VALE, FATHER PAT
Yes, that’s the hardest hand at all upon my frosted head—
That telegram that brought the news that Father Pat is dead—
I cannot grip its message yet; we were such cronies, that
The world is not a world to-night without poor Father Pat.
Nigh eighty years I’ve known him now. Since ever we were boys
Across the sea in Ireland, each other’s cares and joys
We’ve shared as with their leaden step they strode across the mat;
The kindest heart that ever beat is stilled in Father Pat.
They knew him round the country wide; from here to Carrathool