I love thee well, sweet Erin, though fate led another way;
I'll call thee still, mavourneen, when head and heart are grey;
Another one will say and sing what I have failed to say;
But this very day to me,
There has come across the sea
Some pleasant verses bearing a well remembered name;
That has done for Erin's land
What I only thought and planned,
And won a place in Erin's heart that I can never claim.
So unknown beside a pine-fringed lake away beyond the sea,
Half in gladness of remembrance, half in wakened childish glee
I stretch my hand in homage and kindredship to thee,
I greet thee this bright day
From three thousand miles away,
And to thy well earned laurels I'd add a sprig of bay
Glad to know thou'rt rhyming yet,
For thy readers can't forget
Erin's genial loving son,
Poet of the steadfast North kindly David Herbison
DEATH OF D'ARCY McGEE
He stood up in the house to speak,
With calm unruffled brow,
And never were his burning words
More eloquent than now
Fresh from the greatest victory
That mortal man can win
The triumph against fearful odds.
Over besetting sin
'Twas this gave to his eloquence
That thrilling trumpet tone
Moving all hearts with those bright thoughts
Vibrating through his own
Thoughts strong, and wise, and statesmanlike,
Warm with the love of Right
That gave his wit its keenest edge,
His words their greatest might
He little thought his last speech closed,
That his career was o'er,
That those who hung upon his words
Should hear his voice no more.
He walked home tranquilly and slow,
Secure, and unaware,
That there was murder in the hush
Of the still midnight air.
"Tis morning," said he, knowing not
That he had done with time;
That a bloody hand would our country stain
With another useless crime.