O the grave is a tender place, my dear,
The Love immortal, the faith, the trust,
The grace and the beauty, lie buried there,
So pure and so white in a robe of dust.
O the grave is a home-like place, my dear,
Where we all do gather when day is done,
Where the earth mother folds us close and near,
And the latch-string waits for the laggard one.
Settled by Arbitration
THE three sat at meat in a country inn,
And Patrick’s face wore an elegant grin,
For the Scotchman lean, and the Englishman stout
Were having a nice little quarrel out.
Now, it all begun when five times had gone
The glass and bottle to everyone,
The Englishman, he had a stubborn jaw
And could quote whole pages of English law,
While the Scotchman, was as stern and as gray
As the rocks of his country far away.
The bottle it made him but look more stern,
But the other one took a boasting turn,
He talked of their big brave ships on the sea,
Of their soldiers as brave as brave could be,
Of the English beef that no land could beat,
Of their puddings and pastries good to eat;
And the Scotchman listened to every word
And seemed agreeing with all that he heard,
Till the squared-jawed fellow by-and-by claimed
His country the wittiest ever named;
“The Henglish wit, sir, hit shines like the sun”
“Aye! the sun in a fog,” the other one,
Then the arguments flew so thick and fast—
They’d have come to blows ere the thing was past
Had not Patrick, good hearted, blithe and gay,
Chanced to travel with them that summer day,
“Now sure,” said he, “you know ’tis the fashion
To settle disputes by arbitration,
Faith, a rale ould shindy’s the thing for me,
But the rale ould shindy has ceased to be,
Let’s be the powers, and raison a bit,
Whist now! and ould Erin will settle it.”
Then these two disputants, they both agreed
To take his finding in word and deed.
“The English wit, sir—let’s take off our hats—
Can’t be seen by folks that are blind as bats,
’Tis none of your common everyday stuff,
Nor like that of Ireland, vulgar and bluff,
Sure, ’tis something I would only compare
To what is well known as precious and rare,
Say to the famous philosopher’s stone—
Or elixir of life to ould sages known;
No Irishman from the hill or the bog
Would say it was like the sun in a fog,
That statement, sirs, on the face is untrue
For sometimes the fog will let the sun through.”
One pacified man went off with good grace,
And Patrick laughed at the other’s stern face,
“You think me a blarney—hark, what I say,
I tould the truth in an iligant way,
Sure you know, and I know, and everyone,
The fable of the philosopher’s stone,
For stone, elixir, and Englishman’s wit
Men have searched long, and found nivir a bit,”
Then low to himself, “faith, that joke’s so clear
That even a Scotchman may see it—next year!”
The Circuit
A PRETTY port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago,
As day down golden stairway
Climbed to the world below.
Ho, mariner! come tell me,
Come tell me of a truth
Know you a track will lead me back
Unto the shores of youth?
A pretty port I sailed from,
So long, so long ago,
The blue sky stretching over,
Blessed all the world below.
I laughed good-bye so lightly,
Nor recked I then, forsooth,
That leagues of years and mist of tears
Would hide the shores of youth.
Yet ever follows after,
A breath of fragrance rare
From hearts of flowers that blossom
But in its tender air.
And ever hear I, sweet and clear,
The music of its birds—
The whistling flight of wings at night—
The songs too sweet for words.