A Song of the Open Road, and Other Verses

by Louis J. McQuilland

There is a high-domed dancing hall,
Sacred once to the minuet,
Where now in the maze of the waltz’s whirl
The flying hours shall chase regret.

There is the snuggest of tabagies
Where a man may sit as among the gods,
And the world shall not have a word to say
If Lucullus drowses, if Homer nods.

With ripple of laughter and snatch of song
Its echoing corridors shall sound,
With rustle of delicate draperies
A subtle scent shall be cast around.

The wine of life shall frothe in the cup,
Its bread possess a celestial leaven,
This earth shall be paradise enow
To quench the thirst for a happier heaven.

In my little Château of Bon Espoir
There is room enough for a score, I trow,
Of the loves I loved in the days long syne,
Of the friends I made in the long ago.

THE SONG OF THE FLAG

THIS is the chant of the banner,
The song of the flag,
Raised for the doers and fighters,
The nations in panoplied battle.

The flag of St. George,
The great broad banner of England;
It has waved over Crecy and Poictiers,
It has flamed at Trafalgar.

The flag of the Fighting Race,
The green and gold of the Irish,
The men who have gone to death with a jest and a cheer
For the dear gold harp on an emerald field,
For the love and the honour of Ireland.

The red and yellow of Spain
Fluttering from the caravels of patient Columbus
Borne by arrogant Alva to cruel dishonour,
Rent and torn by the wind that swept the Armada,
Draping with tender pity the valiant shame of Cervera.
This is your boast, O Spain, proudest of nations,
Honour the flag!