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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Heroic Days, by Thomas O'Hagan
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Songs of Heroic Days
+
+Author: Thomas O'Hagan
+
+Release Date: August 21, 2011 [EBook #37154]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF HEROIC DAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SONGS OF HEROIC DAYS
+
+
+By
+
+THOMAS O'HAGAN
+
+
+Author of
+
+ A Gate of Flowers
+ In Dreamland
+ Songs of the Settlement
+ In the Heart of the Meadow
+ and Others
+
+
+
+Toronto:
+
+WILLIAM BRIGGS
+
+1916
+
+
+
+
+Copyright, Canada, 1916
+
+by Thomas O'Hagan
+
+
+
+
+ TO THE BRAVE CANADIAN HEARTS
+ THAT BEAT AND BATTLE FOR THE
+ CAUSE OF FREEDOM AND THE SAFETY
+ OF THE EMPIRE.
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+Nearly all these Poems have appeared during the past year in the
+columns of the _Globe_ and the _Mail_ and _Empire_ of Toronto, and the
+_Free Press_ of Detroit, Michigan.
+
+When the Author read from his poems last winter before the Women's
+Press Club of Toronto one of its members suggested that an engrossed
+and illuminated copy of the poem, "I Take Off My Hat to Albert," be
+presented to His Majesty, King Albert of Belgium. This was done
+through the kind offices and courtesy of Mr. Goor, the Belgian
+Consul-General at Ottawa.
+
+His Majesty's gracious letter of acceptance, which the reader will find
+on another page, is indeed a Royal Foreword to these poetic blossoms of
+a piteous though heroic time.
+
+THOMAS O'HAGAN
+
+January 20th, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+ Letter From the King of Belgium
+ Translation
+ I Take Off My Hat to Albert
+ The Kaiser's Favorite Poems
+ Louvain
+ The Kaiser's Bhoys
+ Mothers
+ In the Trenches
+ The Christ-Child
+ God's New Year's Gift
+ Trouble in the Louvre
+ "Bobs" of Kandahar
+ Song of the Zeppelin
+ "Sock it to 'Em"
+ Langemarck
+ The Bugle Call
+ His Mission
+ Achilles' Tomb
+ The Chrism of Kings
+ Tipperary
+ Gather the Harvest
+ The Kaiser's "Place in the Sun"
+
+
+
+
+LETTER FROM THE KING OF BELGIUM
+
+[Illustration: Letter from the King of Belgium]
+
+
+
+TRANSLATION
+
+
+LA PANNE, August 11th, 1915.
+
+OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY TO THE KING AND
+ QUEEN (OF BELGIUM).
+
+SIR:
+
+The very delicate words you have found to express to the King your
+friendly feelings have greatly touched His Majesty.
+
+The Sovereign, Who has much admired the beautiful illumination adorning
+the verses composed in His honor, commands me to thank you sincerely
+and to say that He will be glad to keep this valuable souvenir.
+
+I have the honor to be
+ Sir
+ Your obedient Servant,
+ J. INGENBLEEK,
+ _Secretary._
+
+To DR. THOMAS O'HAGAN,
+ Ottawa.
+
+
+
+
+ I TAKE OFF MY HAT TO ALBERT
+
+ _Albert, King of Belgium, is the hero of the hour;
+ He's the greatest king in Europe, he's a royal arch and tower;
+ He is bigger in the trenches than the Kaiser on his Throne,
+ And the whole world loves him for the sorrows he has known:
+ So I take off my hat to Albert._
+
+ _Defiance was his answer to the Teuton at his gate,
+ Then he buckled on his armor and pledged his soul to fate;
+ He stood between his people and the biggest Essen gun,
+ For he feared not shot nor shrapnel as his little army won:
+ So I take off my hat to Albert._
+
+ _King of Belgium, Duke of Brabant, Count of Flanders, all in one;
+ Little Kingdom of the Belgae starr'd with honor in the sun!
+ You have won a place in history, of your deeds the world will sing,
+ But the glory of your nation is your dust-stained, fearless King:
+ So I take off my hat to Albert._
+
+ _For M. Goor._
+
+
+
+
+ THE KAISER'S FAVORITE POEMS
+
+ What are the Kaiser's favorite poems?
+ Well, now, you tax me hard:
+ I know the Kaiser's favorite drink
+ But do not know his bard;
+ I'm sure it is not Schiller
+ Who reigns in German homes.
+ Nor yet Olympian Goethe,
+ Who writes the Kaiser's poems.
+
+ Perhaps that Heinrich Heine
+ Has touched the Kaiser's soul;
+ Or Arndt with his trumpet call
+ Like a new conscription roll;
+ Or, Walther von der Vogelweide
+ With his nest in mythic domes,
+ Is the author and creator
+ Of the Kaiser's favorite poems.
+
+ If I saw the Kaiser's library
+ I'd know well what he reads--
+ The color of his fancy
+ And the prompter of his deeds:
+ I'd learn the depth and wisdom
+ Of his theories and his gnomes,
+ If I got but just a glance or two
+ At the Kaiser's favorite poems.
+
+ Then let us go to Essen,
+ Where the Kaiser's books are bound;
+ They are full of "steel" engravings--
+ All "best sellers" there are found;
+ For the Prussian soul and spirit
+ Speaks in rhythm thro' those tomes,
+ And these without a question,
+ Are the Kaiser's favorite poems.
+
+ _For Rt. Hon. David Lloyd-George._
+
+
+
+
+ LOUVAIN
+
+ A shrine, where saints and scholars met
+ And held aloft the torch of truth,
+ Lies smouldering 'neath fair Brabant's skies,
+ A ruined heap--war's prize in sooth!
+ The Pilates of Teutonic blood
+ That fired the brand and flung the bomb
+ Now wash their hands of evil deed,
+ While all the world stands ghast and dumb.
+
+ Is this your culture, sons of Kant,
+ And ye who kneel 'round Goethe's throne?
+ To carry in your knapsacks death?
+ To feel for man nor ruth nor moan?
+ What 'vails it now your mighty guns
+ If God be mightier in the sky?
+ What 'vail your cities, walls and towers
+ If half your progress be a lie?
+
+ The smoking altars, ruined arch
+ Of ancient church and Gothic fane
+ Have felt the death stings of your shells,
+ And speak in pity thro' Louvain.
+ Wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt,
+ Forget your "World-Power's" cursed plan
+ And sign in peace and not in blood
+ Dread Sinai's pact 'twixt God and Man.
+
+ _For His Eminence Cardinal Merrier._
+
+
+
+
+ THE KAISER'S BHOYS
+
+ O, the Kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach Paris" they are going,
+ But they've sthopped to rest a minit at the Marne and at the Meuse;
+ And the Gordons and the Ministers are thryin' to entertain them,
+ For they've every kind of "record" that the Teutons want to choose;
+ They have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the Highlands,
+ They have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of Munster gales;
+ They are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the Kaiser,
+ "_Faugh-a-ballagh!_" sons of Odin, or we'll tie you up like bales.
+
+ O, the Kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at Calais,
+ But they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom;
+ For the little Belgian sojers cut the dykes and flood their trenches,
+ And they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb.
+ But they're makin' progress backward, "_nach Berlin_" they are going,
+ With their "_Landsturms_" and their "_Land-wehrs_,"
+ keepin' sthep in dim grey line;
+ And they'll know far more of Britain and her brood of lions snarlin',
+ When they find themselves "_su Hause_" jist beyant
+ "_Die Wacht am Rhein_."
+
+ _For John E. Redmond, M.P._
+
+
+
+
+ MOTHERS
+
+ Through the vigils deep of the sable night
+ A mother sits in grief alone,
+ For her sons have gone to the battle front
+ And left on the hearth a crushing stone.
+ Beyond the stars that burn at night
+ She sees God's arm in pity reach;
+ It counsels patience, love and faith,
+ Heroic hearts and souls to teach.
+
+ The blue is spann'd and the tide goes out.
+ And the stars rain down a kindlier cheer;
+ And the mother turns from this throne of grief
+ To pierce the years with a joyous tear;
+ For duty born of a mother's heart
+ Fills all the rounds of our common day--
+ Yea, sheds its joy in the darkest night,
+ And fills with light each hidden way.
+
+ _For Miss Ina Coolbrith._
+
+
+
+
+ IN THE TRENCHES
+
+ All day the guns belched fire and death
+ And filled the hours with gloom;
+ The fateful music smote the sky
+ In tremulous bars of doom;
+ But as the evening stars came forth
+ A truce to death and strife,
+ There rose from hearts of patriot love
+ A tender song of life.
+
+ A song of home and fireside
+ Swelled on the evening air,
+ And men forgot their battle line,
+ Its carnage and dark care;
+ The soldier dropp'd his rifle
+ And joined the choral song,
+ As high above the tide of war
+ It swept and pulsed along.
+
+ That night while sleeping where the stars
+ Look down upon the Meuse,
+ Where Teuton valor coped with Frank,
+ Where rained most deadly dews,
+ A soldier youth, in khaki clad,
+ Rock'd where the maples grow,
+ Smiled in his dream and saw again
+ The blue St. Lawrence flow.
+
+ _For Miss Julia O'Sullivan._
+
+
+
+
+ THE CHRIST-CHILD
+
+ Across the waste, across the snow,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Past sentinel of friend and foe
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Comes the Christ-Child clad in white
+ Through the storm-clouds of the night.
+ Bearing in His lily hands
+ Gift of peace to warring lands,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+
+ "_Adeste fideles!_" sing the choirs
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Lurid flame the battle fires
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Shepherds hear the heavenly song,
+ Mid the strife and piteous wrong;
+ Peace on earth but not of men,
+ Peace that knows not crime nor sin.
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+
+ Lay your sceptres at His feet,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Christ, the Babe of Bethlehem, greet,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Legions stretched in battle line,
+ Saw the star and knew the sign,
+ Yet forgot that Christ was born
+ Prince of Peace, on Christmas morn,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+
+ Christmas, 1914.
+
+ For Mrs. George McIntyre.
+
+
+
+
+ GOD'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT
+
+ What shall the coming year bring forth,
+ O Lord, who rulest the land?
+ For the navies of the sea and air
+ Are but stubble in Thy hand.
+ The battalions in the field go forth;
+ They arm in mighty line;
+ Do they kneel to know Thy holy will?
+ Have they asked from Thee a sign?
+
+ The kings invoke Thy holy name,
+ In their carnage and their strife;
+ But the purple gift it was Thine to give
+ Recks not of pity nor life:
+ For they're drunk with the wine of lustful power,
+ And seared with the sins of earth;
+ And their prayers and preachments now mock Thy name,
+ And make of Thy laws but mirth.
+
+ January 1, 1916.
+
+ _For Duncan Campbell Scott._
+
+
+
+
+ TROUBLE IN THE LOUVRE
+
+ When the German troops were marching with the Uhlans far ahead,
+ The objective point being Paris, as the Berlin wireless said,
+ There was trouble in the Louvre, 'mong the paintings on the walls,
+ There were shoutings 'cross the centuries, there were
+ loud artistic calls;
+ "Mona Lisa" ceased her smiling and "The Banker and His Wife"
+ Turned to Millet's "Women Gleaning"--begged protection
+ for their life;
+ While "The Gypsy Girl" of Franz Hals, fearful of impending fate,
+ Roused "The Shepherds in Arcadia" with "The Hun is at the Gate!"
+
+ Then the panic spread on all sides till the battle of the Marne
+ Solved all danger of the looting, removed all need to warn;
+ Straight "The Lace Maker" from Flemish Bruges in the joyous choral led
+ Smiled at "Charles First of England" who had lost his crown and head;
+ For fear had left the Louvre when the Teutons turned in flight,
+ So they scanned the sky no longer for dread Zeppelins in the night.
+ And the paintings born of centuries touched by genius into life
+ Still are hanging in the Louvre 'mid war's clash and clang and strife.
+
+ _For Edgar Guest._
+
+
+
+
+ "BOBS" OF KANDAHAR
+
+"The body of 'Bobs' then lay in state until five o'clock, when it was
+interred in a crypt near-by those containing the bodies of Nelson and
+Wellington."--_Press Despatch_.
+
+
+ Who is he that cometh to join our mighty dead?
+ Is it "Bobs" of Kandahar the Empire's armies led?
+ Give him place, O Nation great! within your storied walls;
+ Within our heart his name shall rest, his ashes in St. Paul's.
+ Soldier of the Empire, Bobs of Kandahar!
+ Lay him near the hero of glorious Trafalgar!
+ Death has ta'en the shining sword he aye in duty drew;
+ Lay him near the Iron Duke of fateful Waterloo!
+
+ Soldier of the Empire, well thy work was done,
+ Fit thy sun had setting within sound and roar of gun;
+ Thy soul had vision of the years fraught with danger's woe,
+ And counsell'd arméd wisdom against a subtle foe;
+ Now thy task has ended, the splendor of thy sun,
+ Sheds its setting glory on the greater life begun,
+ From where the Maple stands in pride to India's torrid star,
+ Now, mourn an Empire's people for "Bobs" of Kandahar!
+
+ _For Lady Aileen Mary Roberts._
+
+
+
+
+ SONG OF THE ZEPPELIN
+
+ I cleave the air through the murky night,
+ High o'er the forests and sleeping towns;
+ Below me drifts the shimmering light--
+ A glorious fresco on vale and downs;
+ My sea hath no billows nor rocky shores,
+ And only the winds disturb my soul;
+ I care not for those who slumber in death,
+ For my bomb is bloody and death my goal--
+ And all for the Vaterland!
+
+ Where the currents cross and the cruisers speed
+ I sail towards the North in a piteous sky;
+ I hear the night wind's surging note
+ As it mingles its requiem with the widow's cry.
+ Above me there streams a light from heaven,
+ But I bow my head and veil my eyes
+ As I plough the fields with my fateful keel
+ And sow the highways with tears and sighs--
+ And all for the Vaterland!
+
+ And hate is the banner I unfurl so wide
+ That its blood-dripp'd folds may catch the breeze;
+ That e'en from the balcony of heaven on high
+ May be seen this banner on all the seas.
+ No triumph of arms is my flight by night,
+ It is only a part of a murderous raid:
+ Dropping a bomb on an innocent child
+ Or a crowing babe in its cradle laid--
+ And all for the Vaterland!
+
+ _For Thomas Walsh._
+
+
+
+
+ "SOCK IT TO 'EM"
+
+"A Canadian lieutenant writes his mother from the front that what he
+most needs for the winter is good warm socks."--_Press Despatch_.
+
+
+ Yes, Wilhelm, sure you'll get it,
+ The storm is o'er your head;
+ It is bursting in the trenches
+ And you're just as good as dead.
+ You put your foot on Belgium
+ And defied your fate and doom,
+ And now the whole world hates you
+ And the cry is "Sock it to 'em!"
+
+ True, your Taubchens still are sailing,
+ But your battleships are not;
+ They are coop'd up in a corner
+ Save the submerg'd ones that fought.
+ You are saving time and fuel,
+ But you're sad and filled with gloom,
+ For the very winds are whispering
+ "Blow hard and sock it to 'em."
+
+ You have sought more spacious realm
+ In the free and genial sun:
+ Has your sceptre widened any
+ With the salvo of each gun?
+ Your "World-Power" seems to narrow,
+ And your hope lies in a tomb,
+ While dark Fate weaves your chaplet
+ And whispers "Sock it to 'em!"
+
+ _For Theodore Botrel._
+
+
+
+
+ LANGEMARCK
+
+ A glory lights the skies of Flanders
+ Where the blood-stained fields lie bare,
+ Where the clouds of war have gathered,
+ Built their parapets in the air;
+ Halted stands the Teuton army,
+ Checked its onslaught at a sign;
+ Forward roll the warlike forces,
+ Sons of Canada in line.
+
+ Let them taste of Northern courage
+ Where the lordly maple grows;
+ Let them face the heroes nurtured
+ Where the stars have wed the snows;
+ We are sons of sires undaunted,
+ Children of the hills and plains;
+ Ours a courage born of duty,
+ Pluck and dash of many strains.
+
+ Tell it to our children's children
+ How Canadians saved the day;
+ Write it with the pen of history,
+ Sing it as a fireside lay;
+ How at Langemarck in Flanders,
+ Though the odds were eight to one,
+ Our Canadians stood unbroken,
+ Sword to sword, and gun to gun.
+
+ _For Sir Wilfrid Laurier._
+
+
+
+
+ THE BUGLE CALL
+
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother,
+ From over the sea, from over the sea?
+ The call to her children, in every land;
+ To her sons on Afric's far-stretch'd veldt;
+ To her dark-skinned children on India's shore,
+ Whose souls are nourish'd on Aryan lore;
+ To her sons of the Northland where frosty stars
+ Glitter and shine like a helmet of Mars;
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother?
+
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother
+ From over the sea, from over the sea?
+ The call to Australia's legions strong,
+ That move with the might and stealth of a wave;
+ To the men of the camp and men of the field,
+ Whose courage has taught them never to yield;
+ To the men whose counsel has saved the State,
+ And thwarted the plans of impending fate;
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother?
+
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother
+ From over the sea, from over the sea?
+ To the little cot on the wind-swept hill;
+ To the lordly mansion in the city street;
+ To her sons who toil in the forest deep
+ Or bind the sheaves where the reapers reap;
+ To her children scattered far East and West;
+ To her sons who joy in her Freedom Blest;
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother?
+
+ _For Major-General Sir Sam Hughes._
+
+
+
+
+ HIS MISSION
+
+"A German will teach Irish at the University of Illinois, beginning in
+February, when Dr. Kuno E. Meyer of the University of Berlin will
+become visiting professor of the Celtic language and
+literature."--_Press Despatch_.
+
+
+ Go back, dear Kuno, to the Poles and Alsatians,
+ And teach them the language your nation has robbed;
+ Piece out their dreams of new glory and freedom;
+ Bring joy to the hearts where the children have sobbed.
+ We love the old Celtic tongue, vibrant with music,
+ As it speaks to our hearts thro' the chords of long years,
+ But we don't want your lessons, though laden with "_Kultur_,"
+ From a land where Alsatians and Poles are in tears.
+
+ Go back, Herr Professor, your mission is ended,
+ For, though your gifts are many, you are "_ausgespielt_";
+ Go back and receive your "Kreuz von Eisen,"
+ For we don't like the way that you're "_ausgebild't_."
+ The stars that burn with the true light of freedom,
+ In this giant new world, with its endless day,
+ Have nothing in common with your satellite planets,
+ And care not to shine on your Eagle's prey.
+
+ _For Dr. Douglas Hyde._
+
+
+
+
+ ACHILLES' TOMB
+
+ Achilles awoke in his ancient tomb
+ Hard by the coast of Troy;
+ He rattled his armor now full of dust
+ And rubbed his eyes like a boy,
+ As he gazed on the ships of the allied fleet,
+ Ploughing the seas from afar,
+ Bent on their course to the Dardanelles
+ 'Neath the light of Victory's star.
+
+ "Why, I've been asleep," Achilles said,
+ "On the windy plains of Troy;
+ Three thousand years have turned to dust
+ With their maddening mirth and joy;
+ Yet it seems but a day since Ilium fell,
+ Since Sinon spun out his tale,
+ And the Greeks returned from Tenedos
+ With a light and prosperous gale.
+
+ "Three thousand years is a long, long time,
+ But I'll doze for a thousand more;
+ For I'm sick of the bluff of the Teuton hosts
+ And the gas from each army corps.
+ So lay me down in my ancient tomb,
+ Where the Phrygian winds sweep by,
+ And I'll dream of the days when heroes fought,
+ 'Round the lofty walls of Troy."
+
+ _For Very Rev. W. R. Harris, D.D._
+
+
+
+
+ THE CHRISM OF KINGS
+
+ In the morn of the world, at the daybreak of time,
+ When Kingdoms were few and Empires unknown,
+ God searched for a Ruler to sceptre the land,
+ And gather the harvest from the seed He had sown.
+ He found a young Shepherd boy watching his flock
+ Where the mountains looked down on deep meadows of green;
+ He hailed the young Shepherd boy king of the land
+ And anointed his brow with a Chrism unseen.
+
+ He placed in his frail hands the sceptre of power,
+ And taught his young heart all the wisdom of love;
+ He gave him the vision of prophet and priest,
+ And dowered him with counsel and light from above.
+ But alas! came a day when the Shepherd forgot
+ And heaped on his realm all the woes that war brings,
+ And bartering his purple for the greed of his heart
+ He lost both the sceptre and Chrism of Kings.
+
+ _For Miss Katherine Brégy._
+
+
+
+
+ TIPPERARY
+
+ (New version.)
+
+ I'm not going to Tipperary for I've better work to do,
+ I am dreaming of a new device to catch each German crew;
+ And when we've chased them thro' the deep, _Ach Gott!_ what
+ fun there'll be
+ Rounding up the Teuton "subs" in the blue and vasty sea.
+ So, good-bye, Tipperary! Farewell, Slieve-na-mon!
+ I leave you for a season to chase the murderous Hun;
+ Von Tirpitz knows their hiding-place and I'll find out, too,
+ So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've caught each pirate crew.
+
+ Then I'll go to Tipperary with its hills of emerald green,
+ Where the skies are full of splendor and each peasant girl a queen;
+ Where the men know naught but honor and where duty is their goal;
+ Where the shadows from the mountains are but sunlight to the soul.
+ So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've rounded up each crew,
+ Then I'll turn my face to greet you for to you I'll e'er be true;
+ So I'm off to chase the pirates and the ocean aisles to sweep,
+ _Ach Himmel_, Tipperary! there'll be fun upon the deep.
+
+ _For Rev. J. B. Bollard._
+
+
+
+
+ GATHER THE HARVEST
+
+ Gather the harvest though reaped in death,
+ Under the pale, pale moon;
+ For the lilies that joyed in the breath of morn
+ Shall know not the ardor of noon:
+ So, the souls that grow strong, in patriot love,
+ Shall be garnered on Death's dark field,
+ Ere the noontide rays have touched the vale
+ And burnished with gold life's shield.
+
+ Gather the harvest though reaped in death,
+ Where the sword has struck for Right,
+ And cleft a way for Freedom's path,
+ Through the dark and tremulous night:
+ For the golden grain on the altar flames
+ And lights each pilgrim throng,
+ As they meet in joy 'round that altar bright
+ Where Justice shall right each wrong.
+
+ _For Miss Helen Merrill._
+
+
+
+
+ THE KAISER'S "PLACE IN THE SUN"
+
+ The Kaiser is seeking "a place in the Sun"
+ But I fear he'll have to wait,
+ Till another eclipse has dulled its face
+ And the Allies have woven his fate:
+ For the "spots" on the Sun are all occupied
+ With a race descended from Mars;
+ So there's no place in the heavens for _schrecklich_ Wilhelm,
+ Not even among the Stars.
+
+ What boots it, Wilhelm, that your guns are big,
+ And your Zeppelins soar by night,
+ Since against you are leagued the earth and stars
+ And you're sure to lose in the fight.
+ You have drenched the world with heroic blood,
+ And stained the record of Man,
+ But you'll presently get your "place in the Sun,"
+ Yes, the hottest since time began,
+
+ _For T. J. Murphy._
+
+
+
+
+
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+<META HTTP-EQUIV="Content-Type" CONTENT="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1">
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+<TITLE>
+The Project Gutenberg E-text of Songs of Heroic Days, by Thomas O'Hagan
+</TITLE>
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+<STYLE TYPE="text/css">
+BODY { color: Black;
+ background: White;
+ margin-right: 10%;
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+ font-size: 200%;
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+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Heroic Days, by Thomas O'Hagan
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Songs of Heroic Days
+
+Author: Thomas O'Hagan
+
+Release Date: August 21, 2011 [EBook #37154]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF HEROIC DAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t1">
+SONGS OF HEROIC DAYS
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3">
+By
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+THOMAS O'HAGAN
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t4">
+Author of
+<BR><BR>
+A Gate of Flowers<BR>
+In Dreamland<BR>
+Songs of the Settlement<BR>
+In the Heart of the Meadow<BR>
+and Others<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t4">
+Toronto:
+<BR>
+WILLIAM BRIGGS
+<BR>
+1916
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t4">
+Copyright, Canada, 1916
+<BR>
+by Thomas O'Hagan
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t3">
+TO THE BRAVE CANADIAN HEARTS<BR>
+THAT BEAT AND BATTLE FOR THE<BR>
+CAUSE OF FREEDOM AND THE SAFETY<BR>
+OF THE EMPIRE.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+PREFACE
+</H3>
+
+<P>
+Nearly all these Poems have appeared during the past year in the
+columns of the <I>Globe</I> and the <I>Mail</I> and <I>Empire</I> of Toronto, and the
+<I>Free Press</I> of Detroit, Michigan.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When the Author read from his poems last winter before the Women's
+Press Club of Toronto one of its members suggested that an engrossed
+and illuminated copy of the poem, "I Take Off My Hat to Albert," be
+presented to His Majesty, King Albert of Belgium. This was done
+through the kind offices and courtesy of Mr. Goor, the Belgian
+Consul-General at Ottawa.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His Majesty's gracious letter of acceptance, which the reader will find
+on another page, is indeed a Royal Foreword to these poetic blossoms of
+a piteous though heroic time.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+THOMAS O'HAGAN
+<BR>
+January 20th, 1916.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="t2">
+Contents
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent" STYLE="margin-left: 10%">
+<A HREF="#king">Letter From the King of Belgium</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#translation">Translation</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#albert">I Take Off My Hat to Albert</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#kaiser">The Kaiser's Favorite Poems</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#louvain">Louvain</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#bhoys">The Kaiser's Bhoys</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#mothers">Mothers</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#trenches">In the Trenches</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#christ">The Christ-Child</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#gift">God's New Year's Gift</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#louvre">Trouble in the Louvre</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#bobs">"Bobs" of Kandahar</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#zeppelin">Song of the Zeppelin</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#sock">"Sock it to 'Em"</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#langemarck">Langemarck</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#bugle">The Bugle Call</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#mission">His Mission</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#achilles">Achilles' Tomb</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#chrism">The Chrism of Kings</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#tipperary">Tipperary</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#gather">Gather the Harvest</A><BR>
+<A HREF="#place">The Kaiser's "Place in the Sun"</A><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="king"></A>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+LETTER FROM THE KING OF BELGIUM
+</H3>
+
+<BR>
+
+<CENTER>
+<IMG SRC="images/img-letter.jpg" ALT="Letter from the King of Belgium" BORDER="">
+<H4>
+Letter from the King of Belgium
+</H4>
+</CENTER>
+
+<BR>
+
+<A NAME="translation"></A>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+TRANSLATION
+</H3>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+LA PANNE, August 11th, 1915.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY TO THE KING AND<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;QUEEN (OF BELGIUM).<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+SIR:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The very delicate words you have found to express to the King your
+friendly feelings have greatly touched His Majesty.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The Sovereign, Who has much admired the beautiful illumination adorning
+the verses composed in His honor, commands me to thank you sincerely
+and to say that He will be glad to keep this valuable souvenir.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+I have the honor to be<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sir<BR>
+Your obedient Servant,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;J. INGENBLEEK,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>Secretary.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+To DR. THOMAS O'HAGAN,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ottawa.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="albert"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+I TAKE OFF MY HAT TO ALBERT<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>Albert, King of Belgium, is the hero of the hour;<BR>
+He's the greatest king in Europe, he's a royal arch and tower;<BR>
+He is bigger in the trenches than the Kaiser on his Throne,<BR>
+And the whole world loves him for the sorrows he has known:<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So I take off my hat to Albert.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>Defiance was his answer to the Teuton at his gate,<BR>
+Then he buckled on his armor and pledged his soul to fate;<BR>
+He stood between his people and the biggest Essen gun,<BR>
+For he feared not shot nor shrapnel as his little army won:<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So I take off my hat to Albert.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>King of Belgium, Duke of Brabant, Count of Flanders, all in one;<BR>
+Little Kingdom of the Belgae starr'd with honor in the sun!<BR>
+You have won a place in history, of your deeds the world will sing,<BR>
+But the glory of your nation is your dust-stained, fearless King:<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So I take off my hat to Albert.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For M. Goor.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="kaiser"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE KAISER'S FAVORITE POEMS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+What are the Kaiser's favorite poems?<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Well, now, you tax me hard:<BR>
+I know the Kaiser's favorite drink<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But do not know his bard;<BR>
+I'm sure it is not Schiller<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Who reigns in German homes.<BR>
+Nor yet Olympian Goethe,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Who writes the Kaiser's poems.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Perhaps that Heinrich Heine<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Has touched the Kaiser's soul;<BR>
+Or Arndt with his trumpet call<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Like a new conscription roll;<BR>
+Or, Walther von der Vogelweide<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With his nest in mythic domes,<BR>
+Is the author and creator<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of the Kaiser's favorite poems.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+If I saw the Kaiser's library<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I'd know well what he reads&mdash;<BR>
+The color of his fancy<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the prompter of his deeds:<BR>
+I'd learn the depth and wisdom<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of his theories and his gnomes,<BR>
+If I got but just a glance or two<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;At the Kaiser's favorite poems.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Then let us go to Essen,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where the Kaiser's books are bound;<BR>
+They are full of "steel" engravings&mdash;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;All "best sellers" there are found;<BR>
+For the Prussian soul and spirit<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Speaks in rhythm thro' those tomes,<BR>
+And these without a question,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are the Kaiser's favorite poems.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Rt. Hon. David Lloyd-George.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="louvain"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+LOUVAIN<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A shrine, where saints and scholars met<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And held aloft the torch of truth,<BR>
+Lies smouldering 'neath fair Brabant's skies,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A ruined heap&mdash;war's prize in sooth!<BR>
+The Pilates of Teutonic blood<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That fired the brand and flung the bomb<BR>
+Now wash their hands of evil deed,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;While all the world stands ghast and dumb.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Is this your culture, sons of Kant,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And ye who kneel 'round Goethe's throne?<BR>
+To carry in your knapsacks death?<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To feel for man nor ruth nor moan?<BR>
+What 'vails it now your mighty guns<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If God be mightier in the sky?<BR>
+What 'vail your cities, walls and towers<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If half your progress be a lie?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The smoking altars, ruined arch<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Of ancient church and Gothic fane<BR>
+Have felt the death stings of your shells,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And speak in pity thro' Louvain.<BR>
+Wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Forget your "World-Power's" cursed plan<BR>
+And sign in peace and not in blood<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dread Sinai's pact 'twixt God and Man.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For His Eminence Cardinal Merrier.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="bhoys"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE KAISER'S BHOYS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O, the Kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach Paris" they are going,<BR>
+But they've sthopped to rest a minit at the Marne and at the Meuse;<BR>
+And the Gordons and the Ministers are thryin' to entertain them,<BR>
+For they've every kind of "record" that the Teutons want to choose;<BR>
+They have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the Highlands,<BR>
+They have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of Munster gales;<BR>
+They are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the Kaiser,<BR>
+"<I>Faugh-a-ballagh!</I>" sons of Odin, or we'll tie you up like bales.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+O, the Kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at Calais,<BR>
+But they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom;<BR>
+For the little Belgian sojers cut the dykes and flood their trenches,<BR>
+And they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb.<BR>
+But they're makin' progress backward, "<I>nach Berlin</I>" they are going,<BR>
+With their "<I>Landsturms</I>" and their "<I>Land-wehrs</I>,"<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;keepin' sthep in dim grey line;<BR>
+And they'll know far more of Britain and her brood of lions snarlin',<BR>
+When they find themselves "<I>su Hause</I>" jist beyant<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"<I>Die Wacht am Rhein</I>."<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For John E. Redmond, M.P.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="mothers"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+MOTHERS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Through the vigils deep of the sable night<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A mother sits in grief alone,<BR>
+For her sons have gone to the battle front<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And left on the hearth a crushing stone.<BR>
+Beyond the stars that burn at night<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She sees God's arm in pity reach;<BR>
+It counsels patience, love and faith,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Heroic hearts and souls to teach.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The blue is spann'd and the tide goes out.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the stars rain down a kindlier cheer;<BR>
+And the mother turns from this throne of grief<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;To pierce the years with a joyous tear;<BR>
+For duty born of a mother's heart<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fills all the rounds of our common day&mdash;<BR>
+Yea, sheds its joy in the darkest night,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And fills with light each hidden way.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Miss Ina Coolbrith.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="trenches"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+IN THE TRENCHES<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+All day the guns belched fire and death<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And filled the hours with gloom;<BR>
+The fateful music smote the sky<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In tremulous bars of doom;<BR>
+But as the evening stars came forth<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A truce to death and strife,<BR>
+There rose from hearts of patriot love<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A tender song of life.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A song of home and fireside<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Swelled on the evening air,<BR>
+And men forgot their battle line,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Its carnage and dark care;<BR>
+The soldier dropp'd his rifle<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And joined the choral song,<BR>
+As high above the tide of war<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It swept and pulsed along.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+That night while sleeping where the stars<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Look down upon the Meuse,<BR>
+Where Teuton valor coped with Frank,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where rained most deadly dews,<BR>
+A soldier youth, in khaki clad,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Rock'd where the maples grow,<BR>
+Smiled in his dream and saw again<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The blue St. Lawrence flow.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Miss Julia O'Sullivan.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="christ"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE CHRIST-CHILD<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Across the waste, across the snow,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+Past sentinel of friend and foe<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+Comes the Christ-Child clad in white<BR>
+Through the storm-clouds of the night.<BR>
+Bearing in His lily hands<BR>
+Gift of peace to warring lands,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"<I>Adeste fideles!</I>" sing the choirs<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+Lurid flame the battle fires<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+Shepherds hear the heavenly song,<BR>
+Mid the strife and piteous wrong;<BR>
+Peace on earth but not of men,<BR>
+Peace that knows not crime nor sin.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Lay your sceptres at His feet,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+Christ, the Babe of Bethlehem, greet,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+Legions stretched in battle line,<BR>
+Saw the star and knew the sign,<BR>
+Yet forgot that Christ was born<BR>
+Prince of Peace, on Christmas morn,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O the pity! O the pity!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Christmas, 1914.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+For Mrs. George McIntyre.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="gift"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+GOD'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+What shall the coming year bring forth,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O Lord, who rulest the land?<BR>
+For the navies of the sea and air<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Are but stubble in Thy hand.<BR>
+The battalions in the field go forth;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;They arm in mighty line;<BR>
+Do they kneel to know Thy holy will?<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Have they asked from Thee a sign?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The kings invoke Thy holy name,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In their carnage and their strife;<BR>
+But the purple gift it was Thine to give<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Recks not of pity nor life:<BR>
+For they're drunk with the wine of lustful power,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And seared with the sins of earth;<BR>
+And their prayers and preachments now mock Thy name,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And make of Thy laws but mirth.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+January 1, 1916.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Duncan Campbell Scott.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="louvre"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+TROUBLE IN THE LOUVRE<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+When the German troops were marching with the Uhlans far ahead,<BR>
+The objective point being Paris, as the Berlin wireless said,<BR>
+There was trouble in the Louvre, 'mong the paintings on the walls,<BR>
+There were shoutings 'cross the centuries, there were<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;loud artistic calls;<BR>
+"Mona Lisa" ceased her smiling and "The Banker and His Wife"<BR>
+Turned to Millet's "Women Gleaning"&mdash;begged protection<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;for their life;<BR>
+While "The Gypsy Girl" of Franz Hals, fearful of impending fate,<BR>
+Roused "The Shepherds in Arcadia" with "The Hun is at the Gate!"<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Then the panic spread on all sides till the battle of the Marne<BR>
+Solved all danger of the looting, removed all need to warn;<BR>
+Straight "The Lace Maker" from Flemish Bruges in the joyous choral led<BR>
+Smiled at "Charles First of England" who had lost his crown and head;<BR>
+For fear had left the Louvre when the Teutons turned in flight,<BR>
+So they scanned the sky no longer for dread Zeppelins in the night.<BR>
+And the paintings born of centuries touched by genius into life<BR>
+Still are hanging in the Louvre 'mid war's clash and clang and strife.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Edgar Guest.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="bobs"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+"BOBS" OF KANDAHAR<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%">
+"The body of 'Bobs' then lay in state until five o'clock, when it was
+interred in a crypt near-by those containing the bodies of Nelson and
+Wellington."&mdash;<I>Press Despatch</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Who is he that cometh to join our mighty dead?<BR>
+Is it "Bobs" of Kandahar the Empire's armies led?<BR>
+Give him place, O Nation great! within your storied walls;<BR>
+Within our heart his name shall rest, his ashes in St. Paul's.<BR>
+Soldier of the Empire, Bobs of Kandahar!<BR>
+Lay him near the hero of glorious Trafalgar!<BR>
+Death has ta'en the shining sword he aye in duty drew;<BR>
+Lay him near the Iron Duke of fateful Waterloo!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Soldier of the Empire, well thy work was done,<BR>
+Fit thy sun had setting within sound and roar of gun;<BR>
+Thy soul had vision of the years fraught with danger's woe,<BR>
+And counsell'd arméd wisdom against a subtle foe;<BR>
+Now thy task has ended, the splendor of thy sun,<BR>
+Sheds its setting glory on the greater life begun,<BR>
+From where the Maple stands in pride to India's torrid star,<BR>
+Now, mourn an Empire's people for "Bobs" of Kandahar!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Lady Aileen Mary Roberts.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="zeppelin"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+SONG OF THE ZEPPELIN<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I cleave the air through the murky night,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;High o'er the forests and sleeping towns;<BR>
+Below me drifts the shimmering light&mdash;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A glorious fresco on vale and downs;<BR>
+My sea hath no billows nor rocky shores,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And only the winds disturb my soul;<BR>
+I care not for those who slumber in death,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For my bomb is bloody and death my goal&mdash;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And all for the Vaterland!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Where the currents cross and the cruisers speed<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I sail towards the North in a piteous sky;<BR>
+I hear the night wind's surging note<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As it mingles its requiem with the widow's cry.<BR>
+Above me there streams a light from heaven,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But I bow my head and veil my eyes<BR>
+As I plough the fields with my fateful keel<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And sow the highways with tears and sighs&mdash;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And all for the Vaterland!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+And hate is the banner I unfurl so wide<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That its blood-dripp'd folds may catch the breeze;<BR>
+That e'en from the balcony of heaven on high<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;May be seen this banner on all the seas.<BR>
+No triumph of arms is my flight by night,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It is only a part of a murderous raid:<BR>
+Dropping a bomb on an innocent child<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or a crowing babe in its cradle laid&mdash;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And all for the Vaterland!<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Thomas Walsh.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="sock"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+"SOCK IT TO 'EM"<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%">
+"A Canadian lieutenant writes his mother from the front that what he
+most needs for the winter is good warm socks."&mdash;<I>Press Despatch</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Yes, Wilhelm, sure you'll get it,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The storm is o'er your head;<BR>
+It is bursting in the trenches<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And you're just as good as dead.<BR>
+You put your foot on Belgium<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And defied your fate and doom,<BR>
+And now the whole world hates you<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the cry is "Sock it to 'em!"<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+True, your Taubchens still are sailing,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But your battleships are not;<BR>
+They are coop'd up in a corner<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Save the submerg'd ones that fought.<BR>
+You are saving time and fuel,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But you're sad and filled with gloom,<BR>
+For the very winds are whispering<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;"Blow hard and sock it to 'em."<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+You have sought more spacious realm<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the free and genial sun:<BR>
+Has your sceptre widened any<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With the salvo of each gun?<BR>
+Your "World-Power" seems to narrow,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And your hope lies in a tomb,<BR>
+While dark Fate weaves your chaplet<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And whispers "Sock it to 'em!"<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Theodore Botrel.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="langemarck"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+LANGEMARCK<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+A glory lights the skies of Flanders<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where the blood-stained fields lie bare,<BR>
+Where the clouds of war have gathered,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Built their parapets in the air;<BR>
+Halted stands the Teuton army,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Checked its onslaught at a sign;<BR>
+Forward roll the warlike forces,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sons of Canada in line.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Let them taste of Northern courage<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where the lordly maple grows;<BR>
+Let them face the heroes nurtured<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where the stars have wed the snows;<BR>
+We are sons of sires undaunted,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Children of the hills and plains;<BR>
+Ours a courage born of duty,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Pluck and dash of many strains.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Tell it to our children's children<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How Canadians saved the day;<BR>
+Write it with the pen of history,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sing it as a fireside lay;<BR>
+How at Langemarck in Flanders,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Though the odds were eight to one,<BR>
+Our Canadians stood unbroken,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sword to sword, and gun to gun.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Sir Wilfrid Laurier.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="bugle"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE BUGLE CALL<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Do you hear the call of our Mother,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From over the sea, from over the sea?<BR>
+The call to her children, in every land;<BR>
+To her sons on Afric's far-stretch'd veldt;<BR>
+To her dark-skinned children on India's shore,<BR>
+Whose souls are nourish'd on Aryan lore;<BR>
+To her sons of the Northland where frosty stars<BR>
+Glitter and shine like a helmet of Mars;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Do you hear the call of our Mother?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Do you hear the call of our Mother<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From over the sea, from over the sea?<BR>
+The call to Australia's legions strong,<BR>
+That move with the might and stealth of a wave;<BR>
+To the men of the camp and men of the field,<BR>
+Whose courage has taught them never to yield;<BR>
+To the men whose counsel has saved the State,<BR>
+And thwarted the plans of impending fate;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Do you hear the call of our Mother?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Do you hear the call of our Mother<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From over the sea, from over the sea?<BR>
+To the little cot on the wind-swept hill;<BR>
+To the lordly mansion in the city street;<BR>
+To her sons who toil in the forest deep<BR>
+Or bind the sheaves where the reapers reap;<BR>
+To her children scattered far East and West;<BR>
+To her sons who joy in her Freedom Blest;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Do you hear the call of our Mother?<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Major-General Sir Sam Hughes.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="mission"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+HIS MISSION<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P STYLE="margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%">
+"A German will teach Irish at the University of Illinois, beginning in
+February, when Dr. Kuno E. Meyer of the University of Berlin will
+become visiting professor of the Celtic language and
+literature."&mdash;<I>Press Despatch</I>.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Go back, dear Kuno, to the Poles and Alsatians,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And teach them the language your nation has robbed;<BR>
+Piece out their dreams of new glory and freedom;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Bring joy to the hearts where the children have sobbed.<BR>
+We love the old Celtic tongue, vibrant with music,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As it speaks to our hearts thro' the chords of long years,<BR>
+But we don't want your lessons, though laden with "<I>Kultur</I>,"<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;From a land where Alsatians and Poles are in tears.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Go back, Herr Professor, your mission is ended,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For, though your gifts are many, you are "<I>ausgespielt</I>";<BR>
+Go back and receive your "Kreuz von Eisen,"<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;For we don't like the way that you're "<I>ausgebild't</I>."<BR>
+The stars that burn with the true light of freedom,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In this giant new world, with its endless day,<BR>
+Have nothing in common with your satellite planets,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And care not to shine on your Eagle's prey.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Dr. Douglas Hyde.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="achilles"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+ACHILLES' TOMB<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Achilles awoke in his ancient tomb<BR>
+Hard by the coast of Troy;<BR>
+He rattled his armor now full of dust<BR>
+And rubbed his eyes like a boy,<BR>
+As he gazed on the ships of the allied fleet,<BR>
+Ploughing the seas from afar,<BR>
+Bent on their course to the Dardanelles<BR>
+'Neath the light of Victory's star.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"Why, I've been asleep," Achilles said,<BR>
+"On the windy plains of Troy;<BR>
+Three thousand years have turned to dust<BR>
+With their maddening mirth and joy;<BR>
+Yet it seems but a day since Ilium fell,<BR>
+Since Sinon spun out his tale,<BR>
+And the Greeks returned from Tenedos<BR>
+With a light and prosperous gale.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"Three thousand years is a long, long time,<BR>
+But I'll doze for a thousand more;<BR>
+For I'm sick of the bluff of the Teuton hosts<BR>
+And the gas from each army corps.<BR>
+So lay me down in my ancient tomb,<BR>
+Where the Phrygian winds sweep by,<BR>
+And I'll dream of the days when heroes fought,<BR>
+'Round the lofty walls of Troy."<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Very Rev. W. R. Harris, D.D.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chrism"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE CHRISM OF KINGS<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+In the morn of the world, at the daybreak of time,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When Kingdoms were few and Empires unknown,<BR>
+God searched for a Ruler to sceptre the land,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And gather the harvest from the seed He had sown.<BR>
+He found a young Shepherd boy watching his flock<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where the mountains looked down on deep meadows of green;<BR>
+He hailed the young Shepherd boy king of the land<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And anointed his brow with a Chrism unseen.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+He placed in his frail hands the sceptre of power,<BR>
+And taught his young heart all the wisdom of love;<BR>
+He gave him the vision of prophet and priest,<BR>
+And dowered him with counsel and light from above.<BR>
+But alas! came a day when the Shepherd forgot<BR>
+And heaped on his realm all the woes that war brings,<BR>
+And bartering his purple for the greed of his heart<BR>
+He lost both the sceptre and Chrism of Kings.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Miss Katherine Brégy.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="tipperary"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+TIPPERARY<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+(New version.)<BR>
+</H4>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+I'm not going to Tipperary for I've better work to do,<BR>
+I am dreaming of a new device to catch each German crew;<BR>
+And when we've chased them thro' the deep, <I>Ach Gott!</I> what<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;fun there'll be<BR>
+Rounding up the Teuton "subs" in the blue and vasty sea.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So, good-bye, Tipperary! Farewell, Slieve-na-mon!<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I leave you for a season to chase the murderous Hun;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Von Tirpitz knows their hiding-place and I'll find out, too,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've caught each pirate crew.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Then I'll go to Tipperary with its hills of emerald green,<BR>
+Where the skies are full of splendor and each peasant girl a queen;<BR>
+Where the men know naught but honor and where duty is their goal;<BR>
+Where the shadows from the mountains are but sunlight to the soul.<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've rounded up each crew,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then I'll turn my face to greet you for to you I'll e'er be true;<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So I'm off to chase the pirates and the ocean aisles to sweep,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<I>Ach Himmel</I>, Tipperary! there'll be fun upon the deep.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Rev. J. B. Bollard.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="gather"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+GATHER THE HARVEST<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Gather the harvest though reaped in death,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Under the pale, pale moon;<BR>
+For the lilies that joyed in the breath of morn<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shall know not the ardor of noon:<BR>
+So, the souls that grow strong, in patriot love,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Shall be garnered on Death's dark field,<BR>
+Ere the noontide rays have touched the vale<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And burnished with gold life's shield.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+Gather the harvest though reaped in death,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where the sword has struck for Right,<BR>
+And cleft a way for Freedom's path,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Through the dark and tremulous night:<BR>
+For the golden grain on the altar flames<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And lights each pilgrim throng,<BR>
+As they meet in joy 'round that altar bright<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where Justice shall right each wrong.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For Miss Helen Merrill.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="place"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+THE KAISER'S "PLACE IN THE SUN"<BR>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+The Kaiser is seeking "a place in the Sun"<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But I fear he'll have to wait,<BR>
+Till another eclipse has dulled its face<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the Allies have woven his fate:<BR>
+For the "spots" on the Sun are all occupied<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With a race descended from Mars;<BR>
+So there's no place in the heavens for <I>schrecklich</I> Wilhelm,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Not even among the Stars.<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+What boots it, Wilhelm, that your guns are big,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And your Zeppelins soar by night,<BR>
+Since against you are leagued the earth and stars<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And you're sure to lose in the fight.<BR>
+You have drenched the world with heroic blood,<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And stained the record of Man,<BR>
+But you'll presently get your "place in the Sun,"<BR>
+&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Yes, the hottest since time began,<BR>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+<I>For T. J. Murphy.</I><BR>
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR><BR>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Heroic Days, by Thomas O'Hagan
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Heroic Days, by Thomas O'Hagan
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: Songs of Heroic Days
+
+Author: Thomas O'Hagan
+
+Release Date: August 21, 2011 [EBook #37154]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SONGS OF HEROIC DAYS ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Al Haines
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+SONGS OF HEROIC DAYS
+
+
+By
+
+THOMAS O'HAGAN
+
+
+Author of
+
+ A Gate of Flowers
+ In Dreamland
+ Songs of the Settlement
+ In the Heart of the Meadow
+ and Others
+
+
+
+Toronto:
+
+WILLIAM BRIGGS
+
+1916
+
+
+
+
+Copyright, Canada, 1916
+
+by Thomas O'Hagan
+
+
+
+
+ TO THE BRAVE CANADIAN HEARTS
+ THAT BEAT AND BATTLE FOR THE
+ CAUSE OF FREEDOM AND THE SAFETY
+ OF THE EMPIRE.
+
+
+
+
+PREFACE
+
+Nearly all these Poems have appeared during the past year in the
+columns of the _Globe_ and the _Mail_ and _Empire_ of Toronto, and the
+_Free Press_ of Detroit, Michigan.
+
+When the Author read from his poems last winter before the Women's
+Press Club of Toronto one of its members suggested that an engrossed
+and illuminated copy of the poem, "I Take Off My Hat to Albert," be
+presented to His Majesty, King Albert of Belgium. This was done
+through the kind offices and courtesy of Mr. Goor, the Belgian
+Consul-General at Ottawa.
+
+His Majesty's gracious letter of acceptance, which the reader will find
+on another page, is indeed a Royal Foreword to these poetic blossoms of
+a piteous though heroic time.
+
+THOMAS O'HAGAN
+
+January 20th, 1916.
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+ Letter From the King of Belgium
+ Translation
+ I Take Off My Hat to Albert
+ The Kaiser's Favorite Poems
+ Louvain
+ The Kaiser's Bhoys
+ Mothers
+ In the Trenches
+ The Christ-Child
+ God's New Year's Gift
+ Trouble in the Louvre
+ "Bobs" of Kandahar
+ Song of the Zeppelin
+ "Sock it to 'Em"
+ Langemarck
+ The Bugle Call
+ His Mission
+ Achilles' Tomb
+ The Chrism of Kings
+ Tipperary
+ Gather the Harvest
+ The Kaiser's "Place in the Sun"
+
+
+
+
+LETTER FROM THE KING OF BELGIUM
+
+[Illustration: Letter from the King of Belgium]
+
+
+
+TRANSLATION
+
+
+LA PANNE, August 11th, 1915.
+
+OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY TO THE KING AND
+ QUEEN (OF BELGIUM).
+
+SIR:
+
+The very delicate words you have found to express to the King your
+friendly feelings have greatly touched His Majesty.
+
+The Sovereign, Who has much admired the beautiful illumination adorning
+the verses composed in His honor, commands me to thank you sincerely
+and to say that He will be glad to keep this valuable souvenir.
+
+I have the honor to be
+ Sir
+ Your obedient Servant,
+ J. INGENBLEEK,
+ _Secretary._
+
+To DR. THOMAS O'HAGAN,
+ Ottawa.
+
+
+
+
+ I TAKE OFF MY HAT TO ALBERT
+
+ _Albert, King of Belgium, is the hero of the hour;
+ He's the greatest king in Europe, he's a royal arch and tower;
+ He is bigger in the trenches than the Kaiser on his Throne,
+ And the whole world loves him for the sorrows he has known:
+ So I take off my hat to Albert._
+
+ _Defiance was his answer to the Teuton at his gate,
+ Then he buckled on his armor and pledged his soul to fate;
+ He stood between his people and the biggest Essen gun,
+ For he feared not shot nor shrapnel as his little army won:
+ So I take off my hat to Albert._
+
+ _King of Belgium, Duke of Brabant, Count of Flanders, all in one;
+ Little Kingdom of the Belgae starr'd with honor in the sun!
+ You have won a place in history, of your deeds the world will sing,
+ But the glory of your nation is your dust-stained, fearless King:
+ So I take off my hat to Albert._
+
+ _For M. Goor._
+
+
+
+
+ THE KAISER'S FAVORITE POEMS
+
+ What are the Kaiser's favorite poems?
+ Well, now, you tax me hard:
+ I know the Kaiser's favorite drink
+ But do not know his bard;
+ I'm sure it is not Schiller
+ Who reigns in German homes.
+ Nor yet Olympian Goethe,
+ Who writes the Kaiser's poems.
+
+ Perhaps that Heinrich Heine
+ Has touched the Kaiser's soul;
+ Or Arndt with his trumpet call
+ Like a new conscription roll;
+ Or, Walther von der Vogelweide
+ With his nest in mythic domes,
+ Is the author and creator
+ Of the Kaiser's favorite poems.
+
+ If I saw the Kaiser's library
+ I'd know well what he reads--
+ The color of his fancy
+ And the prompter of his deeds:
+ I'd learn the depth and wisdom
+ Of his theories and his gnomes,
+ If I got but just a glance or two
+ At the Kaiser's favorite poems.
+
+ Then let us go to Essen,
+ Where the Kaiser's books are bound;
+ They are full of "steel" engravings--
+ All "best sellers" there are found;
+ For the Prussian soul and spirit
+ Speaks in rhythm thro' those tomes,
+ And these without a question,
+ Are the Kaiser's favorite poems.
+
+ _For Rt. Hon. David Lloyd-George._
+
+
+
+
+ LOUVAIN
+
+ A shrine, where saints and scholars met
+ And held aloft the torch of truth,
+ Lies smouldering 'neath fair Brabant's skies,
+ A ruined heap--war's prize in sooth!
+ The Pilates of Teutonic blood
+ That fired the brand and flung the bomb
+ Now wash their hands of evil deed,
+ While all the world stands ghast and dumb.
+
+ Is this your culture, sons of Kant,
+ And ye who kneel 'round Goethe's throne?
+ To carry in your knapsacks death?
+ To feel for man nor ruth nor moan?
+ What 'vails it now your mighty guns
+ If God be mightier in the sky?
+ What 'vail your cities, walls and towers
+ If half your progress be a lie?
+
+ The smoking altars, ruined arch
+ Of ancient church and Gothic fane
+ Have felt the death stings of your shells,
+ And speak in pity thro' Louvain.
+ Wheel back your guns, your howitzers melt,
+ Forget your "World-Power's" cursed plan
+ And sign in peace and not in blood
+ Dread Sinai's pact 'twixt God and Man.
+
+ _For His Eminence Cardinal Merrier._
+
+
+
+
+ THE KAISER'S BHOYS
+
+ O, the Kaiser's bhoys are marching, "nach Paris" they are going,
+ But they've sthopped to rest a minit at the Marne and at the Meuse;
+ And the Gordons and the Ministers are thryin' to entertain them,
+ For they've every kind of "record" that the Teutons want to choose;
+ They have battle cries that sounded for centuries in the Highlands,
+ They have war cries fierce and stirring as the breath of Munster gales;
+ They are shoutin' to the heavens, and they're shoutin' to the Kaiser,
+ "_Faugh-a-ballagh!_" sons of Odin, or we'll tie you up like bales.
+
+ O, the Kaiser's bhoys are dramin' of a naval base at Calais,
+ But they wakin' ivery mornin' full of sorrow and of gloom;
+ For the little Belgian sojers cut the dykes and flood their trenches,
+ And they find their dugouts only jist a bathtub or a tomb.
+ But they're makin' progress backward, "_nach Berlin_" they are going,
+ With their "_Landsturms_" and their "_Land-wehrs_,"
+ keepin' sthep in dim grey line;
+ And they'll know far more of Britain and her brood of lions snarlin',
+ When they find themselves "_su Hause_" jist beyant
+ "_Die Wacht am Rhein_."
+
+ _For John E. Redmond, M.P._
+
+
+
+
+ MOTHERS
+
+ Through the vigils deep of the sable night
+ A mother sits in grief alone,
+ For her sons have gone to the battle front
+ And left on the hearth a crushing stone.
+ Beyond the stars that burn at night
+ She sees God's arm in pity reach;
+ It counsels patience, love and faith,
+ Heroic hearts and souls to teach.
+
+ The blue is spann'd and the tide goes out.
+ And the stars rain down a kindlier cheer;
+ And the mother turns from this throne of grief
+ To pierce the years with a joyous tear;
+ For duty born of a mother's heart
+ Fills all the rounds of our common day--
+ Yea, sheds its joy in the darkest night,
+ And fills with light each hidden way.
+
+ _For Miss Ina Coolbrith._
+
+
+
+
+ IN THE TRENCHES
+
+ All day the guns belched fire and death
+ And filled the hours with gloom;
+ The fateful music smote the sky
+ In tremulous bars of doom;
+ But as the evening stars came forth
+ A truce to death and strife,
+ There rose from hearts of patriot love
+ A tender song of life.
+
+ A song of home and fireside
+ Swelled on the evening air,
+ And men forgot their battle line,
+ Its carnage and dark care;
+ The soldier dropp'd his rifle
+ And joined the choral song,
+ As high above the tide of war
+ It swept and pulsed along.
+
+ That night while sleeping where the stars
+ Look down upon the Meuse,
+ Where Teuton valor coped with Frank,
+ Where rained most deadly dews,
+ A soldier youth, in khaki clad,
+ Rock'd where the maples grow,
+ Smiled in his dream and saw again
+ The blue St. Lawrence flow.
+
+ _For Miss Julia O'Sullivan._
+
+
+
+
+ THE CHRIST-CHILD
+
+ Across the waste, across the snow,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Past sentinel of friend and foe
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Comes the Christ-Child clad in white
+ Through the storm-clouds of the night.
+ Bearing in His lily hands
+ Gift of peace to warring lands,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+
+ "_Adeste fideles!_" sing the choirs
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Lurid flame the battle fires
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Shepherds hear the heavenly song,
+ Mid the strife and piteous wrong;
+ Peace on earth but not of men,
+ Peace that knows not crime nor sin.
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+
+ Lay your sceptres at His feet,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Christ, the Babe of Bethlehem, greet,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+ Legions stretched in battle line,
+ Saw the star and knew the sign,
+ Yet forgot that Christ was born
+ Prince of Peace, on Christmas morn,
+ O the pity! O the pity!
+
+ Christmas, 1914.
+
+ For Mrs. George McIntyre.
+
+
+
+
+ GOD'S NEW YEAR'S GIFT
+
+ What shall the coming year bring forth,
+ O Lord, who rulest the land?
+ For the navies of the sea and air
+ Are but stubble in Thy hand.
+ The battalions in the field go forth;
+ They arm in mighty line;
+ Do they kneel to know Thy holy will?
+ Have they asked from Thee a sign?
+
+ The kings invoke Thy holy name,
+ In their carnage and their strife;
+ But the purple gift it was Thine to give
+ Recks not of pity nor life:
+ For they're drunk with the wine of lustful power,
+ And seared with the sins of earth;
+ And their prayers and preachments now mock Thy name,
+ And make of Thy laws but mirth.
+
+ January 1, 1916.
+
+ _For Duncan Campbell Scott._
+
+
+
+
+ TROUBLE IN THE LOUVRE
+
+ When the German troops were marching with the Uhlans far ahead,
+ The objective point being Paris, as the Berlin wireless said,
+ There was trouble in the Louvre, 'mong the paintings on the walls,
+ There were shoutings 'cross the centuries, there were
+ loud artistic calls;
+ "Mona Lisa" ceased her smiling and "The Banker and His Wife"
+ Turned to Millet's "Women Gleaning"--begged protection
+ for their life;
+ While "The Gypsy Girl" of Franz Hals, fearful of impending fate,
+ Roused "The Shepherds in Arcadia" with "The Hun is at the Gate!"
+
+ Then the panic spread on all sides till the battle of the Marne
+ Solved all danger of the looting, removed all need to warn;
+ Straight "The Lace Maker" from Flemish Bruges in the joyous choral led
+ Smiled at "Charles First of England" who had lost his crown and head;
+ For fear had left the Louvre when the Teutons turned in flight,
+ So they scanned the sky no longer for dread Zeppelins in the night.
+ And the paintings born of centuries touched by genius into life
+ Still are hanging in the Louvre 'mid war's clash and clang and strife.
+
+ _For Edgar Guest._
+
+
+
+
+ "BOBS" OF KANDAHAR
+
+"The body of 'Bobs' then lay in state until five o'clock, when it was
+interred in a crypt near-by those containing the bodies of Nelson and
+Wellington."--_Press Despatch_.
+
+
+ Who is he that cometh to join our mighty dead?
+ Is it "Bobs" of Kandahar the Empire's armies led?
+ Give him place, O Nation great! within your storied walls;
+ Within our heart his name shall rest, his ashes in St. Paul's.
+ Soldier of the Empire, Bobs of Kandahar!
+ Lay him near the hero of glorious Trafalgar!
+ Death has ta'en the shining sword he aye in duty drew;
+ Lay him near the Iron Duke of fateful Waterloo!
+
+ Soldier of the Empire, well thy work was done,
+ Fit thy sun had setting within sound and roar of gun;
+ Thy soul had vision of the years fraught with danger's woe,
+ And counsell'd armed wisdom against a subtle foe;
+ Now thy task has ended, the splendor of thy sun,
+ Sheds its setting glory on the greater life begun,
+ From where the Maple stands in pride to India's torrid star,
+ Now, mourn an Empire's people for "Bobs" of Kandahar!
+
+ _For Lady Aileen Mary Roberts._
+
+
+
+
+ SONG OF THE ZEPPELIN
+
+ I cleave the air through the murky night,
+ High o'er the forests and sleeping towns;
+ Below me drifts the shimmering light--
+ A glorious fresco on vale and downs;
+ My sea hath no billows nor rocky shores,
+ And only the winds disturb my soul;
+ I care not for those who slumber in death,
+ For my bomb is bloody and death my goal--
+ And all for the Vaterland!
+
+ Where the currents cross and the cruisers speed
+ I sail towards the North in a piteous sky;
+ I hear the night wind's surging note
+ As it mingles its requiem with the widow's cry.
+ Above me there streams a light from heaven,
+ But I bow my head and veil my eyes
+ As I plough the fields with my fateful keel
+ And sow the highways with tears and sighs--
+ And all for the Vaterland!
+
+ And hate is the banner I unfurl so wide
+ That its blood-dripp'd folds may catch the breeze;
+ That e'en from the balcony of heaven on high
+ May be seen this banner on all the seas.
+ No triumph of arms is my flight by night,
+ It is only a part of a murderous raid:
+ Dropping a bomb on an innocent child
+ Or a crowing babe in its cradle laid--
+ And all for the Vaterland!
+
+ _For Thomas Walsh._
+
+
+
+
+ "SOCK IT TO 'EM"
+
+"A Canadian lieutenant writes his mother from the front that what he
+most needs for the winter is good warm socks."--_Press Despatch_.
+
+
+ Yes, Wilhelm, sure you'll get it,
+ The storm is o'er your head;
+ It is bursting in the trenches
+ And you're just as good as dead.
+ You put your foot on Belgium
+ And defied your fate and doom,
+ And now the whole world hates you
+ And the cry is "Sock it to 'em!"
+
+ True, your Taubchens still are sailing,
+ But your battleships are not;
+ They are coop'd up in a corner
+ Save the submerg'd ones that fought.
+ You are saving time and fuel,
+ But you're sad and filled with gloom,
+ For the very winds are whispering
+ "Blow hard and sock it to 'em."
+
+ You have sought more spacious realm
+ In the free and genial sun:
+ Has your sceptre widened any
+ With the salvo of each gun?
+ Your "World-Power" seems to narrow,
+ And your hope lies in a tomb,
+ While dark Fate weaves your chaplet
+ And whispers "Sock it to 'em!"
+
+ _For Theodore Botrel._
+
+
+
+
+ LANGEMARCK
+
+ A glory lights the skies of Flanders
+ Where the blood-stained fields lie bare,
+ Where the clouds of war have gathered,
+ Built their parapets in the air;
+ Halted stands the Teuton army,
+ Checked its onslaught at a sign;
+ Forward roll the warlike forces,
+ Sons of Canada in line.
+
+ Let them taste of Northern courage
+ Where the lordly maple grows;
+ Let them face the heroes nurtured
+ Where the stars have wed the snows;
+ We are sons of sires undaunted,
+ Children of the hills and plains;
+ Ours a courage born of duty,
+ Pluck and dash of many strains.
+
+ Tell it to our children's children
+ How Canadians saved the day;
+ Write it with the pen of history,
+ Sing it as a fireside lay;
+ How at Langemarck in Flanders,
+ Though the odds were eight to one,
+ Our Canadians stood unbroken,
+ Sword to sword, and gun to gun.
+
+ _For Sir Wilfrid Laurier._
+
+
+
+
+ THE BUGLE CALL
+
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother,
+ From over the sea, from over the sea?
+ The call to her children, in every land;
+ To her sons on Afric's far-stretch'd veldt;
+ To her dark-skinned children on India's shore,
+ Whose souls are nourish'd on Aryan lore;
+ To her sons of the Northland where frosty stars
+ Glitter and shine like a helmet of Mars;
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother?
+
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother
+ From over the sea, from over the sea?
+ The call to Australia's legions strong,
+ That move with the might and stealth of a wave;
+ To the men of the camp and men of the field,
+ Whose courage has taught them never to yield;
+ To the men whose counsel has saved the State,
+ And thwarted the plans of impending fate;
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother?
+
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother
+ From over the sea, from over the sea?
+ To the little cot on the wind-swept hill;
+ To the lordly mansion in the city street;
+ To her sons who toil in the forest deep
+ Or bind the sheaves where the reapers reap;
+ To her children scattered far East and West;
+ To her sons who joy in her Freedom Blest;
+ Do you hear the call of our Mother?
+
+ _For Major-General Sir Sam Hughes._
+
+
+
+
+ HIS MISSION
+
+"A German will teach Irish at the University of Illinois, beginning in
+February, when Dr. Kuno E. Meyer of the University of Berlin will
+become visiting professor of the Celtic language and
+literature."--_Press Despatch_.
+
+
+ Go back, dear Kuno, to the Poles and Alsatians,
+ And teach them the language your nation has robbed;
+ Piece out their dreams of new glory and freedom;
+ Bring joy to the hearts where the children have sobbed.
+ We love the old Celtic tongue, vibrant with music,
+ As it speaks to our hearts thro' the chords of long years,
+ But we don't want your lessons, though laden with "_Kultur_,"
+ From a land where Alsatians and Poles are in tears.
+
+ Go back, Herr Professor, your mission is ended,
+ For, though your gifts are many, you are "_ausgespielt_";
+ Go back and receive your "Kreuz von Eisen,"
+ For we don't like the way that you're "_ausgebild't_."
+ The stars that burn with the true light of freedom,
+ In this giant new world, with its endless day,
+ Have nothing in common with your satellite planets,
+ And care not to shine on your Eagle's prey.
+
+ _For Dr. Douglas Hyde._
+
+
+
+
+ ACHILLES' TOMB
+
+ Achilles awoke in his ancient tomb
+ Hard by the coast of Troy;
+ He rattled his armor now full of dust
+ And rubbed his eyes like a boy,
+ As he gazed on the ships of the allied fleet,
+ Ploughing the seas from afar,
+ Bent on their course to the Dardanelles
+ 'Neath the light of Victory's star.
+
+ "Why, I've been asleep," Achilles said,
+ "On the windy plains of Troy;
+ Three thousand years have turned to dust
+ With their maddening mirth and joy;
+ Yet it seems but a day since Ilium fell,
+ Since Sinon spun out his tale,
+ And the Greeks returned from Tenedos
+ With a light and prosperous gale.
+
+ "Three thousand years is a long, long time,
+ But I'll doze for a thousand more;
+ For I'm sick of the bluff of the Teuton hosts
+ And the gas from each army corps.
+ So lay me down in my ancient tomb,
+ Where the Phrygian winds sweep by,
+ And I'll dream of the days when heroes fought,
+ 'Round the lofty walls of Troy."
+
+ _For Very Rev. W. R. Harris, D.D._
+
+
+
+
+ THE CHRISM OF KINGS
+
+ In the morn of the world, at the daybreak of time,
+ When Kingdoms were few and Empires unknown,
+ God searched for a Ruler to sceptre the land,
+ And gather the harvest from the seed He had sown.
+ He found a young Shepherd boy watching his flock
+ Where the mountains looked down on deep meadows of green;
+ He hailed the young Shepherd boy king of the land
+ And anointed his brow with a Chrism unseen.
+
+ He placed in his frail hands the sceptre of power,
+ And taught his young heart all the wisdom of love;
+ He gave him the vision of prophet and priest,
+ And dowered him with counsel and light from above.
+ But alas! came a day when the Shepherd forgot
+ And heaped on his realm all the woes that war brings,
+ And bartering his purple for the greed of his heart
+ He lost both the sceptre and Chrism of Kings.
+
+ _For Miss Katherine Bregy._
+
+
+
+
+ TIPPERARY
+
+ (New version.)
+
+ I'm not going to Tipperary for I've better work to do,
+ I am dreaming of a new device to catch each German crew;
+ And when we've chased them thro' the deep, _Ach Gott!_ what
+ fun there'll be
+ Rounding up the Teuton "subs" in the blue and vasty sea.
+ So, good-bye, Tipperary! Farewell, Slieve-na-mon!
+ I leave you for a season to chase the murderous Hun;
+ Von Tirpitz knows their hiding-place and I'll find out, too,
+ So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've caught each pirate crew.
+
+ Then I'll go to Tipperary with its hills of emerald green,
+ Where the skies are full of splendor and each peasant girl a queen;
+ Where the men know naught but honor and where duty is their goal;
+ Where the shadows from the mountains are but sunlight to the soul.
+ So, good-bye, Tipperary, till we've rounded up each crew,
+ Then I'll turn my face to greet you for to you I'll e'er be true;
+ So I'm off to chase the pirates and the ocean aisles to sweep,
+ _Ach Himmel_, Tipperary! there'll be fun upon the deep.
+
+ _For Rev. J. B. Bollard._
+
+
+
+
+ GATHER THE HARVEST
+
+ Gather the harvest though reaped in death,
+ Under the pale, pale moon;
+ For the lilies that joyed in the breath of morn
+ Shall know not the ardor of noon:
+ So, the souls that grow strong, in patriot love,
+ Shall be garnered on Death's dark field,
+ Ere the noontide rays have touched the vale
+ And burnished with gold life's shield.
+
+ Gather the harvest though reaped in death,
+ Where the sword has struck for Right,
+ And cleft a way for Freedom's path,
+ Through the dark and tremulous night:
+ For the golden grain on the altar flames
+ And lights each pilgrim throng,
+ As they meet in joy 'round that altar bright
+ Where Justice shall right each wrong.
+
+ _For Miss Helen Merrill._
+
+
+
+
+ THE KAISER'S "PLACE IN THE SUN"
+
+ The Kaiser is seeking "a place in the Sun"
+ But I fear he'll have to wait,
+ Till another eclipse has dulled its face
+ And the Allies have woven his fate:
+ For the "spots" on the Sun are all occupied
+ With a race descended from Mars;
+ So there's no place in the heavens for _schrecklich_ Wilhelm,
+ Not even among the Stars.
+
+ What boots it, Wilhelm, that your guns are big,
+ And your Zeppelins soar by night,
+ Since against you are leagued the earth and stars
+ And you're sure to lose in the fight.
+ You have drenched the world with heroic blood,
+ And stained the record of Man,
+ But you'll presently get your "place in the Sun,"
+ Yes, the hottest since time began,
+
+ _For T. J. Murphy._
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Songs of Heroic Days, by Thomas O'Hagan
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