Father Judge, S. F.
Here was a man, a humble minister
Beloved of all in northern latitudes
Who knew the value of the kingly heart
That beat beneath his worn and priestly coat.
A soldier he, who ne'er forsook his post;
Whose actions were more numerous than words;
His soul was God's; his heart and body man's—
Nothing his own except our gratitude.
Worn e'er his time by hardship none may know
Who shirked the bitter schooling of the North,
He passed away, and now forever stands
As close to God as gentle Damien.
The Light-o'-Love
The dogs were whining; they sensed too well
The load upon the sled;
The rough-hewn box with the light-o'-love—
A girl, 'twas said.
A week ago, at the Palace Bar,
She sang the songs of France;
But many a heart is lead the while
The feet must dance.
Kisses she gave and kisses she took,
Sinned for her daily bread;
But all we knew as we eyed the box
Was: she was dead.