Chapter V: Good and Faithful Servants

FATHER O'FLYNN

Of priests we can offer a charming variety,
Far renowned for larning and piety;
Still, I'd advance you, widout impropriety,
Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.

_Chorus_: Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn,
Slainté and slainté, and slainté agin;
Powerfullest preacher, and
Tenderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.

Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever for Greek and Latinity,
Dad, and the divels and all at Divinity,
Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all.
Come, I vinture to give you my word,
Never the likes of his logic was heard.
Down from Mythology
Into Thayology,
Troth! and Conchology, if he'd the call.
_Chorus_: Here's a health to you, etc.

Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you,
All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You've such a way wid you, Father avick!
Still, for all you've so gentle a soul,
Gad, you've your flock in the grandest conthroul
Checkin' the crazy ones,
Coaxin' onaisy ones,
Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick.
_Chorus_: Here's a health to you, etc.

And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity,
Still at all saisons of innocent jollity,
Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality, Father, wid you?
Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest:
"Is it lave gaiety
All to the laity?
Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?"
_Chorus_: Here's a health to you, etc.

LADY GWENNY

County by county for beauty and bounty
Go search! and this pound to a penny,
When you've one woman to show us as human
And lovely as our Lady Gwenny;
For she has the scorn for all scorners,
And she has the tear for all mourners,
Yet joying with joy,
With no crabb'd annoy
To pull down her mouth at the corners.

Up with the lark in the pasture you'll meet with her,
Songs like his own sweetly trilling,
Carrying now for some poor folk a treat with her,
Small mouths with lollypops filling:
And while, as he stands in a puzzle,
She strokes the fierce bull on his muzzle,
The calves and the lambs
Run deserting their dams
In her kind hands their noses to nuzzle.

Now with her maidens a sweet Cymric cadence
She leads, just to lighten their sewing;
Now at the farm, her food basket on arm,
She has set all the cock'rels a-crowing.
The turkey-cock strutting and strumming,
His bagpipe puts by at her humming,
And even the old gander,
The fowl-yard's commander,
He winks his sly eye at her coming.

Never to wandering minstrel or pondering
Poet her castle gate closes:
Ever her kindly cheer--ever her praise sincere
Falls like the dew on faint roses.
And when her Pennillions rhyming
She mates to her triple harp's chiming,
In her green Gorsedd gown--
The half of the town
Up the fences to hear her are climbing.

Men in all fashions have pleaded their passions--
The scholar, the saint, and the sinner,
Pleaded in vain Lady Gwenny to gain,--
For only a hero shall win her:
And to share his strong work and sweet leisure
He'll have no keen chaser of pleasure,
But a loving young beauty
With a soul set on duty,
And a heart full of heaven's hid treasure.

OLD DOCTOR MACK

Ye may tramp the world over from Delhi to Dover,
And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon;
Circumvint back through the whole Zodiack,
But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon.
Have ye the dropsy, the gout, the autopsy?
Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez;
No way infarior in skill, but suparior
And lineal postarior to ould Aysculapius.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety;
Here's to his health,
Honour and wealth,
The king of his kind and the cream of all charity.

How the rich and the poor, to consult for a cure,
Crowd on to his door in their carts and their carriages,
Showin' their tongues or unlacin' their lungs,
For divel wan sympton the docther disparages,
Troth an' he'll tumble for high or for humble
From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety;
Makin' as light of nursin' all night
The beggar in rags as the belle of society.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.

And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical,
Dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother,
And quench the love sickness wid comical quickness,
Prescribin' the right boys and girls to each other.
And the sufferin' childer! Your eyes 'twould bewilder,
To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin'--
Each of them fast on some treasure at last,
Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.

Thin, his doctherin' done, in a rollickin' run
Wid the rod or the gun he's the foremost to figure;
Be Jupiter Ammon! what jack-snipe or salmon
E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger!
And hark that view-holloa! 'Tis Mack in full follow
On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'!
Och, but you'd think 'twas ould Nimrod in pink,
Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park wall and palin'.

_Chorus_: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety.
Here's to his health,
Honour and wealth,
Hip, hip, hooray, wid all hilarity!

Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way!
All at once widout disparity!
One more cheer for our docther dear,
The king of his kind and the cream of all charity,
Hip, hip, hooray!

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN OWEN

HARLECH CHOIRMASTER

Who is this they bear along the street
In his coffin through the sunshine sweet?
Who is this so many comrades crave,
Turn by turn, to carry to the grave?

Who is this for whom the hillward track
Glooms with mounting lines of mourners black?
Till the Baptists' green old burial-ground
Clasps them all within its quiet bound.

Here John Owen we must lay to rest,
'Tis for him our hearts are sore distressed;
Since his sister wistfully he eyed,
Bowed his head upon her breast and died.

Well and truly at his work he wrought;
Every Harlech road to order brought;
Then through winter evenings dark and long
At the chapel gave his heart to song.

Till before his gesture of command--
Till before his hushing voice and hand--
Sweeter, fuller strains who could desire
Than he charmed from out his Baptist choir.

Many a time the passer-by enchained
By their rapture to its close remained,
And the churches joyfully agreed
Their united choirs his skill should lead.

So in Handel's choruses sublime
He would train them for the Christmas time;
Mould their measures for the concert hall,
Roll their thunders round the Castle wall.

Loving husband, tender father, quick
To console the suffering and sick--
Christ to follow was his constant aim,
Christ's own deacon ere he bore the name.

Widowed wife and children fatherless,
Stricken kinsfolk, friends in keen distress--
Sorrow swept them all beneath its wave
As his coffin sank into the grave.

But his Pastor's fervent voice went forth,
Delicately dwelling on his worth,
Urging his example, till at last
Heavenly comfort o'er our grief he cast.

For his lonely ones we bowed in prayer,
Sighed one hymn, and left him lying there,
Whispering: "Lord, Thy will be done to-day,
Thou didst give him, Thou hast taken away."

SAINT CUTHBERT

When once a winter storm upon the shores of Fife
Drave Cuthbert; in despair, one fearful comrade saith:
"To land in such a storm is certain loss of life!"
"Return," another cried, "by sea is equal death."
Then Cuthbert, "Earth and sea against us both are set,
But friends, look up, for Heaven lies open to us yet."

ALFRED THE GREAT

A MILLENARY MEMORIAL

"In my life I have striven to live so worthily that at my death I may leave but a memory of good works to those who come after me."

Thus Alfred spake, whose days were beads of prayer
Upon the rosary of his royal time,
Who let "I do" wait not upon "I dare,"
Yet both with duty kept in golden chime,
Who, great in victory, greater in defeat,
Greatest in strenuous peace, still suffering, planned
From Ashdown's field to Athelney's lone retreat
Upward for aye to lift his little land.
Therefore the seed of his most fruitful sowing,
A thousand years gone by, on earth and sea,
From slender strength to stately empire growing
Hath given our isle great continents in fee.
For which on Alfred's death-day each true heart
Goes out in praise of his immortal part.

SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON

Strong Son of Fergus, with thy latest breath
Thou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell,
Welcoming with thy whispered "All is well!"
The awful aspect of the Angel Death.
As, strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shun
The heat and burthen of the fiery day,
Fronting defeat with stalwart undismay,
And wearing meekly honours stoutly won.
Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as aye
Erin demanded from her bards of old,
And, therefore, on thy harpstrings of pure gold
Has waked once more her high heroic lay.
What shoulders now shall match the mighty fold
Of Ossian's mantle? Thou hast passed away.

"MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY"

(On the home-coming of the London Regiments after the Boer War)

London Town, hear a ditty,
While we crown our comrades true:
"Men, not walls, make a City;"
Ill befalls when men are few,--

Ill indeed when from his duty
Into greed the burgess falls,
Every hand on bribe and booty--
How shall stand that City's walls?

Never yet upon thine annals
Hath been writ such a shame;
Never down such crooked channels,
London Town, thy commerce came.

On the poor no tyrant burden,
Debt secure and sacred trust,
Honest gain and generous guerdon,
These remain thy record just.

Therefore still through all thy story
Loyal will thy train-bands led
Forth to feats of patriot glory,
Back through streets with bays o'erspread.

Therefore when the trumpet's warning
Out again for battle rang,
As of old all peril scorning,
Forth thy bold young burghers sprang;

Faced the fight, endured the prison,
Through the night of doubt and gloom,
Till the Empire's star new risen
Chased afar the clouds of doom.

Therefore, when their ranks came marching,
Home again with flashing feet,
Under bays of triumph arching
City ways and City Street;

London, lift to God thanksgiving
For His Gift that passes all--
For thy heroes, dead and living,
Who have made thy City Wall.

FIELD-MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER

(June 13, 1916)

A sheet of foam is our great Soldier's shroud
Beside the desolate Orkney's groaning caves;
And we are desolate and groan aloud
To know his body wandering with the waves
Who when the thunder-cloud of battle hate
Broke o'er us, through it towered, the while he bore
Upon his Titan shoulders a world weight
Of doubt and danger none had brooked before.
For while incredulous friend and foe denied him
Such possible prowess, Honour's blast he blew;
And lo! as if from out the earth beside him,
Army on army into order grew;
Till need at last was none for our retreating,
And back to Belgium and the front of France
We bore, firm gathered for our foe's defeating
Against the sounding of the Great Advance.

Few were his friends, yet closely round him clustered,
But from five million Britons, who at his call
Came uncompelled and round him sternly mustered,
The sighs escape, the silent teardrops fall.

And not alone the Motherland is weeping
Her great dead Captain but, The Seven Seas o'er,
Daughter Dominions sorrow's watch are keeping,
For he was theirs as her's in peace and war.

Yea, strong sage Botha, and that stern Cape Raider
Whom first he fought then bound with friendship's bond--
Each now our own victorious Empire aider--
Lament his loss the sounding deeps beyond.
And India mourns her mightiest Soldier Warden,
Egypt the Sirdar who her desert through

Laid iron lines of vengeance for our Gordon
Till on the Madhi he swept, and struck and slew.
And France, for whom he fought a youthful gallant,
From whose proud breast he drew Fashoda's thorn--
France who with England shared his searching talent,
France like his second mother stands forlorn.

* * * * *

A man of men was he, the steadfast glances
Of whose steel-grey, indomitable eyes
So pierced the mind, behind all countenances,
Crushed were the sophist's arts, the coward's lies.
A man of men but in his greatness lonely--
Undaunted in defeat, in conquest calm,
For God and Country living and dying only,
And winner therefore of the deathless palm.

* * * * *

A truce to tears then. Though his body hath
No rest in English earth, his shining soul
Still leads his armies up the arduous path
He paved for them forthright to Glory's goal.

And we the men and women who remain,
Let us to be his other Army burn
With such pure fires of sacrificial pain
As shall reward our warriors' return.

But now a sudden heavy silence falls
On all our streets, half-mast the standard hangs--
The hearseless funeral passes to St. Paul's,
And out of every steeple the death-bell clangs.

Now sorrowing King and Queen, as midday booms,
The hushed Fane enter, while o'er mourners black,
Grey soldier, choral white, quick gleams and glooms
Of sun and shadow darkle and sparkle back.
The prayers of priest and people to heaven's gate win
And a choir as of angels welcoming thither our chief--
Till a thunder of drums the mighty Dead March beats in
And the Last Post lingers, lingers and dies on our grief.

INSCRIPTION FOR A ROLL OF HONOUR IN A PUBLIC SCHOOL

Since to die nobly is Life's act supreme,
And since our best and dearest thus have died,
Across our cloud of grief a solemn gleam
Of joy has struck, and all our tears are dried.

For these men to keep pure their country's fame
Against great odds fell fighting to the death,
God give us grace who here bear on their name
To grow more like them with each proud-drawn breath.

AN EPITAPH

On an Irish Cross in memory of Charles Graves, Bishop of Limerick

To God his steadfast soul, his starry mind
To Science, a gracious heart to kin and kind,
He living gave. Therefore let each fair bloom
Of Faith and Hope breathe balsam o'er his tomb.

AN INTERCESSIONAL ANSWERED

(June 26, 1902)

We thought to speed our earthly King
Triumphant on his way
Unto his solemn Sacreing
Before Thy throne to-day;
His royal robes were wrought, prepared
His sceptre, orb and crown,
And all earth's Princes here repaired
To heighten his renown;
When, hurtling out of bluest Heaven,
Thy bolt upon us fell;
Our head is pierced, our heart is riven,
Struck dumb the Minster bell.
Yet flags still flutter far and wide;
The league-long garlands glow,
Still London wears her gala pride
Above a breast of woe.
Lord shall these laughing leaves and flowers
Their joyful use forget?
Nay, on this stricken realm of ours
Have Thou compassion yet.

Long years ago our Edward lay
Thus fighting for his breath,
Yet to such prayers as now we pray
Thou gavest him back from death.
Then o'er the tempest of his pain,
His cry of perishing thrill,
Let Thy right arm go forth again,
Thy saving "Peace! be still!"
Until to all his strength restored
Thy Spirit lead Him down,
In solemn state, Almighty Lord,
To take from Thee his crown.