Ah me, the days were all too short,
Too swift the unreturning hours
In that old town of Hall and court,
Of ancient gateways flanked with towers,
Where once we feared the near exam...
And dared the dons, and stirred the Cam.
You went, and now expound the law
(As Bumble said, the law's a hass)
And argue, as I note with awe,
For litigants in Boston, Mass.;
And, though you wear no warlike suit,
They call you "General" to boot.
And, Fred, how fares it now with you
In that drear country of the North?
Too great your needs, your means too few,
A whim of temper drove you forth.
On far Vancouver's shore, alone
You hear the sad Pacific moan.
With us, God wot, you little throve;
Your life all fire, and storm, and fret,
Against relentless fate you strove,
But strove in vain—and yet, and yet
God shapes in storm and fire his plan,
And moulds a world or makes a man.
Good luck be yours on that bleak shore,
Some fortunate, some golden prize;
Then be it mine to see once more
Those friendly, lustrous, Irish eyes.
Return and face with us your fate,
The world is small and England great.
You shall return and fill your place,
But never shall I clasp his hand,
Whose bright and smiling boyish face
Makes sunshine in the shadowland.
Yet shall the night my heart beguile,
And let me dream I see him smile.
Your voice I may not hear again,
Oh dear and unforgotten friend,
Beloved, but ah! beloved in vain,
Whom love could mourn, but not defend.
Still take, though far and lost you dwell,
My love, dear Hugh, and so farewell.
And thus before the fireside's glow
I sit and let my thoughts fly free;
Lo, these my Christmas greetings go
To three good friends beyond the sea;
To Frank, to Fred, and ah, to you,
Beloved, irrevocable Hugh.