The teamster toiling by his dray, the youngsters home from school,
Would greet him with a curt “good day,” and shyly pull the hat
Down farther on the forehead in respect for Father Pat.
I see him in my mind to-night, a diamond in the rough,
A kindly soul that hid the gold, but showed the sterner stuff—
The wise old eye, the homely face, the scant hairs pasted flat
Across the wide wise baldness of the head of Father Pat;
The collar caught with honest tape when fleeting studs had gone;
The suit that said good-bye to cut the day he put it on;
The handsome stock the sisters built, the tassels on the hat,