Ah well, poor Father Pat and I went through that years ago;
And some of those ideals are dead, and some we’ve jested at,
And some are where the failures wait for me and Father Pat.
Though brighter far the morning seems than does the setting sun,
Still, they but carry on the work by such as us begun.
We blazed the tracks they tread to-day—at least they’ll grant us that—
The men who sailed in sixty-five along with Father Pat.
We left the friendly stars astern, the Irish lights agleam,
We dared the seas in sailing-ships before the days of steam,
We faced a weird wild waste of world that brave men trembled at: