halls, — where once was heard 
 The tread of footsteps light and buoyant. 
 
 Where laughter rang from hall to hall — 
 Those echoes now are dead and silent. 
 
 Those empty rooms, — oh, childhood's charms, 
 Endeared to thought and memory's dreams 
 
 Of when we clasped them in our arms — 
 It's now a century — so it seems. 
 
 The vacant home no hand can paint, 
 
 Its loneliness is most depressing, 
 And all our time seems but a waste. 
 
 Our life is spent in vain regretting. 
 
 The vacant house, — whose echoing halls 
 Resound with hollow sounds, so empty. 
 
 There is no friendly face at all. 
 
 Where once was beauty, love, and plenty. 
 
 The vacant home, — if that were all, 
 
 We'd stand its gloom, though most depressing. 
 But in our hearts, — those empty halls, — 
 
 It's there the pain is most distressing. 
 14 
 
THE BABY 
 
 The baby dear, what shall we call her? 
 
 She's sweet as the honey of bees ; 
 One smile from her round face I'd rather, 
 
 For which I'd go down on my knees. 
 
 The baby, that dear little angel, 
 My love for her never shall cease ; 
 
 Now she is looking right over her cradle. 
 While we bend gently down on our knees. 
 
 Those bright eyes that seem to be calling. 
 Bright and blue as the skies overhead; 
 
 We hope that she soon will be crawling. 
 But now she lies still there in bed. 
 
 The poor little dear, when she entered 
 This world with all of its cares; 
 
 Then left her whose heart in her centred, 
 And whose image and likeness she bears. 
 
 The poor little dear, she's a darling. 
 Her mother was taken at birth; 
 
 And now she doesn't hear her sweet calling; 
 If here she would join in her mirth. 
 
 The Good Lord, who loves little babies, 
 And said He'd take them for His own, — 
 
 To His care we'll entrust her safe-keeping. 
 Her body as well as her soul. 
 15 
 
THE BABY 
 
 The baby dear with golden hair, 
 Who knoweth neither trouble nor care; 
 With curly locks that circle round, 
 And dainty feet that pat the ground. 
 
 Those dark blue eyes that sparkle so, 
 And follow after as we go; 
 That forehead high, and parted hair, — 
 Sweet visions haunt me everywhere. 
 
 Those dear words she cannot express. 
 But she has such a sweet caress ; 
 That look of peace and innocence. 
 Which only once shall be possessed. 
 
 No wonder God had said of them. 
 They were the ones for His kingdom ; 
 Those sparkling eyes, that seem to speak. 
 And pattering feet that run to meet. 
 
 And laugh that rings so in our ear. 
 Which makes sweet music everywhere; 
 They are the pride of mother's heart, 
 And from them they can never part. 
 
 The heart of man it softens so. 
 When he sees the baby's face aglow ; 
 Aglow with merriment and health, 
 Which is worth more to him than wealth. 
 16 
 
She pleads so with those loving eyes, 
 Which only parents reahze; 
 And so he heaves a loving sigh, 
 And he sings the babe a lullaby. 
 
 WHAT A YEAR BRINGS AROUND 
 
 I've lost all I had, what care I now? 
 My heart is sad, my spirits low; 
 My daughter fair has gone to rest, 
 She was the one I loved the best. 
 
 Her tender care and easy grace, 
 Depicted beauty of her face; 
 She's gone away, no more we see 
 Those happy days that used to be. 
 
 No more we see her pleasant smile. 
 She used to wear it all the while; 
 Hers was a loss can't be replaced. 
 But she has reached a better place. 
 
 She was a sweet and loving child. 
 The ones that are taken are that kind; 
 She made our home a place of joy. 
 But now she's gone to God on high. 
 17 
 
One year ago how happy she 
 Was in her home so full of glee ; 
 Her form is missed, that voice is still — 
 Although we know it is God's will. 
 
 She ever did dispel all gloom, 
 
 And scattered sunshine through each room; 
 
 For joy to others she had given. 
 
 For which she's got a place in heaven. 
 
 One year ago to-day she bought 
 Our Christmas gifts ; we little thought 
 That ere this Christmas should come around. 
 She would be placed beneath the ground. 
 
 With all her pleasures, hopes and joys 
 She never lived to realize; 
 And thus our hopes in life are gone, 
 Which leaves our future blank and wan. 
 
 The world moves now as it did then, 
 Although with us it's standing still; 
 No wonder that our hopes are blighted, 
 And all our future life benighted. 
 
 18 
 
" DEATH " 
 
 Who would not fear its mighty grasp, 
 That comes hke dead of night, 
 
 And takes away our Hfe's last gasp, 
 And fills us with affright. 
 
 Amidst the gloom of life's last hour, 
 When our time to leave has come, 
 
 Then we're deprived of all our power, 
 We're then both deaf and dumb. 
 
 It's then the light has left our life. 
 With sweat beads on our brow. 
 
 And thus we leave this world of light. 
 Although we know not how. 
 
 The men who live in might and power. 
 With armies all their own. 
 
 Then when it comes, that lonely hour. 
 They must leave here all alone. 
 
 It seems to live here is a crime, 
 And for it we must suffer. 
 
 It's thus the Lord awaits His time. 
 For He has thought it proper. 
 
 The sins of Adam and of Eve, 
 To which we've not consented. 
 
 But still the guilt to us they leave. 
 Although they've since repented. 
 19 
 
For we are all condemned to die, 
 
 As punishment for sin — 
 So said the Lord that rules on high, 
 
 But it's then our lives begin. 
 
 For God, who knows how to reward, 
 
 As well as to chastise. 
 And those who here obey His laws 
 
 To glory in heaven they'll rise. 
 
 " MUST DIE " 
 
 Why should we fear to die. 
 When all nature tells us so? 
 
 For all on earth must suffer death. 
 Whether they like it or no. 
 
 The field and dale with blossoms wild. 
 
 So pleasing to the eye, 
 Where we have many hours beguiled, 
 
 But yet they all must die. 
 
 The great and mighty, good and bad. 
 The handsome, bright and gay. 
 
 Must all prepare to meet their God, 
 Which may be any day. 
 
For death it seems is but a sleep, 
 
 When we're laid to rest, 
 And when we're gone no one should weep, 
 
 For it is sometimes best. 
 
 The stars that light the sky by night, 
 And the sun that shines by day. 
 
 Though they all do their work aright. 
 They too must pass away. 
 
 And when the earth and heaven pass. 
 
 And time shall be no more, 
 They, Hke ourselves, shall be rebuilt. 
 
 And then shall die no more. 
 
 Why should we fear to die.? 
 
 We're told that death is sweet. 
 And many a friend for whom we sigh 
 
 We once again shall meet. 
 
 How could we see the angel's face. 
 
 How could we see our God, 
 If we were on this earth to stay. 
 
 Mixed up with good and bad.'' 
 
 The fallen angels they were made 
 Pure spirits bright and free, 
 
 But if they could they too would die, 
 For happy would they be. 
 91 
 
For God has so ordained, it seems, 
 All earthly things must die, 
 
 And He has used death as a means 
 This world to purify. 
 
 ALL MUST DIE 
 
 Why should we mourn for the dead? 
 
 The Lord but claimed His own ; 
 And took her to the realms above, 
 
 To His eternal home. 
 
 Why should we mourn for the dead? 
 
 For still her spirit lives ; 
 And God alone has got the right 
 
 To take the life He gives. 
 
 Why should we moum for the dead? 
 
 Should not God's will be done. 
 Who gaveth up even unto death 
 
 His own beloved Son ! 
 
 Why should we mourn for the dead? 
 
 For that our life was given, 
 And only through it shall we find 
 
 The only road to Heaven. 
 
Why should we mourn for the dead? 
 
 They are only gone before, 
 To take their place with God in Heaven 
 
 And meet us at the door. 
 
 For through that great chasm of death 
 
 We enter through the gate, 
 And they are taken up ahead 
 
 While we stay here and wait. 
 
 For of the old Biblical days 
 
 All men are dead but two. 
 And they will come again on earth, 
 
 For they have work to do. 
 
 And when that work of theirs is done, 
 They shall lay down their lives. 
 
 For God is keeping them in Heaven 
 To fight the Anti-Christ. 
 
 Then when their mission here is filled, 
 They're slain upon the street; 
 
 When of this world there is an end 
 Our own in Heaven we'll meet. 
 
 23 
 
THE SPIRIT LAND 
 
 Oh ! take me to the Spirit Land, 
 
 It is my future home, 
 For I'm a stranger in this land. 
 
 Wherever I may roam. 
 
 Th« Spirit Land seems distant 
 But still it's close at hand. 
 
 For all the world about us 
 Comprise the Spirit Land. 
 
 For in this mighty world. 
 Our hves are but a speck. 
 
 Although we make a flutter 
 While here upon its deck. 
 
 The spirits move about us, 
 And go like lightning's flash. 
 
 And listen to our theories 
 
 Tho' sometimes they are rash. 
 
 Oh ! take me to the Spirit Land, 
 I've oft been there in thought. 
 
 And while still there I found it grand, 
 Tho' my visit came to naught. 
 
 We long to see the Spirit Land, 
 Where angels come and go. 
 
 But we are held here by life's bands, 
 How long we do not know. 
 24, 
 
I like to think of Spirit Land, 
 Of dear ones gone ahead, 
 
 They go to swell the mighty band, 
 While we here call them dead. 
 
 Oh ! take me to the Spirit Land, 
 It's there I want to stay 
 
 And leave behind me all I have. 
 This body made of clay. 
 
 And when the resurrection comes, 
 This body, gone to dust. 
 
 Will mingle with the spirits. 
 For God has said it must. 
 
 So in this mystic world, 
 
 We're here but a short while. 
 
 Then we are taken to another 
 For which we're here on trial. 
 
 BLESSED ARE THE DEAD 
 
 Blessed are they who die in the Lord, 
 For so it has been written. 
 
 And great indeed is their reward, 
 No more shall they be smitten. 
 
 95 
 
Happy Ui^'y who die in Spring, 
 
 lU.i'orc. tlje cares of" Jif'e* 
 TroublcH and sorrow to tlx-rn shall bring, 
 
 I.ct. them be husband or wife. 
 
 We see Ww brigfit, and \\n.])])y face, 
 
 Of pf>rt,rait. orj tlie wall, 
 Whicf) shows sfie lived in (iod's good grace, 
 
 Lik(; man before bis fall. 
 
 TTapf)y th<' souls in (iod's good time, 
 
 ile called from here below, 
 ]'>e aiighl, Uxy knew of care or crime, 
 
 ifis bleHwingH di(J fxstow. 
 
 I^'or youtl) is like the month of May, 
 
 When nature all in drcHHed, 
 AnrJ all tlie worhi is brigfit anrJ gay, 
 
 While wvWv. hen: but a guest. 
 
 'I'he fair and finest of tlw flock, 
 
 Ciod would hav(; sacrificed, 
 Why therefore should we want them back, 
 
 When they are His own choice? 
 
 Blessed are tfiey wlio die in the liOrd, 
 
 In the Holy Iiof>k we are told ; 
 And blessed are tliey who j)aHs away, 
 
 iJefore t}i(?y have grown old. 
 
 26 
 
DEATH rs CAFJJNC; 
 
 ( !n.lliii;^- n I, our door, 
 \'\iv willi c/uli, oiH- in IIiJh world, 
 II. iniisl, scl IN' lliul. old Hcorc. 
 
 II. wails till we arr born, 
 To wal.cli our cnnWv IxtJ, 
 
 And all IIiih linn* il. lias one c/irc, 
 It, w/iils till wr arc (\vn.(\. 
 
 II i'oliows iiH in cliildliood, 
 It's willi UH at. our play. 
 
 And never ,s<'eniH to N/ive UH, 
 Neillicr ni|^lil. nor day. 
 
 It, HceiriH t.o liav«* a fancy, 
 II. likcH t.o liri^'cr around, 
 
 And wlicrr we l<*aHt. <'Xf>e('t. it, 
 It's tli<re t.lial Deat.lij is foiuid. 
 
 AniidHt, our ^/ly rejoicing-, 
 IJ|)<yn Mm* hall room floor, 
 
 Wlien* lite is all a f^lit,t.(M*, 
 It.'s wM.it inf^ at tin? door. 
 
 It.'s wailin/^- to enfold us, 
 
 Witliin its wWhi'Viiifj; li<)l<l. 
 It. has no n'Sjx-ct of jx-rsons, 
 
 l''or Death is always hold. 
 «7 
 
It comes in stormy weather, 
 Amidst the wind and rain, 
 
 Which gives the farmer pleasure. 
 But Death, it brings but pain. 
 
 It hngers on the ocean, 
 It hides among the rocks. 
 
 And where we seek protection. 
 It's there it makes a corpse. 
 
 It follows each excursion. 
 
 Upon the river boat. 
 And seeks for its destruction ; 
 
 It's there that Death doth gloat. 
 
 It watches around the palace. 
 Beneath the doctor's care. 
 
 And takes a king or princess. 
 Without the least of fear. 
 
 It never seems to slumber, 
 Nor does it care for rest. 
 
 But always can remember 
 The one that's wanted next. 
 
 Though we be strong and healthy. 
 And it seems nowhere around. 
 
 We know that Death is stealthy, 
 And then is often found. 
 
 28 
 
For Death has come here with us, 
 And follows everywhere, 
 
 And when we start to leave here. 
 We'll surely find Death there. 
 
 THE MORNING SKY 
 
 Look at the morning sky. 
 How beautiful and grand. 
 
 How pleasing to the eye 
 As it spreads o'er the land. 
 
 Note its various hues 
 
 Of purple, pink and red, 
 Mingled with gray and blue 
 
 As it spreads overhead. 
 
 See its floating clouds 
 
 Scarce moving through the space, 
 As if they feared to wake 
 
 The slumbering human race. 
 
 Thus enters gentle day. 
 
 As soft as opening flowers. 
 
 That know not the sun's rays 
 Within some shady bowers. 
 
THE GLOOM OF DEATH 
 
 The gloom of death 
 Hangs round me yet, 
 And ever will, I fear; 
 And though it's gone, 
 It leaves a pang, 
 As much as I can bear. 
 
 The gloom of death, 
 
 It brings regret. 
 
 And leaves behind it care; 
 
 And though it's met 
 
 With our last breath. 
 
 We cannot banish fear. 
 
 The gloom of death, 
 Who would not fret. 
 To know it is so near.^^ 
 But ne'ertheless. 
 But few will miss. 
 And others will not care. 
 
 For when we're gone. 
 Which won't be long, 
 Then others take our place; 
 Then after that, 
 We know not what 
 Will happen with our race. 
 30 
 
THE OTHER WORLD 
 
 The other world, we hear it spoken 
 
 As if it lay just across the seas ; 
 Each one to reach it leaves some heart broken, 
 
 Who follows them there by slow degrees. 
 
 The other world, whose shores are boundless, 
 And mortals fear therein to peep; 
 
 If we keep the right path those fears are 
 groundless, 
 For there our souls are to rest in peace. 
 
 The other world we hear so much of. 
 And know not when we're called to go ; 
 
 Each day we're nearer to our last parting. 
 And our own reason must tell us so. 
 
 That other world, for us to reach it, 
 They lay us down beneath the sod; 
 
 For so we find they all do teach it, 
 
 For all must go there, both good and bad. 
 
 If we reach Heaven, for so we're hoping. 
 It's there we'll have our heart's delight ; 
 
 Then all our pains here will seem a blessing ; 
 They only go there who do what's right. 
 31 
 
The other world should not be empty, 
 For millions go there from this side; 
 
 It seems some day they will have plenty, 
 For it's there in future all must reside. 
 
 The vault of heaven here surrounds us, 
 And reaches up beyond our sight ; 
 
 When we go yonder, no land shall bound us. 
 For there they'll have no day nor night. 
 
 In this wide world with its broad expanse. 
 
 Where we poor mortals dwell; 
 While living here we have a chance. 
 
 Oh! shall it be Heaven, or hell.'' 
 
 THE SILENT CITY 
 
 The Silent City, where warriors bold 
 
 Are resting now in silent sleep. 
 And maidens fair, with hair of gold. 
 
 Rest sweetly where the willows weep- 
 Through the long and silent hours of night 
 
 They need no guard to watch their tomb ; 
 They're shut away from human sight. 
 
 They rest amidst that awful gloom. 
 32 
 
Upon the trees whose spreading limbs 
 Throw shadows o'er bodies moulding, 
 
 The lone dove coos and the wild bird sings ; 
 And the wondering mind has a strange fore- 
 boding, 
 
 When the chilly breeze of autumn's blast 
 
 Blows through the trees with its dismal sound, 
 
 And leaves that flourished through the summer 
 past 
 Are thickly strewn upon the ground. 
 
 Beneath yon dome there lies a man 
 Who while on earth his will was law, 
 
 There is no one now beneath his ban 
 Nor for his wishes cares a straw. 
 
 Within the portals of those silent walls 
 
 Where many dear and sacred treasures sleep. 
 
 They answer not our sad and piteous calls 
 
 Whose graves we water with the tears we weep. 
 
 Behold that grassy mound incased with granite 
 stone. 
 Upon one comer stands a slender oak. 
 Whose leafy branches shade the silent tomb 
 
 Of children for whose death my heart nigh 
 broke. 
 
And as I cast my glance from lot to lot, 
 I see my silent friends lie all around, 
 
 From the white-haired sage to the smallest tot ; 
 I feel a reverence for that sacred ground. 
 
 There through the long bright moonlit night. 
 Where towering pillars cast their shadows deep, 
 
 So were the shadows cast upon our life, 
 
 By death of those who now beneath them sleep. 
 
 And when it comes, the time that I must die, 
 I want to lie beneath those shady leaves. 
 
 So all my friends that come and wander by. 
 May know he is with those for whom he grieves. 
 
 THE HERMIT 
 
 Shall I fly, shall I fly, shall I fly to the gloom. 
 
 And hie me away as it were toi the tomb. 
 
 To the hot desert land where no trees e'er are 
 
 found. 
 And nothing but sand spread all over the ground? 
 
 In the far distant land where the anchorite lone. 
 Lived in fasting and prayer for the good of the 
 
 soul. 
 And communed with his God in the dark hours of 
 
 night. 
 There hidden away from out of man's sight, 
 
 34 
 
With no creature at all, but a raven for one, 
 That brought half a loaf scarce as big as a bun ; 
 Shall I fly to the desert, there close to a spring. 
 With naught but a date-palm, scant shade to 
 rest in? 
 
 And flee from life's follies, which here so abound, 
 And bury myself as it were underground. 
 There's where thousands have gone, have gone 
 
 there to live. 
 And renounced all the joys which this world could 
 
 give. 
 
 Midst the terrors of reptiles with death in their 
 
 sting. 
 And never a house to hide themselves in. 
 To lead such a life must be superhuman ; 
 While others have done it, there are still some that 
 
 can. 
 
 There Dukes, Lords, and Princesses, from purple 
 
 and gold. 
 Have gone in their youth, and died there when old, 
 And thought it a favor that they were allowed 
 To bury themselves as it were overground. 
 
 There hid in the desert, no human they knew, 
 And if one approached them in farther they flew. 
 They flew from all pleasures, from all earthly gain. 
 But still had their bodies, which they had to tame. 
 
 35 
 
They hid in the desert from the pleasures of life, 
 But still had their warfare, their ne'er-ending 
 
 strife, 
 For fight is man's portion wher'er he may go, 
 He must fight his own flesh, which is his worst foe. 
 
 Shall I fly to the desert, ah ! no, I'll remain. 
 Remain where I am, for life's ever the same ; 
 I'll not fly to the desert, as I can't go alone. 
 But must take this my body, which would still 
 fight the soul. 
 
 THE PRIEST 
 
 The Catholic Priest takes care of his flock. 
 And proves like to Peter, he still is a rock, 
 A rock to which we in our troubles can fly. 
 And upon whose advice we can always rely. 
 He is without family, without home or friends. 
 But the sick and the dying he always attends; 
 He is weak with the weak, and strong with the 
 
 strong. 
 He exhorts all to right, and discourages wrong. 
 
 You'll find him in danger, midst contagious disease. 
 While others called preachers are home at their 
 ease; 
 
 36 
 
He follows the footsteps his Master hath trod, 
 And preaches alike to the good and the bad; 
 He seeks to make converts wherever he goes, 
 And to gather the harvest from the seed that he 
 
 sows ; 
 He is like the good shepherd that sees to his flock, 
 And when one goes astray he rests not till he's 
 
 back. 
 
 He bears persecution like the Saviour before, 
 And thinks he's unworthy to bear any more, 
 He seeks not for glory, nor applause of mankind. 
 As all of those bubbles we must soon leave behind ; 
 Upon the high Alps which are covered with snow. 
 When the traveller is lost, and knows not where 
 
 to go, 
 You'll find there at hand a St. Bernard good priest. 
 To take him to shelter at that blessed retreat. 
 
 On the high mountain top they watch for the 
 
 astray 
 And benighted traveller that's lost on the way ; 
 Forever he's watchful to succor mankind. 
 And relieve wants of body as well as of mind. 
 Where bullets are thick on the field of the slain. 
 Which makes the heart sick, and bewilders the 
 
 brain. 
 You'll find the priest there to give hope and relief 
 To the wounded and bleeding there dying in grief. 
 
 S7 
 
He gives up home and riches, to work for the Lord, 
 And looks but to Heaven to get his reward ; 
 Though once he may've been the pride of his set, 
 Those honors and pleasures he now doth forget, 
 Forget and abandon for fasting and prayer, 
 And gives to the people his principal care. 
 While the rich they but try to increase earthly 
 
 store. 
 The priests they acquire so they can give the more. 
 
 He is ready to lay down his life at his work, 
 As he preaches to Arab, Caucasian, or Turk, 
 He feels not the sadness of the world around. 
 As he knows that in Heaven he yet will be crowned ; 
 Forever in Heaven he'll shine like a star, 
 Which now by his faith he can see from afar. 
 And longs for the time that those bands be untied. 
 Which will lift up his soul to where God doth abide. 
 
 Ft. Worth, Texas, 2/2/'11- 
 
 Rev. J. M. Byrne, All Saints' Church, 
 N. Ft. Worth, Texas. 
 
 My dear Father Byrne, I write these few lines. 
 To explain to you what was intended. 
 Those Priests that have fallen at different times, 
 Their mission with Christ, it has ended. 
 38 
 
You refer to the faithless and fallen of old, 
 Such as Judas Iscariot and Luther, 
 And all that makes havoc in God's holy fold, 
 In the past time, the present, and future. 
 
 On my subject I wrote on the Priests of to-day, 
 
 And referred not at all to the fallen. 
 
 For they from my memory have long passed 
 
 away. 
 As such traitors should all be forgotten. 
 
 But we know that the Priest is but man after all, 
 And subject to all his temptation. 
 And therefore he always is subject to fall. 
 But if so, he must seek restoration. 
 
 But some, like the angels cast out of God's 
 sight, 
 
 That were filled both with pride and presump- 
 tion, 
 
 Had risen so high up in their own sight. 
 
 That to others they paid no attention. 
 
 For pride is proverbial and comes before fall. 
 It's the snare by which great minds are taken. 
 And is o'er their eyes, as it were, like a veil, 
 And thus they are easily mistaken. 
 39 
 
For man while on earth must fight to the last, 
 
 And never lie down to the battle, 
 
 For when proven a coward all good deeds of the 
 
 past 
 Are then by his country forgotten. 
 
 When Benedict Arnold had fought in the ranks, 
 
 And fell in defense of Old Glory, 
 
 If death then but claimed him, he'd not have a 
 
 chance 
 To sell country and turn a Tory. 
 
 The zest of it all is those faithful and true, 
 Who are called by God to that vocation, 
 Although by foreknowledge He already knew 
 Those who would be true to His mission. 
 
 There is no one on earth can compare with the 
 
 Priest, 
 In his sacerdotal and religious profession. 
 And when we're possessed of the good ones we're 
 
 blessed. 
 From the bad, we should learn a lesson. 
 
 W. J. DoHERTY, Ft. Worth, Texas. 
 
 40 
 
THE ETERNAL CITY 
 
 Upon the pagan stronghold, 
 Where Satan reigned for years, 
 Ere Christians got a foothold, 
 Its people lay in chains ; 
 For he was so defiant 
 Of all the powers of man. 
 And acted such a tyrant. 
 As only Satan can. 
 
 He erected there a citadel. 
 With battlements so strong, 
 Where he defied the world. 
 And would his stay prolong. 
 But the meek and humble Peter, 
 That was chosen by the Lord, 
 From among His favored people. 
 His faithful herd to guard. 
 Took in the situation. 
 And with the eye of faith. 
 He buckled on his armor, 
 And charged the mighty gate. 
 
 His weapons they seemed feeble, 
 
 But then his faith was strong, 
 
 And he felt he was able 
 
 To conquer before long. 
 
 His weapons they were fasting, 
 41 
 
Which mingled in with prayer, 
 He made impressions lasting, 
 And conquered everywhere. 
 
 He had turned from Jerusalem, 
 As God had said he would, 
 And sowed among strange people 
 The seed that rooted good. 
 The Church it was established, 
 And was growing fast and strong. 
 But never had been watered. 
 By the blood of martyred man ; 
 But then there came an era 
 Which was to prove its strength, 
 For Satan with his agents 
 Was on its destruction bent. 
 
 First came the cruel Nero, 
 Proud Emperor of Rome, 
 Whoi thought it a usurper. 
 And feared they'd get his throne. 
 He was a wicked demon. 
 Although in shape a man. 
 Who would kill all the world. 
 If a head they had but one. 
 
 After such signal failure. 
 Which Nero he had been. 
 Then came up Diocletian, 
 49 
 
The worst the world had seen. 
 
 He then ruled all the nations, 
 
 Himself and Maximilian, 
 
 They then attacked the Christians, 
 
 And said they'd leave not one 
 
 In all that mighty empire, 
 
 So killed them off for fun. 
 
 They would annihilate them, 
 
 And leave no trace at all. 
 
 But they were much mistaken. 
 
 And they strengthened after all. 
 
 The Church had a foundation. 
 Cemented with man's blood, 
 With lives of martyrs taken. 
 And on that foundation stood. 
 So all his futile efforts 
 They soon had come to naught, 
 And he did not accomplish 
 The ends that he had sought. 
 In all, eleven millions 
 Did freely give life's blood. 
 And though it had been billions. 
 They would the loss have stood. 
 Thus from a small beginning 
 They have spread the whole world o'er. 
 And long before the ending. 
 They will have spread much more. 
 43 
 
Though they were weak and feeble, 
 With God to guide their ways 
 They have brought the faith through peril, 
 Down to the present days. 
 
 So stands the Eternal City, 
 At present it is Rome, 
 But if the Church so will it 
 They can make another home. 
 For it is not the city 
 That makes the Church of God, 
 But Bishops, Priests, and laity. 
 Which comprise that mighty band. 
 So banded all together, 
 They will fight until the last, 
 And win in Heaven a treasure. 
 When this life of strife is past. 
 
 LOVE OF NATURE 
 
 I love all nature so. 
 All of it that I know, 
 I love the mountains, 
 Valleys, lakes, and fields. 
 And o'er my heart a longing steals. 
 For I love them as I used to long ago. 
 44 
 
I lave the mountain tops, 
 With their rugged snow-white caps, 
 Where the chmbers love 
 To travel heel and toe. 
 And the guide oft goes astray, 
 As he does not know the way. 
 There I'd love to spend 
 My days if I could go. 
 I love the wooded hills 
 Where the black-bird sits and sings. 
 And the wood-thrush 
 On the tree-top sits alone ; 
 There I now would like to be, 
 Sitting down beneath that tree. 
 And I'd love to hear 
 The ring-dove make his moan. 
 I love the meadows green. 
 Where in childhood I have been. 
 For its loss 
 
 No other place can atone. 
 There amidst the wild flowers free. 
 When my heart was full of glee. 
 There my memory 
 Ever lingers, round that home. 
 I love the waters fresh. 
 Where they come down with a rush. 
 To the valley. 
 
 From their lovely mountain home. 
 45 
 
There the rivulets abound, 
 
 Where the speckled trout are found, 
 
 And the children play around 
 
 As of yore. 
 
 I love the fields so green, 
 
 And my heart dwells on that scene, 
 
 Of the dear old river Flesk, 
 
 And where it flows. 
 
 In the valley 'neath the hill, 
 
 Where no doubt it's manning still. 
 
 On its way down to the mill, 
 
 I so well know! 
 And before I reach the clay. 
 Though I'll soon be getting gray, 
 I would like awhile to stray, 
 
 There alone! 
 I'd note every bush and tree, 
 As I remember them to be. 
 Then I'd fall upon my knee, 
 
 Agra machree! 
 
 (Love of my heart.) 
 
 46 
 
NATURE 
 
 Who would not love nature, 
 In its wild rugged state; 
 
 Who would not love nature, 
 If but for its own sake ! 
 
 The ocean's wild billows, 
 That roll on the deep; 
 
 And its fathomless waters, 
 That are salted to keep. 
 
 With myriads of creatures, 
 That sport on its waves; 
 
 Or under its waters. 
 
 In its rocks and its caves. 
 
 They love and imbibe it. 
 As we bask in the sun; 
 
 And have always enjoyed it. 
 Since the world begun. 
 
 In its madly wild motion, 
 Where thousands of ships 
 
 Are tossed at its notion, 
 Where men their lives risk. 
 
 Those waves of the ocean. 
 That beat on the rocks. 
 
 But never are shaken. 
 With its fiercest attacks. 
 
 47 
 
For ever those waters 
 Are beating the shore, 
 
 With their wasted power, 
 But have gained no more. 
 
 Thej have wasted their fury, 
 
 In beating the land; 
 But must always return 
 
 Again to the sand. 
 
 Those wild mountain gorges. 
 Whose sides are so deep ; 
 
 And fill us with awe, 
 As we over them peep. 
 
 With their rocks overhanging 
 The mad gurgling stream. 
 
 Whose waters are churned 
 To the color of cream. 
 
 And the wood-covered valley. 
 Where the forests are seen; 
 
 Which darken the sky 
 
 With their foliage of green. 
 
 There is so much in nature 
 That we cannot describe; 
 
 It's like counting the number 
 Of bees in a hive. 
 48 
 
It's part of our nature 
 That we should pervert; 
 
 It was one of the legacies 
 Left us at our birth. 
 
 With the babe in the cradle 
 
 It's nature to cry ; 
 And when they can't do so 
 
 They are ready to die. 
 
 With mountains and rivers, 
 
 And valleys so green, 
 I'll always remember 
 
 That beautiful scene. 
 
 And turbulent waters. 
 
 That run down the hill; 
 
 I'll keep in my memory, 
 A place for them still. 
 
 The ocean with sea-birds 
 
 Between sea and sky, 
 That hover around us, 
 
 With their shrill, piercing cry. 
 
 The whole panorama. 
 To me seems so grand; 
 
 That I love the wild ocean, 
 As I do the dry land. 
 49 
 
THE HONEY BEE 
 
 The busy bee, that useful thing, 
 That rests not day nor night ; 
 
 And is so quick to use his sting, 
 Which he keeps out of sight. 
 
 He rests not till he makes his comb, 
 And fills it with sweet food ; 
 
 And he would fain defend his home, 
 From all who would intrude. 
 
 He goes about from day to day, 
 And gathers honey from the flowers 
 
 Which he finds growing along the way, 
 'Midst pleasant shady bowers. 
 
 He flits among the various plants, 
 Of flowers both rich and rare. 
 
 And gathers all the sweets he wants. 
 From whom he does not care. 
 
 He alights upon the hyacinth, 
 
 Then to the tulip goes ; 
 But as they have no sweet perfume. 
 
 Then he 'lights upon the rose. 
 
 He is indeed a busy bee. 
 
 And always seems to thrive; 
 
 He carries bee bread on his knee. 
 With which to fill his hive. 
 50 
 
We too should emulate the bee, 
 And profit by time given; 
 
 And lay up for ourselves a store 
 Of good works safe in Heaven. 
 
 THE BIRD OF PASSAGE 
 
 The birds of passage, those welcome guests 
 That make to us their yearly round, 
 
 And always to our mind suggest 
 
 That summertime has come around. 
 
 They came here for the summer months, 
 And but that short time did reside, 
 
 For then they sought for other haunts. 
 As did the quickly ebbing tide. 
 
 We like to see that feathery tribe. 
 
 Dressed out in plumage bright and gay, 
 
 And wish they longer could reside. 
 They've only got so long to stay. 
 
 There is the robin-redbreast mild. 
 That comes around our kitchen door. 
 
 Will pick the crumbs from any child. 
 Although not seen by them before. 
 51 
 
We have the swallow, quick of wing, 
 Which comes upon us unaware. 
 
 It is the surest sign of spring 
 
 Whene'er his presence doth appear. 
 
 The little snow-bird comes around, 
 
 And where he comes from no one knows, 
 
 But very soon we see the ground 
 Will all be covered up with snows. 
 
 We have the pretty bob-o'link. 
 Here from northeastern states. 
 
 His summer coat is black as ink, 
 But he's changeable of tastes. 
 
 For here he's known as the wheat bird. 
 And for his gluttony pays the price. 
 
 For when he goes south to the swamps. 
 They kill him as the bird of rice. 
 
 The bird of passage, that pretty thing. 
 That leaves each land without regret, 
 
 And always travels on the wing. 
 
 And by that means keeps out of debt. 
 
 The bird of passage comes to mate. 
 And makes himself a little home; 
 
 He likes to have good things to eat. 
 And be at liberty to roam. 
 52 
 
The bird of passage, pretty name, 
 Although from us they soon depart; 
 
 Like those who seek for wealth and fame, 
 Soon all their conquests come to naught. 
 
 We are as birds of passage, too. 
 
 As through this world we take our flight. 
 And though our years here are but few. 
 
 They fly by quickly as the kite. 
 
 THE MORNING SUN 
 
 The morning sun that shines so bright, 
 
 From o'er the mountain's rugged top ; 
 And gently sheds his brilliant Hght, 
 
 Which quickly dries the night dew-drop; 
 It shines upon the sparkling dews, 
 
 Which makes them sparkle as they glitter, 
 And cast the shades of various hues, 
 
 Which makes the fields look like a river; 
 It sparkles on the splashing spray 
 
 Of rushing waters o'er the rocks. 
 O'er all of which it casts its rays. 
 
 Which make like diamonds those old rocks. 
 And penetrates the seething foam 
 
 With a transparency so bright 
 That, though we hear those cataracts groan, 
 
 They fill our hearts with keen delight. 
 
The sun, with stron.g and mighty power, 
 
 Dispels the darkness of the night. 
 And makes us seek a shady bower 
 
 When he is at his greatest height. 
 The sun brings warmth to all the earth, 
 
 And giveth strength to opening buds, 
 For then the world is full of mirth, 
 
 With cheerful music of the birds. 
 The moon reflects its mellow light. 
 
 Which it has borrowed from the sun, 
 And lightens up the dark of night. 
 
 When our day of play or labor's done. 
 And though the moon imparts its light, 
 
 It has no heat it can bestow. 
 It takes the sun at greater height. 
 
 To heat this cold world here below. 
 The sun, that shines in every cHme, 
 
 And mystifies the greatest sage. 
 And though it lasts here through all time. 
 
 It grows no older with each age. 
 He is ever watchful of his course. 
 
 And never once has gone astray. 
 And though he leaves us of a night, 
 
 He always visits us next day. 
 For God, that made the sun and moon. 
 
 And all the planets overhead. 
 They ever do His blessed will. 
 
 Although those planets all are dead. 
 54 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL MOON 
 
 The beautiful moon, which shines at night, 
 When all the world seems dead; 
 
 And fills the earth with its mellow light, 
 Which is so gently shed. 
 
 When the moon's soft gentle rays 
 
 Light up the earth and sky, 
 Through the moon may God be praised, 
 
 Who rules all from on high. 
 
 The beautiful moon with its borrowed light, 
 
 Divested of its heat ; 
 Which makes the world feel bright and glad, 
 
 Where youthful lovers meet. 
 
 That wondrous orbit overhead. 
 
 That shines on us below; 
 And hghtens up the darkest skies, 
 
 While the sun is laying low. 
 
 DOWN ON THE FARM 
 
 Down on the farm where the alfalfa is in blossom. 
 And the wheat, oats and 'taters are ripening in 
 May, 
 Then soon we'll have corn a-coming in tassel, 
 For ere this, in Texas they've laid by the hay. 
 55 
 
There's where the peach trees with white and pink 
 cover 
 With fragrance so sweet as to perfume the air, 
 And many a maid with her dear ardent lover 
 Will stroll 'neath its cool shade, from trouble 
 and care. 
 
 Down in the meadows where the young lambs are 
 bleating, 
 As they skip over hillocks, so sprightly and gay, 
 While at times they desist from their play to go 
 eating 
 The young grass so tender which grows by the 
 way. 
 
 Down on the farm where life is worth living, 
 They are closer to nature, which would be my 
 choice, 
 For that was the earth and its choicest fruits 
 given, — ' 
 To live in the country I think would be nice. 
 
 Down on the farm where the clear water's flowing, 
 
 And the angler with rod sets a bait for the fish. 
 
 Then after the day you would hear his vain 
 
 blowing. 
 
 Even though he had paid his own coin for a 
 
 dish. 
 
 $6 
 
Down on the farm beneath the sun broiling, 
 And crossing through furrows and stubbles all 
 day, 
 
 The farmer spends most of a lonesome life toihng, 
 For which he expects to get paid up some day. 
 
 The youth on the farm will spend his life wishing, 
 And longs for the time when he can get away. 
 
 And thinks to be there is a curse, not a blessing. 
 But like to Maud Muller, must still rake the hay. 
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 The river where it gets its start upon the moun- 
 tain side, 
 
 A tiny little stream we see that's scarcely a foot 
 wide; 
 
 It trickles through the rugged rocks through 
 most intricate ways, 
 
 But never once it turns back, but on its journey 
 stays. 
 
 It flows along the hillside beneath some stately 
 
 trees. 
 That wave their mighty branches as they swing 
 
 before the breeze; 
 
 57 
 
We hear its music voices as it leaves the mountain 
 
 side, 
 And on its way rejoices as it rushes toward the 
 
 tide. 
 
 It travels from the mountain as with a mighty 
 
 bound, 
 And sparkles as a fountain as it seeks for lower 
 
 ground ; 
 It passes by a growing tree which suits the 
 
 beaver's eye, 
 Beneath which he would make his home or know 
 
 the reason why. 
 
 For the shy and timid beaver a most stupendous 
 
 task, 
 From which he never wavers nor thinks how long 
 
 'twill last; 
 He digs himself a cosey home beneath the mossy 
 
 banks, 
 Upon which he would like to roam and play his 
 
 little pranks. 
 
 With a willingness he goes to work and cuts the 
 
 tree in two, 
 Regardless of the time it takes, no easy thing 
 
 to do; 
 
 58 
 
Then mud he draws around it and fills up every 
 
 stop, 
 And lets no water through it, but only o'er the 
 
 top. 
 
 It makes a bright and pretty lake upon the ground 
 
 below, 
 Which makes a little waterfall which o'er the dam 
 
 doth flow; 
 Then down beneath the water, away from sun 
 
 and rain, 
 The sly amphibious beaver his stronghold doth 
 
 maintain. 
 
 The rivulet seeks the valley, as for the sea it's 
 
 bound, 
 And has no time to tarry, as it rumbles o'er the 
 
 ground ; 
 It flows through lovely meadows with odoriferous 
 
 flowers, 
 Where many love to tarry and while away the 
 
 hours. 
 
 It passes lovely villas that dot along the way. 
 And runs through mighty cities where happy 
 
 children play; 
 Upon its placid waters are ships with golden store. 
 But it passes all in silence and will return no more. 
 
 59 
 
We, too, are like the river that hurries to the sea, 
 
 So quickly make our j oumey into eternity ; 
 
 We seek the passing pleasures which here on earth 
 
 abound, 
 Instead of seeking treasures which only in Heaven 
 
 are found. 
 
 THE FLOW AND EBB 
 
 I stood upon the pebbly shore. 
 
 To watch the rushing tide, 
 And see the waves roll o'er and o'er. 
 
 As they reached out deep and wide. 
 
 I stood and watched for many an hour. 
 
 But I could not understand; 
 They seemed as if they had lost their power, 
 
 And receded from the land. 
 
 Our lives are hke the rushing tide. 
 
 Full in the bloom of youth; 
 But when the ebb sets in in life, 
 
 We realize the truth. 
 
 From coming age we cannot run. 
 
 No matter how we try ; 
 And if our lives are spent in waste, 
 
 We'll rue it when we die. 
 
We should always look well to our health, 
 
 It is easier lost than found; 
 For when we pass from life to death, 
 
 They lay us 'neath the ground. 
 
 AN ANSWER 
 
 TO AN INQUIRY CONCERNING THE MAID 
 OF THE MIST 
 
 The Maid of the Mist, 
 I wish you'd desist. 
 But if you persist, 
 I now will insist. 
 You'll find a fair maiden. 
 If you find her at all. 
 She floats in the vapors. 
 Of Niagara Falls; 
 She is but a myth, 
 But we love the sight. 
 And at her form we wonder. 
 And as we stand upon the land 
 The breakers fall like thunder. 
 And then it seems 
 It's but a dream. 
 As such beauty rare. 
 Cannot be real. 
 61 
 
TEXAS THIRTY YEARS AGO 
 
 The Texas steer is not as then, 
 
 A terror to the most of men, 
 
 But fat and sleek, and plump and round. 
 
 And off his carcass every pound 
 
 Is made into a juicy steak, 
 
 Fit for an epicure to eat. 
 
 The Texas cow, it is agreed. 
 Has very much been changed in breed, 
 And like the Texas steer of yore 
 Such cattle we have got no more ; 
 With pastures wild and desert plain, 
 'Twas said, we never got a rain. 
 
 But in this State all things are changed. 
 And garden spots made of the range; 
 For in this State we then had need 
 To keep wild cattle of such breed. 
 Where ravenous wolves and lions bold 
 Would prey on them, both young and old. 
 
 They needed horns both long and stout. 
 To put such enemies to rout ; 
 Their legs were long, their horns were wide, 
 They quickly crossed the country side; 
 For then they were no gentle things. 
 Nor were they held within the pens. 
 
But since the country has so changed, 
 And they are limited in range, 
 They need no horns for their defence, 
 Nor nimble legs to cross the trench ; 
 Of all these things they had no need, 
 So we have simply changed the breed. 
 
 Now on the hillside near the creek. 
 They have laid out a city street. 
 And where the panther lay and rose, 
 It's there the finest city grows. 
 It started as a hamlet small, 
 Which only had a wooden wall. 
 
 But as the ranges they grew smaller, 
 Those city buildings they grew taller. 
 For so in time, where'er you go, 
 You'll find the man there with the hoe. 
 And thus we find the State is changed. 
 And garden spots made of the range. 
 
 TEXAS IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME 
 
 Some people like the world to see. 
 But Texas is good enough for me ; 
 While others seek a cooler clime. 
 Where rocks and mountains tower sublime 
 63 
 
Or climb the Colorado hills, 
 
 Where the pure zephyrs cure our ills; 
 
 Some say it is the place to be, 
 
 But Texas is good enough for me. 
 
 I love its rich and fertile plains. 
 Beneath a canopy of blue. 
 
 Where healthful plenty always reigns; 
 Texas for me will do. 
 
 TEXAS BEST 
 
 This Texas State we know is best. 
 We love it better than the rest; 
 Though other skies may seem as fair, 
 I better like to see them here. 
 
 Though other stars are shining bright, 
 I like to view them here to-night ; 
 Although the summer-time is here. 
 Of the hot sun we have no fear. 
 
 For o'er the prairies from the seas 
 There comes a cool refreshing breeze, 
 That modifies the summer's heat. 
 Which causes the people to crowd the street, 
 64 
 
Where they delight to drive and move, 
 And visitors for health improve; 
 It is the place to spend one's life, 
 Where we can live away from strife, 
 
 And stroll out-doors throughout the year, 
 As they of sunstroke never hear; 
 And though we feel the sun's hot rays, 
 We like to see those balmy days. 
 
 Then when it comes, the bright moonKght, 
 That fills our heart up with delight ! 
 So then in Texas will I stay. 
 As I love its night as I do its day. 
 
 THE PRAIRIE SCHOONER 
 
 The Prairie Schooner, that once was seen 
 Strewed out along the Plains, 
 
 So thickly packed with human beings — 
 Now a memory but remains. 
 
 Those pioneers of early days. 
 
 That opened up the West, 
 And fought the savage all the ways, 
 
 Are mostly gone to rest. 
 65 
 
They were the men of might and main, 
 
 That knew not the word, fail, 
 And many a skulking savage slain, 
 
 They left upon their trail. 
 
 Those men that braved the trackless waste, 
 Where white men ne'er had tread, 
 
 They were the leaders of a race 
 That knew not aught of dread. 
 
 Those Prairie Schooners, lank and long, 
 
 With canvased sides and top. 
 Would wind their weary way along. 
 
 And knew not where to stop. 
 
 They crossed the mountain's rugged top, 
 
 And down the desert plain. 
 The one was naught but dreary rocks, 
 
 The other knew not rain. 
 
 These were the men that blazed the way. 
 
 And women just as bold. 
 And many of them whose hair got gray 
 
 In the efforts to get gold. 
 
 They settled up a barren waste, 
 
 Where buffalo roamed at will. 
 And only for their roaming taste 
 
 It would be barren still. 
 66 
 
The Prairie Schooner's but a jest, 
 
 To travellers of to-day, 
 Who take a pleasure trip out West ; 
 
 Thank those who led a way. 
 
 They ride in palace Pullman cars, 
 With diners drawn in front, 
 
 They sit at ease and smoke cigars. 
 And think they've done some stunt. 
 
 For those who ride the roughest seas, 
 And push their way ahead, 
 
 So others travel at their ease, 
 When they are lying dead. 
 
 MANITOU, COLORADO 
 
 Aug. 12, 1909 
 
 It rains here every day, 
 It is too cold to stay. 
 And I'll hie myself away, 
 To Texas. 
 
 Where the sun is at its height. 
 And they love the bright moonlight, 
 There they sleep good every night. 
 In Texas. 
 67 
 
There they rest beneath the shade, 
 Of the heat they're not afraid, 
 And their fortune's easily made 
 In Texas. 
 
 There I'll make myself content. 
 Where our time is pleasant spent, 
 And you'll not your choice repent, 
 Of Texas. 
 
 When my race on earth is run. 
 And my crown in Heaven is won. 
 They shall lay me 'neath the sun, 
 In Texas. 
 
 And when Gabriel's trumpet blows, 
 And disturbs our sweet repose, 
 We'll rejoice that we arose. 
 In Texas. 
 
THE GLOWING WEST 
 
 Give me the West, 
 
 Away from home 
 Where there is no rest 
 
 There I love to roam. 
 
 Where the changing scenes 
 Of stream and wood 
 
 Suits a restless spirit 
 Of a roaming mood. 
 
 There the brave and fearless 
 Shall push their way, 
 
 But the cowardly weakling 
 Doesn't dare to stay. 
 
 Give me the West 
 
 With its mountain peaks, 
 With its placid waters 
 
 And its turbulent creeks. 
 
 There I love to live, 
 In the golden West, 
 
 For it is the land 
 I love the best. 
 
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 
 
 The Blue and the Gray, 
 Once fearless and bold. 
 
 Are fast going to decay, 
 
 For they're both growing old. 
 
 In the days of their prime, 
 When they rushed to the field 
 
 They did deeds sublime. 
 Neither wilHng to yield. 
 
 They strove for the mastery 
 
 Or fought for a hill, 
 Where each his heart's blood. 
 
 He was willing to spill. 
 
 We still love the Gray, 
 
 It represents the lost cause; 
 
 And should we forget it 
 We'd break nature's laws. 
 
 Their memory we'll cherish. 
 Long after they're gone ; 
 
 And lest it should perish 
 We'll keep it in song. 
 
 And when they have come. 
 To the last fighting day. 
 
 There's no place to run, 
 
 And they know not the way. 
 70 
 
They have made their last stand, 
 No more banners unfurled; 
 
 And the Blue and the Gray, 
 
 They have reached a new world. 
 
 THE STARS AND STRIPES AND 
 STARS AND BARS 
 
 The stars and stripes and stars and bars, 
 
 They left each other full of scars. 
 
 And though each tried with all their might, 
 
 The other side was full of fight ; 
 
 The North they thought it was their mission, 
 
 To whip the South into submission. 
 
 The South their rights they would maintain, 
 
 Though they had every soldier slain. 
 
 They both were brothers of one race. 
 
 And it was really a disgrace, 
 
 That they should mix in deadly strife 
 
 And take away each other's life; 
 
 Each side thought they were in the right, 
 
 And therefore thought they had to fight. 
 
 As if it were the sole solution. 
 
 To spill the blood of this great nation. 
 
 The North they gloried in their strength. 
 And were not wilhng to relent, 
 71 
 
The South were not in numbers strong, 
 But still they did the war prolong 
 Until they both had got their fill, 
 With broken hearts and empty till. 
 They both were of a warlike race. 
 They'd rather death than face disgrace. 
 
 For Celtic blood ran in their veins. 
 Which can be proven by their names, 
 The world saw and looked with wonder 
 To see us making such a blunder; 
 Some envious eyes in foreign lands. 
 Would like to see us break the bands 
 That welded us in strength and power, 
 As they before our strength should cower. 
 
 Both sides they did for certain feel 
 
 They had a foe worthy their steel. 
 
 And though the South, it was defeated. 
 
 Their dipping flag, we still shall greet it; 
 
 They showed the world what they could do. 
 
 Although in numbers they were few. 
 
 And now as peace has come to stay, 
 
 The " Blue " should mingle with the " Gray," 
 
 And clasp their hands in friendship's grasp. 
 
 Which should we hope forever last. 
 
 For North and South and East and West, 
 
 Should be at peace as they are blessed; 
 
 72 
 
With half a continent their own, 
 Where all of earth's products are grown, 
 And peace and plenty here abound, 
 Which nowhere else on earth are found. 
 
 So Stars and Stripes and Stars and Bars, 
 Should try and heal up those old scars, 
 And be at peace forevermore. 
 For soon they'll cross the Yonder Shore. 
 
 WHO IS THE GENTLEMAN.? 
 
 The gentleman, how nice the name. 
 
 When it is spoken with the truth. 
 But half the time we hear the same 
 
 Addressed to him who is a brute. 
 The gentleman, where should he he? 
 
 We find him in all walks of life. 
 He need not pride on family tree, 
 
 Nor high connections of a wife. 
 
 He's gentle as a little child, 
 
 Although in body brave and strong; 
 You'll find him always meek and mild. 
 
 But ready to resent a wrong; 
 73 
 
He need not dress in tailored suits, 
 Nor need he be in latest style, 
 
 Choked up with collars and with cuffs. 
 And wearing a bewitching smile. 
 
 The gentleman will never fight, 
 
 But in a gentlemanly way. 
 When he has to defend his right, 
 
 And then he'll lay them snug away ; 
 The gentleman when, passing by. 
 
 You hap to brush him on the street, 
 Will utter not revengeful cry. 
 
 Nor stare around and grit his teeth. 
 
 He's not the one who rides the horse. 
 
 Though he may follow up the hounds, 
 And leave destruction on his track. 
 
 Though he be owner of the grounds ; 
 The word itself, how oft ill-used. 
 
 And dragged, it seems, beneath our feet, 
 To every one that we may choose. 
 
 Or who may meet us on the street. 
 
 The man dressed up who'll take a ride. 
 Upon a street-car crowded down. 
 
 And see a lady with a babe 
 
 There standing all the way from town ; 
 
 74 
 
While others rise and give their seat, 
 And stand around, though it be hot, 
 
 From him a stare she'll only meet, 
 Is he a gentleman? No, he's not. 
 
 The gentleman, he is the one 
 
 Who when his mother or his wife, 
 Or younger brother, though in fun. 
 
 May do something not quite right ; 
 Will speak to them with gentle voice. 
 
 And try to smooth away their cares. 
 And say things to them that are nice. 
 
 Which sounds so sweet to loving ears. 
 
 THE MAN OF RENOWN 
 
 There is our Captain Loyd, 
 He is true, he's been tried; 
 His charity knoweth no limit; 
 He is now past his best, 
 
 So he's taking his rest ; 
 
 He has surely arrived at the summit; 
 
 He was one of the boys, 
 
 With bright shining eyes. 
 
 75 
 
His figure is straight and erect, 
 He always looked down 
 Upon those with a frown, 
 If ever they acted too pert. 
 
 He wanted fair play, 
 
 No matter which way; 
 
 And ever was with the dog down. 
 
 And when the boys lost their pet, 
 
 The Captain would get, 
 Loose every dog in the pound; 
 He is good to the poor. 
 And always was sure 
 
 To help every one that applied; 
 
 You'll no doubt hear it said. 
 
 Long after he's dead, 
 
 'Twas a pity such a good man had died. 
 
 And when he is gone. 
 
 From here he for one, 
 
 Will leave many eyes with tears filled; 
 
 He must not be in haste. 
 
 As we know that his place. 
 By no other shall ever be filled; 
 For such good men as he, 
 Are not easy to find. 
 76 
 
He is noble and true, 
 Yet gentle and kind; 
 It is not for acquaintance, 
 I speak of him so. 
 
 Because he in person 
 I scarcely do know; 
 We are sorry we could 
 Not have more of his kind, 
 
 Who attend their own business. 
 But others' don't mind; 
 Of the First Bank in town 
 He is president, 
 
 And its success is due. 
 To the money he spent ; 
 It stands here a monument. 
 To his pluck and renown. 
 
 And shall ever remain. 
 Here a credit to town; 
 But he is still with us here, 
 For he is a stayer. 
 
 And we hope that his life will be long, 
 And while he is left 
 He'll be possessed of good health, 
 And shall be both happy and strong. 
 
 77 
 
ELEGY ON WOMAN 
 
 At the dawn of the world when Adam was made, 
 And he sinned through the woman, which led to 
 
 the grave. 
 She was a companion to watch o'er his ways. 
 And be in this world a comfort always. 
 But alas! she too soon chanced to fall off from 
 
 grace, 
 And made of that Eden a desolate place; 
 Her place in the garden no more it was seen, 
 But she was the wiser tho' far sadder being. 
 
 She was forced to go out in the bleak world alone, 
 With no one but Adam to make her a home. 
 And there the first woman was a comfort to man. 
 And she has ever since done the best that she can ; 
 She's the pride of his mansion where'er it may be, 
 And she stays with him steadfast though he cross 
 
 the deep sea. 
 She brightens his life, and she brightens his home. 
 Which proves what God said, man should not be 
 
 alone. 
 
 She'll nurse him through sickness when his fever 
 
 is high. 
 And stay at his bedside till he heaves his last sigh. 
 When man in his folly has fallen so low 
 That no one of virtue would dare there to go. 
 But those who have fallen as low as himself, 
 
 78 
 
And have neither honor nor pride in them left, 
 With his brain in a whirl, and his head going 
 
 around, 
 And he seeks for himself a soft spot in the ground. 
 
 Even there he'll find woman as degraded as he. 
 Who will bend o'er his body as she drops on her 
 
 knee, 
 And cool down that fever that bums his brow. 
 And bathes his hot temples as she only knows how ; 
 She makes it her duty to comfort mankind. 
 But oft to his folly she seems to be blind. 
 Her features are handsome, she's noble and kind. 
 But nevertheless she has her own mind. 
 
 Take her from the world, what good would it be? 
 For man would not then care to eat of the tree; 
 Although it was woman that led him to wrong. 
 But ever since then she has helped him along; 
 For though she has fallen from that beauteous 
 
 place. 
 She has since by God's goodness been restored to 
 
 His grace. 
 
 And we now see it plainly, though she led him to 
 
 sin, 
 He would not be happy were she not therein. 
 So wherever on earth you may happen to go, 
 You'll find there a woman with love to bestow. 
 She'll bestow it on something, if only the cat. 
 Or that monstrous thing on her head called a hat. 
 
 79 
 
BLONDE OR BRUNETTE? 
 
 In answer to your question, 
 Why men prefer a blonde; 
 
 I doubt much the assertion, 
 
 For it stands them well in hand, 
 
 When looking for life's partner, 
 Know the color of her hair; 
 
 For if you chance to get a blonde, 
 You had better then take care. 
 
 The blondes we know are pretty. 
 And we leave them with regret; 
 
 But if you want to get a wife, 
 You had better get brunette. 
 
 The blondes are not all fickle, 
 
 Nor in their nature cold; 
 And though they have some mettle, 
 
 They're worth their weight in gold. 
 
 For most women are lovely. 
 And in this world a boon; 
 
 And though some are not so comely. 
 For all of them there is room. 
 
 80 
 
THE HAUNTED HOUSE 
 
 The haunted house, that dismal place, 
 Where no one cares to go and loiter ; 
 
 Though once 'twas filled with beauty's grace, 
 And laughing eyes, then none was brighter. 
 
 The haunted house, where bats, by day, 
 Do spend their time in sleep's repose; 
 
 No children dare go there to play, 
 
 Though what's the reason no one knows. 
 
 Where silent sounds run through the hall, 
 And fancied visions of things unseen ; 
 
 We seem to think we hear the call 
 
 Of people there that once have been. 
 
 The haunted house, where spirits come. 
 
 And visit in the shadows dim ; 
 When all the house is filled with gloom. 
 
 And everything is dead and still. 
 
 The cricket sings upon the hearth, 
 Where fires were lighted long ago ; 
 
 That gloom detracts not from its mirth. 
 Of its being haunted they don't know. 
 
 Up in the attic overhead. 
 
 The frightened bird, bewildered, flying, 
 And those who lie below in bed, 
 
 They think they hear the spirit sighing. 
 81 
 
The haunted house, with mystic air, 
 Of spirits there which so bewilder; 
 
 We seem to hear the cracking stair, 
 As if the house would break asunder. 
 
 Of it we're told some uncanny tales, 
 Of persons seen all dressed in white. 
 
 They knew them not for they wore veils, 
 But made their visits every night. 
 
 We heard of crimes of darkest hue, 
 Committed there within those walls ; 
 
 They then were hid from human view, 
 But now the spirits make their calls. 
 
 Man's brain is like that haunted place. 
 Stored up with memories good and bad; 
 
 And if we stray away from grace. 
 Our latter days shall then be sad. 
 
 THE AMERICAN BOY 
 
 The American Boy is the boy of the age. 
 In time he'll get to be a sage; 
 That doesn't mean he should be a " Russell," 
 Although in time he'll have to hustle. 
 
He must keep his brain and body sound, 
 If in this world he'd hold his ground; 
 For in this country at this date, 
 Where opportunities are great. 
 
 For those who would attain success. 
 They must not spend their lives amiss; 
 And wait for luck to come around, 
 For with those, luck is seldom found. 
 
 For opportunity when it raps, 
 And you are not at hand perhaps. 
 Will not again call at your door. 
 As it has been there once before. 
 
 For those who precious time would lose. 
 And wait to get in dead men's shoes. 
 They only spend their life in vain. 
 And never shall success attain. 
 
 For if success we would attain, 
 
 We must work our body and our brain; 
 
 And keep our faculties awake, 
 
 When life's success, it is at stake. 
 
 The American Boy we have to-day, 
 He will not always a boy stay; 
 But soon he will be fully grown. 
 Then he will seek another home. 
 83 
 
And mix with men of great aiffairs, 
 And they will bring him many cares ; 
 For success, it calls for sacrifice, 
 To attain which we must pay the price. 
 
 For this world is all a battlefield, 
 And we must fight or else must yield ; 
 For " to the victor belong the spoils," 
 And on him only the world smiles, 
 
 But cares not to hear our tales of woe, 
 As we hear them where'er we go ; 
 Which some would pour into our ears, 
 As if we had no other cares. 
 
 The American Boy is the boy of the age, 
 And must act his part on the world's stage; 
 And when at last the curtain falls. 
 He must go to meet his God who calls. 
 
 THE YANKEE GIRL 
 
 The Yankee Girl, 
 That pretty Miss, 
 
 With sparkling eyes 
 And lips to kiss. 
 
 84 
 
With mellow voice, 
 And noble mien, 
 
 That Yankee girl. 
 She is a queen. 
 
 She came here from 
 That State so far ; 
 
 They were the first 
 To break ajar. 
 
 They did despise 
 
 A foreign foe; 
 So overboard 
 
 The tea did throw. 
 
 It's they that fought 
 For Bunker Hill; 
 
 And all this time 
 They hold it still. 
 
 They fought to save 
 The stars and stripes; 
 
 To give all men, 
 Just, equal rights. 
 
 That lady came 
 From noble stock; 
 
 And when she leaves 
 We'll want her back. 
 86 
 
That Boston girl, 
 That Yankee Queen; 
 
 With sparkling eyes, 
 And noble mien. 
 
 That noble girl 
 We'll call our own; 
 
 And while she's here 
 She'll be at home. 
 
 That Yankee Girl, 
 
 With sparkling eyes; 
 
 Whoever wins her 
 Will win a prize. 
 
 And when she reaches 
 Home once more, 
 
 Where they regard 
 Us as a foe. 
 
 She must put that 
 Out of their minds 
 
 And tell them that 
 We're good and kind. 
 
 And take to them 
 Our wishes best; 
 
 And hope they soon 
 Will be our guest. 
 86 
 
I have no more 
 
 Time here to write; 
 So I wish you all, 
 
 My folks, good-night. 
 
 THE GERMAN SCHOOL-BOY 
 
 Ven I vas some young wons, 
 
 Some long time ago ; 
 Mine self unt mine brudder 
 
 To skoole ve did go. 
 
 Ven play time vas come, 
 Unt ve all did vent out; 
 
 Unt I ran mine self home, 
 
 For they call me " Sour kraut." 
 
 Unt it makes me so mat, 
 That I there unt then said, 
 
 I'd never go back 
 
 To that skoole if I could. 
 
 Poor childrens like me. 
 
 That comes here to skoole. 
 
 They treats me so mean. 
 Me thinks it vas cruel. 
 
 87 
 
I don't know vat's the matter, 
 Mit them American peoples ; 
 
 That calls me such names, 
 
 Ven I minds mine own business. 
 
 CHILDHOOD DAYS 
 
 In a cottage by the river 
 
 Where in childhood days I played, 
 I would stroll along in summer 
 
 Or I'd rest beneath the shade. 
 
 And o'erhead the birds were singing. 
 Softly warbling to their mates, 
 
 While below the boys were swimming. 
 For it was no time for skates. 
 
 And I viewed the distant mountains 
 Decked with purple, green and gold. 
 
 From whose bosom as a fountain 
 Sprang the waters clear and cold. 
 
 And my memory loves to wander 
 To that bright and happy scene. 
 
 For time only makes me fonder 
 Of that little isle so green. 
 
MY BOY 
 
 That little boy that used to be 
 Forever climbing on my knee; 
 And followed me where'er I went, 
 And called on me for every cent. 
 
 He'd wait to meet me when I'd come, 
 And he was always on the run; 
 His youth was bright, and gay and free, 
 The happiest days he'll ever see. 
 
 When other cares will fill his mind. 
 He'll oft remember when a child, 
 Of when his mother kissed his cheek, 
 Which brought his greatest pain relief. 
 
 His mind will turn unto those days, 
 He toddled up and down the stairs ; 
 Those nights he sought his little bed. 
 When he his evening prayers had said. 
 
 Those were the days which seemed so long. 
 But his future memory they will throng; 
 In later days, when he had grown, 
 He took his horse and dogs alone. 
 
 And sought those sports that suit a boy. 
 And always bring them so much joy; 
 When school was o'er and he was free. 
 He helped to take the cares off me. 
 89 
 
But now that he is a man grown, 
 He has a business of his own ; 
 Where he must take his place with men, 
 And be as good as any of them. 
 
 But when in time we are weaned away, 
 My memory then will often stray; 
 As o'er my mind the thought will run, 
 That he is still my own dear son. 
 
 His mother, when she is old and gray, 
 Will ever think of him and pray ; 
 That God from sin will keep him free. 
 As when he climbed upon her knee. 
 
 THE LOVE-SICK SWAIN 
 
 The stars above are brightly shining. 
 Reflect their light upon the lake. 
 
 And as I view your beauty smiling 
 I only love you for your sake. 
 
 I know I cannot live without you, 
 To do your will shall be my joy. 
 
 And all my thoughts shall be about you. 
 For should you leave me I should die. 
 90 
 
In time old age will mar thy beauty 
 And leave its marks upon thy brow, 
 
 I'll hold it as my sacred duty 
 To do thy will as I do now. 
 
 Life's cares shall move those pretty dimples, 
 And rob thee of thy graceful form, 
 
 My care shall smoothe away the wrinkles. 
 And you shall rest upon my arm. 
 
 SHE 
 
 Why should we think about to-morrow? 
 
 To-day looks good and bright to me; 
 Each day should care for its own sorrow, 
 
 Now life is full of pleasure and glee. 
 
 LOVE'S RAMBLES 
 
 In the valley by the greenwood. 
 Where the sparkling waters flow. 
 
 And the dewdrops kiss the violets 
 In the morning ere we go. 
 
 Where the busy bees are humming 
 As they flit among the flowers. 
 
 There to gather the sweet honey 
 To be used in future hours. 
 91 
 
There with her I used to wander 
 In the fleetly passing hours, 
 
 Which I now will say in candor 
 
 Was much prettier than the flowers. 
 
 And I love to hear her whisper, 
 As she did in times gone by: 
 " I'll not be to you a sister. 
 
 For without you I would die." 
 
 TOAST 
 
 Given at the Wedding Breakfast of 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. John R. Gaudin, 
 
 March 3, 1908 
 
 Here's to our Daughter, whom we call Dear, 
 With light blue eyes and chestnut hair. 
 Although from her we freely part 
 The same shall almost break our hearts. 
 
 Here's to her Husband she loves so well. 
 May they in peace and comfort dwell. 
 And may they ever feel as now 
 Content to keep their marriage vow. 
 
 We hope it shall be for the best ; 
 Here's a toast to them and you, my .guests. 
 92 
 
MAN AND MAID 
 
 The pensive maid, she'll sit and wait, 
 
 And keep her eyes fixed on the gate. 
 
 She'll watch for footsteps, and when they fall, 
 
 She'll make her exit across the hall. 
 
 For them she heaves a sigh of relief, 
 I'm sure it is not one of grief. 
 And ere he's time to enter in. 
 She muses the dear, the darling thing. 
 
 She quickly seeks the upper stair, 
 And moves the paper from off her hair. 
 Then with the powder, comb and brush. 
 She seems as happy as a thrush. 
 
 And thus she spends that pleasant time, 
 A little primping being no crime, 
 While all the time that loving swain. 
 Is only trying to cool his brain. 
 
 The darling boy, though fully grown. 
 He ought with Mamma stay at home. 
 And though we might them criticise. 
 They each are perfect in the other's eyes. 
 
 Then all those shy and loving sighs. 
 Are never seen by human eyes. 
 That maiden though some may despise. 
 To him she is the only prize. 
 93 
 
Though he a long, lean, lanky thing, 
 She fain would have him for her King; 
 For man and maiden, beast and bird, 
 The same to each of them occurred. 
 
 For only with delusions great. 
 Would maiden ever get a mate. 
 For so the Lord above ordained. 
 To keep this world He has made. 
 
 When Eve and Adam ate the fruit, 
 It's only then they knew the truth. 
 But when they knew it was too late. 
 For they were put outside the gate. 
 
 Though we know not what our fate will be. 
 The preacher needs must have his fee. 
 And ere he has time to seal our fate. 
 We'd better look ere it's too late. 
 
 94 
 
THE LADY WITH HUSBANDS TO BURN 
 
 There once lived a maiden both comely and shy, 
 Who thought she would ne'er get a lover, 
 
 And live all alone by herself till she died 
 And by herself cross the great river. 
 
 But, such is the way with us here in life. 
 
 The wheel gave a curious turn, 
 And though we are told this world is a strife, 
 
 That maid now has husbands to bum. 
 
 She made a quick trip to a town on the Coast, 
 To look of those wonderful ovens, 
 
 And see how she'd like her last man in the roast. 
 For she now had a husband to bum. 
 
 For since she's had husbands by twos and by threes 
 
 She mixed them all up in an urn, 
 For then between them she could hardly choose. 
 
 For they all looked alike when they're burned. 
 
 Then while you enjoy the pleasure of life. 
 Some day it may come to your turn. 
 
 And do not forget that, at the end of this strife, 
 You may yet take your place in the urn. 
 
 95 
 
EPITAPH: G. CULLOP 
 
 Dead and Alive 
 
 Here lies the man 
 
 Whose faults were few, if any; 
 Here lies the man 
 
 Whose virtues, they were many. 
 
 He was taken in his youth; 
 
 It's said the good must die ; 
 He always told the truth 
 
 For he couldn't tell a lie. 
 
 He travelled to the very end 
 The way he ought to go; 
 
 To every one he was a friend, 
 And he never had a foe. 
 
 We are told all flesh is grass. 
 It is bright and green to-day. 
 
 But only takes the reaper's hand 
 To make it into hay. 
 
 Perhaps the rascal's not dead yet, 
 He'd cheat even the grave. 
 
 For I just saw him driving up ; 
 I knew he was a knave ! 
 
 96 
 
IN THE COLD FROZEN NORTH 
 
 In the cold frozen North, where the winter wind 
 
 blows, 
 And the natives are dressed to their eyes in fur 
 
 clothes. 
 Where the wind blows the ice from the mountain 
 
 and hill 
 In the face of the people, so cold and so chill. 
 
 And the land all around is covered with snow, 
 Not a green thing is found wherever you go, 
 Where all the wild beasts, which suffer for food. 
 Get but a poor shelter in the white frozen wood. 
 
 The poor little birds, they fly from the trees. 
 And go to the houses for fear they would freeze; 
 The men in fur clothes, and the ladies in wraps. 
 When by chance they go out, meet many mishaps. 
 
 With their ears wrapped in furs, and their head 
 
 tied around. 
 They pick up their feet like they stuck to the 
 
 ground. 
 Some tell me they like it, I know not how so. 
 To spend most their life half covered with snow. 
 
 Get up in the morning, go out in the cold. 
 Wouldn't live in that country were it covered with 
 gold, 
 
 97 
 
They suffer intensely with their fingers and toes, 
 And feel hke they'd lose the whole top of their nose. 
 
 Of a cold winter night, as you sit by the fire, 
 
 And the traveller outside has but one desire, 
 
 To seek some protection from the wind and the 
 
 snow, 
 Which blows all around him, where'er he may go. 
 
 Through the long winter nights, so cold and so 
 
 still. 
 When the waters are frozen that turn the mill, 
 And the face of the earth is all covered with snow, 
 And all roads look alike, we know not where to go. 
 
 Give me the land where they never have snows. 
 And the flowers in the wildwood, they bloom, like 
 
 the rose. 
 In the month of December, up to Christmas Day ; 
 So, having my choice, here in Texas I'll stay. 
 
THE SUNNY SOUTH 
 
 The Sunny South has ever been 
 The subject of the poet's dream, 
 It so delights the eye and ear, 
 With cheerful music which we hear. 
 
 And the gay plumage of the bird 
 Whose voice but in the South is heard. 
 With rivers where the fish abound 
 And easy sustenance is found. 
 
 Where gorgeous moss hangs from the trees. 
 Which swing before the summer's breeze, 
 There is where life is bright and gay. 
 And January seems like it were May. 
 
 Those summer days, so fresh and cool. 
 Which puts new life into the soul. 
 We sit beneath the shady trees. 
 And there enjoy the summer's breeze. 
 
 The Southern men are always brave. 
 From early youth to ripe old age, 
 Its women, they have ever been 
 The fairest that the world has seen. 
 
 The dark-eyed Sefiorita, she 
 
 Has ever had man on his knee. 
 
 To win a smile from whose bright eyes, 
 
 He valued as the greatest prize. 
 
They hold a charm that's all their own, 
 Which nowhere else that we have known 
 Is found among the colder climes, 
 Upon which greater fortune smiles. 
 
 Beneath the hot and burning sun, 
 The greatest battles were lost and won, 
 It's there the date and orange grows, 
 And we spend our lives in sweet repose. 
 
 It is there the flowers bloom all the year. 
 Which fills with fragrance the pure air. 
 Where once the virgin forests were. 
 And stood the pine trees, spruce and fir. 
 
 It's there you'll find the happy home, 
 Where children play and ever roam, 
 And all that charms the heart or mind. 
 Which is a blessing to mankind. 
 
 100 
 
NO RAIN 
 
 If it would only rain 
 
 Enough to lay the dust, 
 And cool our fevered brain 
 
 And quench our burning thirst ; 
 We view the azure skies, 
 
 With rain clouds floating o'er. 
 Which makes our hopes arise 
 
 But rain, it comes no more. 
 
 We are needing rain to-day. 
 
 The earth is parched and dry, 
 And everywhere we stray 
 We hear the self same cry : 
 " If it would only rain 
 
 Enough to lay the dust. 
 And cool our fevered brain. 
 
 And quench our burning thirst." 
 
 The lawns, where grassy sod 
 
 Beneath some stately trees, 
 Whose branches bow and nod. 
 
 As they flutter in the breeze ; 
 Their leaves with dust are laden ; 
 
 The earth is cracked all round; 
 We need some rain from heaven 
 
 To fructify the ground. 
 101 
 
And when it rains again, 
 
 Those fresh and copious showers 
 Which never fail to bring 
 
 The blossoms, fruits and flowers 
 It's then we will smile once more. 
 
 When everything looks fresh, 
 As we used to do of yore. 
 
 For Texas still is best. 
 
 KILLARNEY 
 
 Killarney, oh, Killarney, although we're parted. 
 By oceans of water, and thousands of miles. 
 
 The thought of your beauty yet holds me 
 enchanted. 
 For still I would love to bask in your smiles. 
 
 Oh, Killarney, thy beauty surpasses conception. 
 With rivers and lakes like a beautiful dream ; 
 
 And those who will seek you, will find no deception, 
 Such beauty and grandeur is nowhere else seen. 
 
 Your beautiful mountains, that slope to the river. 
 And seen from a distance are purple and blue; 
 A dear shady place, for the dream of a lover. 
 Who should, like these mountains, be constant 
 and true. 
 
 102 
 
There is no need to draw on the imagination, 
 To paint such a picture of beauty sublime, 
 
 It's one of the wonders of a mighty creation. 
 Which never grows less by the passage of time. 
 
 Those lakes which abound with the legions of ages, 
 And are such a wonder for us to behold. 
 
 Have made such impressions on history's pages, 
 But left on our memory a far greater hold. 
 
 There stands Muckross Abbey across from the 
 waters, 
 Where warriors are sleeping, who fought for to 
 save. 
 The last to surrender, that famous Ross Castle, 
 But now they're laid in that beautiful grave. 
 
 You'll find there the beautiful Isle Innisfallen, 
 Set out in the waters a mile from the shore. 
 There lived the good monks, with their younger 
 postulants. 
 Who enriched the whole world, with their knowl- 
 edge and lore. 
 
 Those beauties, once seen, shall ne'er be forgotten, 
 They'll cling to our memories like a beautiful 
 dream ; 
 And when we're gone from here and forgotten. 
 Still others will gloat o'er its valleys so green. 
 103 
 
" MY COUNTRY " 
 
 My country, Oh, how sweet the word, 
 Which sounds so good to human ear 
 
 And seems to us a word of love, 
 Wherever we may chance to hear. 
 
 My country, sweet as silver bells. 
 As if it rang from steeples high. 
 
 The word, it seems to hold a spell. 
 For absent ones, they heave a sigh. 
 
 My country, next to Mother dear. 
 
 It is the nearest to our heart; 
 For those who ramble far or near. 
 
 The word, a sweetness doth impart. 
 
 The traveller in a distant land. 
 
 That seeks for wealth or perhaps fame, 
 Were they a thousand times more grand. 
 
 He always glories in the name. 
 
 My country, be it great or small. 
 
 Or blessed with nature's marvellous beauty. 
 It always to our minds recalls, 
 
 We cheerfully should do our duty. 
 
 The name, it seems to hold a charm. 
 To all who claim the name of man. 
 
 And sounds the keynote of alarm. 
 We'd die to save it when we can. 
 104 
 
My country, Oh, such solemn words, 
 Although in numbers they are few. 
 
 They touch our hearts' most tender chords, 
 And teach us wonders here to do. 
 
 Up in the land of ice and snows, 
 
 The shivering Lap tries to keep warm. 
 
 Though very little else he knows. 
 
 The name, for him it holds a charm. 
 
 Upon the bleak and stormy coast 
 
 That skirts the shores of Newfoundland, 
 
 You hear the native people boast 
 
 Of this my country, Oh, how grand ! 
 
 Down in the Tropics' burning heat. 
 Where reptiles hide with deadly sting. 
 
 The name to them even seems sweet. 
 And to their country still they cling. 
 
 If those who live in burning climes. 
 
 Or shiver in the Frigid Zone, 
 Should love to hear those joyous chimes, 
 " My country, my beloved home," 
 
 Why should not we in temperate climes. 
 Who have a country grand and free, 
 
 Delight to hear those joyous chimes, 
 " My country. Oh, how dear to me." 
 105 
 
 k 
 
CHRISTMAS IS GONE 
 
 Christmas is gone, but it brought to our mind 
 The birth of the Saviour, so loving and kind; 
 None else could redeem this world from sin, 
 So on Christmas Day, He that work did begin. 
 
 Begun in the dark dreary hours of the night, 
 Before day had begun or the sun gave his light; 
 But the world was darker by far in His sight. 
 So dark that the sun could not make it look bright. 
 
 It was dark with the sins committed for years, 
 With murders and crimes that would move us to 
 
 tears. 
 No crime was so great that they would not commit. 
 And this world was naught but a dark dismal pit. 
 
 The world was so low in idolatry steeped. 
 They could not see through, the mist was so deep. 
 They knew not their God, for which life was given, 
 Which barred them from ever entering Heaven. 
 
 The grave was no darker, more dismal, nor worse. 
 Than the darkness of mankind when under God's 
 
 curse, 
 For God had abandoned man to his own will, 
 The greatest misfortune that can us befall. 
 106 
 
Like the doctor who knows that his patient is 
 
 dying, 
 Lets him eat what he wants, as there's no use 
 
 denying 
 Him the comforts of life the few hours that he 
 
 lives, 
 When there is no result from the treatment he 
 
 gives. 
 
 But God, He felt sorry for man here below, 
 And He sent us His Son that things should not 
 
 be so, 
 And since He has come the world is brighter. 
 And man's sins and sorrows. He has made them 
 
 lighter. 
 
 For none but a God could restore us to grace, 
 And give fallen man his once forfeited place; 
 He filled the dark world with the light of His love, 
 Which He brought here among us, from Heaven 
 above. 
 
 107 
 
CHRISTMAS IS GONE 
 
 II 
 
 Christmas is gone, it's a thing of the past, 
 It is gone with its sorrows and joys, 
 For pleasure and sorrow cannot always last. 
 But new troubles and hopes must arise. 
 
 There were many both happy and joyful last year, 
 They're gone like the flowers of the spring. 
 And though we may shed for their memory a tear. 
 They shall never rejoin us again. 
 
 The flowers of the springtime they die before frost 
 Leaves its blight like a burning coal, 
 So the young of this world are oft taken first, 
 Ere sin hath once blic^hted their soul. 
 
 o 
 
 They're taken by God to His mansions above, 
 From this cold and bleak world below. 
 For God only takes those to Heaven He loves. 
 We therefore should rejoice that they go. 
 
 Christmas comes around in its annual tour, 
 
 As it rolls each short year o'er our head, 
 
 And each year brings us nearer to that little 
 
 mound. 
 They shall put o'er our grave when we're dead. 
 lOS 
 
Perhaps he who's writing these verses to-day, 
 When Christmas makes its next call, 
 May be lying with loved ones beneath the cold clay, 
 Much worse things might him befall. 
 
 The dear little children, they long for to see 
 The feast-day of Christmas come around, 
 They long for to see the green Christmas Tree, 
 Which in each happy home should be found. 
 
 The old, they rejoice in the joys of the child. 
 
 As it brings to their mind days of yore. 
 
 They help them those few pleasant hours to 
 
 beguile, 
 Which, once passed, can return no more. 
 
 PALLASDALE 
 
 In a bright and lovely valley, 
 On the slope of Coyote hills. 
 
 There lives a happy family 
 
 Of " Quails " without the quills. 
 
 There a young and handsome lady, 
 In a cottage painted green. 
 
 With husband and two children. 
 Reigns as though she were a queen. 
 109 
 
While just across the drive-way 
 There stands a " Pallas Grand," 
 
 Though no such stately mansion 
 Was built upon the land. 
 
 There's where the sparkling waters 
 Flow smoothly o'er the ground, 
 
 For in that happy valley 
 No rugged rocks are found. 
 
 There of a summer's evening, 
 
 The Hereford cattle roam, 
 And wind their way through alfalfa hay 
 
 To the dear old Pallas Home. 
 
 MY DEAR SISTER ROSE 
 
 Fort Worth, Tex., Dec. 29, 1910. 
 
 Mrs. F. C. Haynes, Easthampton, Mass. 
 
 My dear Sister Rose, as I owe you a letter. 
 Which I now ought to write but I thought 
 
 'twould be better 
 To write it in verse as I so disHke prose, 
 Which will, I am sure, he accepted by Rose. 
 110 
 
You so like my fruit cake, you say 'twas the 
 
 best, 
 Which really in truth I must take as a jest; 
 For fruit cake and pies your own State is noted. 
 And all who have been there that honor have 
 
 voted. 
 
 They are noted for pies, for cakes, and for 
 
 beans, 
 For factories and colleges, and paper by reams ; 
 There is nothing in Texas that we can supply it. 
 Except we should send you a chunk of our 
 
 climate. 
 
 But climate is a hard thing to send by the mail. 
 And if it should get there by then 'twould be 
 
 stale ; 
 For climate is a thing not easy to send. 
 For here, when we get it, it comes in the wind. 
 
 It comes in the summer, a fresh cooling breeze. 
 As if it had just travelled over the seas; 
 So it seems to my mind, I had better not try it. 
 You had better come here, if you want to 
 enjoy it. 
 
 Your niece, Mary Campbell, is doing very nice, 
 But she looks disconcerted for she can't find ice ; 
 111 
 
She seems to be lost here, but I know not why 
 
 so, 
 Except for the reason, she cannot find snow. 
 
 We travelled around much, fine country we saw. 
 But all through her travels she thought of her 
 
 Ma; 
 And when travel was done and she sought her 
 
 repose, 
 She still kept a thought for her loving Aunt 
 
 Rose. 
 
 And still I must tell you, as I like to be frank. 
 She said some nice things of her own Uncle 
 
 Frank ; 
 Her brothers and sisters she did not forget, 
 I think with them all she must still be a pet. 
 
 And now I must close, as I am crowded for time. 
 And I hope you'll excuse my much hurried 
 
 rhyme ; 
 Now, I wish you, my folks, the season's best 
 
 wishes, 
 And all of the family, they send to you kisses. 
 
 Your Brother, 
 
 W. J. DOHERTY. 
 
 113 
 
Fort Worth, Tex., Jan. 28, 1911. 
 
 Mrs. C. L. Clark, Easthampton, Mass. 
 
 My dear Mrs. Clark, 
 
 It must seem like a lark, 
 
 To answer your letter so late ; 
 
 But 'twas such a surprise. 
 
 That you should recognize 
 
 The merits of that little cake. 
 
 I must here admit. 
 
 That I never sent it. 
 
 And the whole thing is a mistake ; 
 
 'Twas your own Mary Campbell 
 
 Who fixed up that bundle, 
 
 But I now disremember the date. 
 
 So the chapter will close, 
 
 As it did with our " Rose," 
 
 And we'll start on a different theme. 
 
 Now, my dear little maid. 
 
 You need not be afraid 
 
 To express your fond wishes to me. 
 
 For I so much regret 
 
 Not to know such a pet. 
 
 And those dear ones that sit on your knee. 
 . I'm told there are four. 
 
 But maybe there are more. 
 
 For numbers I can't recollect; 
 But whate'er they may be, 
 113 
 
We all here agree, 
 They are a pleasure 
 To sit 'round your hearth. 
 I hear it said here, 
 You are such a dear, 
 And lovable one to behold; 
 But you're so far away. 
 That I very much fear 
 You never shall visit our home. 
 We're so very far south. 
 And it's out of your route 
 To take such a journey out west; 
 Although I declare. 
 We would make it appear, 
 That the trip for your health would be best. 
 The weather down here 
 Is so pleasant and clear. 
 You'd think 'twas the middle of June, 
 For it's " eighty " right here. 
 As I sit on the chair. 
 Although there's no fire in the room. 
 It's now 10 P.M., 
 So it's time to begin, 
 To bring these few lines to a close. 
 With love to you all. 
 Both large ones and small. 
 And my dear little sister called " Rose," 
 But before I do close, 
 114 
 
And seek my repose, 
 
 I had best send good wishes from all; 
 
 Your Aunt Kate and I, 
 
 Miss Mary and the boy, 
 
 Although he is now rather tall. 
 
 Your Uncle. 
 
 Fort Worth, Texas, Feb. 2, 1911. 
 
 Mr. Wallace Graves, 
 So. Hadley Falls, Mass. 
 
 My dear nephew Wallace, 
 You'll perceive I'm most careless. 
 And negligent in my reply; 
 But now, from hence forth. 
 
 Though I won't take an oath, 
 I'll answer them, you can rely. 
 I so dislike to write. 
 Though try as I might, 
 
 I've got a repugnance that way; 
 And really, besides, I always reahze 
 That I never have got much to say. 
 For the sake of old times. 
 
 Your friendship I prize. 
 And long very much for the day 
 You could take a run down 
 And visit our town, 
 115 
 
Though you may not have long to stay. 
 Those children so sweet, 
 I'd like so much to meet, 
 Before with old age I am gray. 
 
 For I cannot go there, 
 
 This time of the year, 
 
 As your cold weather I never could bear. 
 
 But my dear wife, your Aunt Kate, 
 
 If I don't make a mistake. 
 Will pay you a visit in June, 
 When your sister, Miss May, 
 Shall return to stay. 
 
 If for her there will only be room. 
 The boy Art, that you knew. 
 You'd be surprised how he grew. 
 And he now is six feet and more. 
 
 Although when they were there, 
 He could but stand by a chair. 
 And couldn't do that well alone. 
 Our friend Lewie Zimpher, 
 
 That had such a vile temper, 
 And never could get o'er the gate. 
 He happened to drop, 
 To the ground from the top, 
 116 
 
Of a gallery he climbed by mistake. 
 As he took too much drink, 
 And could not sleep a wink, 
 But after that never did wake. 
 
 W. J. DOHERTY. 
 
 THE POETS ARE ALL DEAD 
 
 A living Poet's hard to see — 
 The great men all are dead. 
 
 He must live in want and poverty. 
 As Homer begged for bread. 
 
 A living Poet of this age, 
 
 We know him not at all. 
 And though in truth he is a sage. 
 
 He'll live in fame's great hall. 
 
 The living Poet's not for us, 
 He's never seen with eyes ; 
 
 Nor do we recognize his worth 
 Until the poor man dies. 
 
 In truth the man is not of earth ; 
 
 His thoughts are far away. 
 And though he tries to pen them up, 
 
 They sometimes go astray. 
 117 
 
I 
 
JUL 13 1911 
 
One copy del. to Cat. Div. 
 
 ^^i 19 mi