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diff --git a/old/64565-0.txt b/old/64565-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index db78a60..0000000 --- a/old/64565-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1660 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of A happy New Year, and other verses, by C. E. -de la Poer Beresford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: A happy New Year, and other verses - -Author: C. E. de la Poer Beresford - -Release Date: February 15, 2021 [eBook #64565] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HAPPY NEW YEAR, AND OTHER -VERSES *** - - - - - A HAPPY NEW YEAR - - AND OTHER VERSES - - - - - A Happy New Year - AND OTHER VERSES - - BY - C. E. DE LA POER BERESFORD - - ETON COLLEGE - SPOTTISWOODE & CO., LTD. - 1913 - - - TO MY DEAR WIFE - -OLD PLACE, 1913 - - _My thanks are due to the Editors, “Blackwood’s Magazine,” “Country - Life,” “The Londonderry Sentinel,” for their kindness in allowing - me to reprint verses that have appeared in their publications._ - - - - -Contents - - - PAGE - -A Happy New Year 1 - -Cradle Song 2 - -Queen Tamar’s Castle 3 - -Ulster’s Prayer 4 - -Dark Donegal 5 - -Hy-Brasail 7 - -Bálor of the Great Blows 9 - -The Garden 11 - -A Song of Spring 12 - -The Miráge on Kizil Koom 13 - -A Dream of Samarkánd 15 - -At Santa Sophia, Constantinople 21 - -The Hill Cities 22 - -Florence from San Miniato 23 - -The Thames 24 - -In Te, Domine, spero 26 - -To Miss X. de C. on her Birthday 27 - -Londonderry City Election, 1885 28 - -Londonderry City Election, 1913 29 - -To M. S. 30 - -The Song of Timùr the Lame 31 - -Catullus, Carmina xxxi., l. 12 to end 32 - -Catullus, Carmina lxxvi. (Si qua recordanti) 33 - -The Fisherman’s Dream 34 - -The Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers at Pieters’, February, 1900 36 - -Senlac 39 - -Christmas-tide 46 - - - - -A Happy New Year. - - - To the young, to the brave and the strong, - Before whom the future outspreads - As a board all light-handed to sweep, - The unknown, and the right and the wrong, - A Happy New Year! - - To the good, to the tender and true, - Who have stood by our side on the path - Of life’s follies and troubles and cares, - The path that we all must pursue, - A Happy New Year! - - For the old, for the frail and the weak, - To whom mem’ry calls up in a dream - The never attained _might have been_, - We with love and affection bespeak - A Happy New Year! - - - - -Cradle Song. - -(_Imitated from the Russian._) - - - Sleep! Babyónka,[A] sleep! - By thy side Bábochka[B] watches. - Round the house the wind blows high, - Soars the eagle in the sky, - Hark, I hear the woodcock cry. - Sleep, my darling, sleep! - O’er thy slumbers Saints are watching. - - Sleep! Babyónka, sleep! - Bábochka will rock thy cradle. - Wind that rushes through the trees, - Eagle soaring o’er the breeze, - Woodcock whistling in the reeds,[C] - Bring my darling sleep! - Babyónka dear, the Saints are watching. - - Sleep! my darling, sleep! - Bábochka Babyónka watches. - Wind and eagle, woodcock brown, - All of them come rushing down - To the cot where baby slumbers. - They have brought Babyónka sleep. - O’er thy slumbers Saints are watching. - - - - -Queen Thamar’s Castle. - -(_Translated from Lermontof._) - - - In Dariel’s rocky gorges deep, - Where Terek’s water madly moves, - There is a castle on the steep, - The scene of Queen Tamára’s loves. - She seemed to play an angel’s part; - Black as a demon’s was her heart. - - The weary traveller from below - Looked on Tamára’s window-glow, - And gazing on the twinkling light, - Went in to sup and pass the night. - - But as the rays of rosy dawn - Gilded the mountains in the morn, - Silence fell on Tamára’s halls, - And Terek’s madly rushing wave - A mangled corpse bore to its grave. - - - - -Ulster’s Prayer. - - - O God, who once in ages past - Savedst from the fierce Red Sea - And Ramses’ chariots following fast - Thy sons who sang to Thee: - Turn Thee again, Lord of the Saints, - Unto our suppliant side, - Who humbly beg Thy help against - Those who Thy faith deride. - - ’Gainst those who that pure faith can turn - To dogma harsh and strict, - From which all who its errors spurn - Are cast off derelict; - We, as our fathers prayed before, - Fighting for faith and home, - Beseech Thee for Thy help once more - Against the wiles of Rome. - - - - -Dark Donegal. - - - The ocean is dashing - Its waves o’er the strand - That shelters Sheep Haven - With hillocks of sand. - M‘Swyne’s Gun is winding - His horn o’er the lea, - Atlantic is grinding - The dust of the sea. - - It cuts from the fields, - Lough, haven, and bay, - And dark Donegal yields - To its constant sword-play.[D] - Through infinite inlets - It pours willy-nilly, - Into Ness and Mulroy, - Sheep Haven and Swilly. - - Atlantic was born - Bluff, boisterous, coy; - It may storm at the Horn - When it coos at Mulroy. - The ocean is silent, - Or noisy or sullen; - It may sleep at Melmore, - Or rage at Rathmullan. - - The ghosts of Saldanha[E] - Still walk at Port Salon; - The bones of the Spaniards - Lie deep off the Aran. - In spite of these mem’ries, - Or because of them all, - The breeze carries gladness - Over dark Donegal. - -Dunfanaghy, September 2, 1913. - - - - -Hy-Brasail. - - - Near where Horn its dark head - Rears o’er the deep ocean, - And the sea-birds whirl round - In a constant commotion, - Where loving Atlantic - Outstretches its arms, - Four islands romantic - Lie, lost in their charms. - - The farthest is Tory, - Rough, rocky and stern, - Inishbeg, Inishbofin, - Inishdoe, as you turn - Your rapt gaze to the west, - Orange, rose-red, or grey, - Stretch, three islands at rest - In the calm of the bay. - - And beyond them, most blest - Of a realm without guile, - In the sunshine and rest - Lies Hy-Brasail, the isle - Of the angels and saints, - So lovely and dim, - Where the sea’s white foam breaks - On its far distant rim. - - The peasant who heard of - This wonderful isle - Set sail to the west - With a confident smile. - The dream of Hy-Brasail - Within his heart burned, - He was lost in the sea - And never returned. - -Londonderry, September 10, 1913. - - - - -Bálor of the Great Blows. - - - Have ye read of the past in folios at Dublin - Of Firwolgs, and of Pechts, and of red-headed Danes, - And Fomors from Tory, who people went troublin’, - Stealing woman and child, binding Irish in chains? - - Well, ’tis of these wild times and Ulster romantic, - O’erspread by dark forests through which the elk called, - And of rude pagan tribes, some dwarf, some gigantic, - That I tell in this rhyme so poor and so bald. - - In a deep gloomy glen near Muckish’s mountain, - Where the mist rolls in clouds and the waterfalls foam, - From out of the cloud-rack, as out of a fountain; - Himself saw a quare sight as he rode his horse home. - - In the glen at the mouth of a black souterrain - (Where Crocknálarágagh looks down upon Tory, - The island where Bálor of the Great Blows did reign) - Shane O’Dugan beheld what I tell in my story. - - A woman as lovely as dead Ethné the Fair, - With twelve ladies in waiting all clothed in gold, - The Chief, MacKineely, and a boy with red hair, - Came out the cave-dwelling and walked o’er the fold. - - Now the red-pate is changed into Bálor the King, - All bent on the murder of brave MacKineely; - And although through the valley his daughter’s shrieks ring, - He cuts off his head on the stone Clough-an-neely. - - Fierce King Bálor would fain kill his young grandsons too, - But the Princess resolves with her children to fly, - And the eldest grows into a young farrier, who - Thrusts a red-heated iron in Bálor’s one eye. - - The wounded King calls to his one grandson, “Asthore!” - Whilst forth from the sore wound rushes water like oil, - From Falcarragh the whole way right up to Gweedore, - Till it forms a lough three times as deep as Lough Foyle! - - - - -The Garden. - - - I know a garden sheltered from the north - And east by lichened walls and stately trees - Facing the south in rows are bursting forth - Masses of bright flowers, fertilised by bees; - In it from early morn, with spade and hoe, - A good man trenches, digs, and plants, that things may grow. - - I would my mind were like that garden fair-- - A fruitful soil touched by the spade of God! - No weeds of prejudice might grow up there, - No tares of ignorance disgrace the sod, - But Wisdom, glad of such a soil and ground, - Would plant her flowers therein--to scatter fragrance round. - -1904 - - - - -A Song of Spring. - - - It was Spring, joyous Spring, - When each bud had just unfolden, - From its bursting calyx golden, - All the greenery of Spring, - When I heard the cuckoo sing, - Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! - - It was Spring, joyous Spring, - When the shepherd on the wold, - Having tended well the fold, - Saw the meek-eyed ewes well-sheltered - ’Gainst the hail and rain that peltered - On the downs, in the Spring! - - It was Spring, joyous Spring, - And the black thorn and the white, - Breaking forth from out the night - And the dark of Winter’s gloom, - Raced the chestnuts into bloom - With the leaves, in gentle Spring. - - It was Spring, joyous Spring, - When from bush and bough and tree - Burst a song of joy to Thee, - Who hast made the lark that singeth, - And the earth whose produce bringeth - Forth in Spring: - When I heard the cuckoo sing, - Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo! - -April, 1896. - - - - -The Miráge on Kizil Koom. - - - Where the hot sun o’er Caspian’s reedy shore - In a red ball of fire descends in gloom, - I trod the desert’s silent, sandy floor, - Called by the Turkománs the Kizil Koom. - - No grass, no flower relieves the rusty sheen, - Perhaps an antelope goes rushing through - The rare sage-brush; no water there is seen, - Save where the fell miráge distracts the view. - - And that miráge! At first a little cloud, - From which green trees and silvery lakes arise, - Where white felucca sails deceive the crowd - Of weary travellers, and fool their eyes. - - Ah! what art thou, miráge? What have I seen? - “I am the many things of which you dream” - “At morn of life, but never hold at e’en.” - “I am the hopes with which your fancies teem!” - - “I am the scholar’s prize, the high degree;” - “The sword of steel at side, the fox’s brush;” - “The little cross of bronze, the prized V.C.;” - “The thundering sound of steeds, the warrior’s rush!” - - “I am the heart’s desire, the lover bold;” - I am the silken gown, the judge’s chair - I am the battle won; the book well sold - Coronet; Ermine! Castle in the air!” - - Ah! Kizil Koom, Red Sand, what more dost say - In thy miráge to travellers o’er thy floor? - “I teach content to those who through the way - Of life well spent have passed, and dream no more.” - - - - -A Dream of Samarkánd. - - - Between the mountains of Alai - And Tian-Shan’s heavenly chain - Lies the home of the Zagatai, - Fergána’s fruitful plain. - First of the towns whose domes and wall - Deck that illustrious land - Stands the lame Timùr’s capital, - His best-loved Samarkánd. - - I stood inside a shattered room, - Stricken by earthquakes rife, - That Timùr raised above the tomb - Of Ming’s fair daughter-wife. - Daughter of China’s Bógdu-Khan, - Wife of the great Timùr, - Who ’twixt them ruled the vast inland - From Red Sea to Amùr. - - Above an arch a double dome - Bites in the clear blue sky - (Bramanté’s famous fane at Rome - Seems scarce so broad and high). - Above the dome a crescent bright - Watched sleepy Samarkánd, - Asleep to-day, but wide awake - When Timùr ruled the land. - - Sure, such a tomb was never raised - By widower to wife! - Nor Akhbar brave nor Shah Jehán - Did thus weld bricks to life. - The Tâj, in marble shining bright - By Agra’s sun-baked walls, - Must yield the palm for sheer delight - To Bibi-Khánim’s halls. - - The sun shines through the double dome, - Lighting its inner skin, - It shows the remnant of the stair - That upwards led within, - From which the muezzin, climbing slow, - To shout the evening prayer, - Could see the Rigistán below, - Shir-Dár and Tilla-Kare. - - I seemed to see the cliffs at Kesh, - Whence came the great Amìr, - From whose red rift the Zarafshán - Sends forth its waters clear. - I seemed to see the Tatar horde, - Under Toktámish brave, - Beaten and drowning in the ford - That crosses Kubán’s wave. - - I saw the Mogul army move - To conquer Hindostán; - Its serried, strong divisions prove - The master mind of man. - Ninety-two thousand fretting steeds - Rush down from hill to plain; - Timùr descends the khud by ropes, - Five times let down again. - - The Mongols march upon Attock - And cross the rivers five, - Timùr joins forces at Multán - With all his sons alive; - His armies then invest Batnir, - They come to Delhi’s towers, - Mahmud Sultán gives battle there, - Timùr his standard lowers. - - Asia, from Irtish to Ormùz - O’er-run by Timùr’s bands, - Irán, Turán and Ind had felt - The weight of Mongol hands. - Aleppo taken by the horde, - Timùr fresh laurels culls, - And covers Baghdad’s reeking sward - With pyramids of skulls. - - Now on Angóra’s fateful plain - The “Lightning” Bayazet - Urges his Turks to fight, in vain, - ’Gainst Mongol and kismet. - ’Twas told that Bayazet was caged - Just like a timid deer, - But Timùr never warfare waged - On captives of his spear. - - From all these scenes of lust and blood - I turn to Samarkánd, - Where Zarafshán’s refreshing flood - Gives life unto the land. - Here Timùr mosque and palace built - Around a sheltered pool, - Set in a field with arbours gilt, - And called it Khân-i-Gùl. - - Thousands of guests were bid to share - The great Amìr’s largesse, - The Guilds and Trades were gathered there, - The wronged received redress. - Here, in his coat of mail of steel, - Timùr, ’midst his sepoys, - From Russ, and France, and far Castille, - Received the Grand Envoys. - - Six grandsons of the Great Amìr - Wed brides of princely rank, - Nine times the brides their dresses change, - Nine times their handmaids thank. - Each time each bride is fresh arrayed, - Fall to the ground in showers - Rubies and diamonds, which the maid - Keeps as her bridal flowers! - - I see Timùr, one boot, one glove, - And with his lint-white hair, - Delighted on his chess-board move - Fifty-six pieces fair. - The blood-red ruby in his ear - Trembles before my view, - But when his rage the stone shakes there, - ’Fore God! the world shakes too. - - At last the Mogul Emperor - Invades far-off Cathay, - He starts, the tired conqueror, - Marching ten miles a day, - Crosses Syr-Dária’s solid stream, - And stops at Otrár, when - He sees the blade of Àzrael gleam - At three-score years and ten. - - Come with me to the Gùr-Amir, - Within whose simple walls - Over a six-foot block of jade - A horsehair standard falls. - Beneath the dark and polished stone - Descends a bare brick stair, - Leading to Tamerlane’s own tomb, - Nor pomp nor state is there. - - Beneath the fluted, darkened dome, - Where dimly seen in gloom, - Surrounded by an Arab text, - Hangs Timùr’s tattered plume, - Outside the simple marble rail - Engraved with Timùr’s name, - The passing pilgrim cannot fail - To muse on Timùr’s fame. - - - - -At Santa Sophia, Constantinople. - -(_A Fragment._) - - - There is the altar, there is the wall, - Disfigured by Méhemet’s hand: - We should raise the Cross of Christ in the hall - Where the Turkish banners stand; - And the tones of “Te Deum,” quenched in blood, - Should resound again in the land. - - - - -The Hill Cities. - - - All along the line of mountains - That begin at Narni’s towers, - Stand the grey and brown hill cities, - ’Midst the sunshine and the showers. - Each a tower of strength itself, - Well walled and machicolated, - Or for Ghibelline or Guelph, - Each ’twixt each interpolated; - Now for Kaiser, now for Pope, - Narni, Terni, and Spoleto. - From its crag or hilly slope - Tremi faces Montefalco, - By Topino sits Foligno, - Assisi of the stony street, - Almost at its base is Spello - Where the chalk and limestone meet. - Here the rain-clouds veil the mountain, - Here the sunbeams chase the sleet, - And the rivers fill the fountain - Grey in proud Perugia’s street. - -Perugia, April, 1912. - - - - -Florence from San Miniato. - - - Beneath my feet the smokeless city fair: - Duomo and Giotto’s noble tower arise - Like sentinels o’er Florence! In the air - Something, not mist, but silvery vapour, lies. - - Up a steep hill climbs famous Fiésole - From out the dark woods of Domenico, - Close to Arno’s bank is Santa Crocé, - Where lies at rest great Michael Angelo. - - And through the landscape, winding softly there, - Arno betwixt his buttressed banks doth run - Solemn and silent, steely bright and fair, - Towards Carrara’s rocks, and setting sun. - - - - -The Thames. - - - I love thy banks the best, O silent Thames, - At morning time, - When fogs steal o’er them, and with ruddy flames - The still weak sun - Bursts, now and then, at moments through the mist - And sudden flies, - Leaving the landscape which his beams have kissed, - Cold and forlorn; - And then, again returning to the fight, - The God of morn - Dispels the clouds, and bathes in trembling light - Thy banks so gay. - Or struggling with the clouds, now here, now there, - O’erpowers them, and ushers in the day. - - I love thy banks again, O merry Thames, - Ambient and gay, - When lowing herds graze in thy meads, or lie - With whisk of tail - In the long grass, half hidden by the glazed - And heated air, - And chew the cud half-silent or half-dazed. - How deadly still - Is the full tide of noon, when beasts and birds - Alike repose, - And from the sullen shade not e’en a bee - Or dragon-fly - Breaks the hour’s silence! Then the cirrus clouds, - Wind-chas’d and heavy, roll or stagger by. - - I love thy banks at all times, silver Thames, - But certes the least - When huge waves suddenly immerse their sides, - And from the East, - With sound of harp, or flute, and megaphones, - Young men and maids - On steamers Allah’s Holy Name invoke - In raucous tones - No Moslem knows, and call me curious names, - And drink, and smoke - Not nargiléhs, but strong cigars, whose whiff - Borne on the air, - Shocks my olfactory nerves, and makes me sick, - Sick of them all, the Thames, the whole affair! - - - - -In Te, Domine, spero. - - - ’Tis said that as the sinner dies - Around him hover shadowy forms, - Reflecting in his glassy eyes - Some cloudy visions in Death’s storms. - - When on the hard-fought battle plain - Gushes forth hot the bright red blood - From out the bullet wound’s blue stain, - With throbs that show the arterial flood; - - The shadowy forms may still be near - Just where his body stains the sod, - As sure of death but void of fear - The man commends his soul to God. - - The half-forgotten youthful days, - His father’s voice, his mother’s tears, - Come back to him as whilst he prays - Dark Azraël’s rustling wings he hears. - - Lost and forgotten, far from home - (The stretcher-bearers pass him by) - He dies alone: no, not alone, - The shadowy forms are watching nigh. - - So ends the sinner. As he dies - The shadowy forms (his own good deeds) - Are wafted onward to the skies - To plead for him in heavenly meads. - - - - -To Miss X. de C. on her Birthday. - - - O’er this your natal day may angels watch and love preside, - Your path with flowers be strewn and all betide - To make your ways below, in joy begun, - Run on through smiling fields till life be done. - - - - -Londonderry City Election, 1885. - -Chas. E. Lewis, Q.C. (C.) 1824. -Justin McCarthy (P.) 1795. - - - To the black North, to Derry fair, a great “Historian” came, - Backed by the strength of all his clan, by Parnell’s mighty name, - His was the task, by wiles or force, to wrest the Virgin Crown - From the proud city by the Foyle, of siege’s great renown. - In vain the Separatist force, for naught their trumpets blown, - Derry has shown that she prefers a “history” of her own! - -Coblentz, December 1885. - - - - -Londonderry City Election, 1913. - - Hogg (N.) 2699. -Colonel Pakenham (C.) 2642. - - - Flow, Foyle, full of tears, not water, on to the main, - Past the wreck of the Boom, past Culmore, past MacGilligan, - Take to the ocean, wind-swept and wave-tossed, - Our story of pain. - - Close gates, so heavy and ancient, brave Prentice boys, - Shut out the sea, shut off England, shut out the Union. - Shut out all links with our Empire, our trade and communion, - Our hopes and our joys! - - Blow, black from the North, cold wind from Malin Head! - Take to our comrades in Leinster, in Connacht, in Munster, - The tale of our struggle, our work, our disaster - Our honour is dead. - -January 31, 1913. - - - - -To M. S. - -(_A Fragment._) - - - Sappho, your wild songs to the wind, - The wild west wind, - Recall an island to my mind, - All mist-enshrined, - Girt round with waves that break with force, - Fearful, yet kind. - - Sappho, your sad songs to the sea, - The southern sea, - Bring back sweet mem’ries of the waves, - The waves to me, - And wild swans flying o’er the white - Sands, by the sea. - - Sappho, the finest of your songs, - “Hark to the rain!” - Sends shivering through and through my heart - Its sad refrain, - Just as a broken lute-string strikes - A soul in pain! - - - - -The Song of Timùr the Lame. - -(_Imitated from the Persian_) - - - Listen to me, my nightingale, - My darling, my light, and my rose! - I am sick of war and carnage, - I long for peace and repose. - My scimetar’s flash in the light - Is not so bright as thy glances, - And the beams ’neath thine eyelids bright - Shame the flash of my spearmen’s lances. - - - - -Catullus, Carmina xxxi., l. 12 to end. - - - “Salve, o venusta Sirmio, atque hero gaude, - Gaudete vos, O Lydiae lacus undae, - Ridete quicquid est domi cachinnorum.” - - “Hail, lovely Sirmio, and rejoice in me, - Rejoice, O tumbling Lydian waves, and see - In all my home peal out the laughter free!” - - - - -Catullus, Carmina lxxvi. (Si qua recordanti). - - - “If pleasure can to man have come - From his good deeds already done, - From sacred faith, from plight maintained, - From compact never yet profaned; - All these remain in store for thee - And fruits of thy lost love shall be. - Catullus, for long years to come - Thy breast shall be their only home!” - - * * * * * - - O gods, if ye can pity me - Or mortal agony can see, - If only once I have been pure, - Tear out this cursed plague impure, - Which creeping through my frame at rest - Has chased all gladness from my breast. - - * * * * * - - Just gods! for sake of my own weal - I pray you that this wound may heal! - - - - -The Fisherman’s Dream. - - - Where the light clouds o’er Etna’s summit sleep - And the dread winged Harpies vigil keep, - Dark as the polished stone the blue wave falls, - Weaving a canopy o’er Neptune’s halls. - - Over his work the tired fisher nods - And in his dreams beholds the ancient gods. - Whilst gentle sleep his wearied senses numbs, - Swift in his trance fair Aphrodite comes; - Light falls her footstep on the billowy wave, - Softly she smiles upon her willing slave; - Blue as the ether in the heights above, - Radiant her eyes, all beaming o’er with love; - Pink as the coral in the ocean foam, - Parted, her lips invite him to her home; - And like the algae in the deep sea trove - Wavy her tresses in the zephyrs move; - Whilst her soft whispers all his fears allay, - Thus love’s fair goddess beckons him away. - - “Come with me, fisher, leave thy dreary toil, - Fly from thy cares to Candia’s blessed soil; - ’Neath Ida’s mount far from the sun’s fierce rays, - In a cool grot we’ll pass the sweltering days, - And when the moon shines on the silver sea, - Drawn by my doves thou’lt float along with me; - Hid in my cave shalt taste all love’s delights, - Whilst joyous days succeed the tranquil nights.” - - Ah! shun her glances, danger lurketh there: - Thus did her charms full often slaves ensnare. - So young Adonis, who ne’er loved before, - Fleeing her wiles, fell to the tusked boar, - And Mars, the vengeful, direful, God of War, - By Vulcan’s net trapped, all Olympus saw! - Rather let Juno, who befriends pure loves, - Drive from thy side the siren and her doves. - Think of thy home in Baïa’s beauteous bay, - Where sits thy wife, thy children joyous play, - And of the taper by the Virgin’s shrine - Lit as a safeguard for their weal and thine. - - Frightened he wakes, he starts, he rubs his eyes, - Chased by the light the feckless phantom flies: - Vanished the temptress, all his senses seem - Once more his own; but Santos! what a dream! - -Ashbrook, 1885. - - - - -The Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers at Pieters’, February, 1900. - - - I stood on the glacis at Pieters’ - And read there the word “Inniskilling,” - Written red in the blood of soldiers as brave - As e’er took Her Majesty’s shilling. - I stood ’midst the ghosts of our children, - Whose corpses beneath me were lying; - And it seemed that I heard o’er the wind of the velt - Their voices come solemnly sighing. - - They were taught from boyhood, these heroes, - To fear neither rifle nor cannon; - They were taught first by Perry M‘Clintock, - Bob Ellis and fiery Buchanan. - They rushed like the stream from the mountain, - Or the wind o’er the Lakes of Fermanagh, - And they fell like the leaves in the cold autumn blast, - Or the drops pouring over the fountain. - - Ah! Mother of God! but I see them - Stagger. Thackeray! Davidson! more! - And who is the next, thrusting on thro’ the smoke? - It is he! ’Tis _ma bouchal asthore_! - His eye has the look of the eagle, - His shout tops the musketry’s roar, - Ah! now he’ll be in with the bay’net: - No, he falls!--He is shot by a Boer. - - We think of you children of Ulster, - All unknown, yet so splendidly brave; - And although the remains of our dear ones - Lie senseless and cold in the grave, - Their mem’ries live now and for ever, - Though their bones turn to dust ’neath the sod; - For the spirit and soul of the soldier - Rise like sweet-smelling incense to God. - - As I glanced over kopje and stone - On the scene of this terrible drama, - Past my eyes, other scenes, from the distant black North, - Rolled on like a vast panorama. - Such sights ere he gasped his last breath - Perhaps appeared to the brave Fusilier, - As at Thackeray’s word he rushed forward to death - With a bound and a heart-stirring cheer! - - The dark clouds hang over a valley, - The brown water rushes down foaming, - The light from the cabin-door shines like a spark - On the hill in the mists of the gloaming. - The heather waves sweet in the wind - That sweeps o’er the steep slopes of Sâwel; - The crooked-beaked eagle swoops down on the hind, - Whilst the cock-grouse lies low for a marvel. - - For thus, as we come to the entrance - Of that lane that knows of no turning, - Whether bullets are hissing, or rotten decks breaking, - Or fever our wasted frame burning, - The sights and the sounds of the home that we love - O’er our minds come back hurriedly streaming, - And we see in our dreams our long lost ones above, - As Azraël’s death-blade is gleaming. - - * * * * * - - I stood ’midst the ghosts of our children, - Whose corpses beneath me were lying; - And it seemed that I heard o’er the wind of the velt - Their voices come solemnly sighing. - -Petersburg, October, 1901. - - - - -Senlac. - - - Guillaume, fils naturel d’Arlette, - Fit jurer une fois à Bayeux - A Harold, le blond comte anglais, - Sur les plus précieuses réliques - Et aussi devant tous ses preux - Toute loyauté et feauté. - Harold jura qu’il l’aiderait - A prendre à lui la succession - (Enfin, donc, quand le temps viendrait) - Du roi saxon le fainéant, - Qu’il se mettrait de son côté - Et de ses forces il l’aiderait. - - Édouard le Confesseur mourut - En grande odeur de saincteté, - Le Comte Harold vite accourut - (Mil soixante-six, et cinq janvier). - Lui roi d’Angleterre fut élu - Et par Ealdred couronné. - Contre lui bientôt guerre à mort - Northumberland a déclaré; - Ne voulant point tenter cette guerre, - Qui lui allait à contre-cœur, - Du Comte Edwin et Comte Morkère - Harold épousa la jeune sœur. - - Guillaume, tout furieux, à Rouen - Prépare vite une expédition, - Appelle à lui le grand Lanfranc, - Evesque lombard, et Hildebrand, - Assemble une armée de Français, - Flamands, Italiens et Bretons, - Et des gens de tous les païs - De Pouille, et de Sicile, Normands. - Je dis moults barons, moulte canaille, - Des hommes sans nom et sans carrière, - Les longues lances, la vieille féraille, - Sous le grand drapeau de Saint-Pierre. - - Faut savoir que cette compagnie, - Ou plutôt bande d’aventuriers, - Dont oncques ne virent France de leur vie, - Furent bels et bons nommés _Français_, - Tandis que Danois et Saxons - Qu’Harold noblement commandait, - Ceux de Sussesse et Saint-Edmond, - Reçurent pour eux le nom d’_Anglais_. - Les Français traversèrent La Manche - Et descendirent en Angleterre - Près d’Hastings, pendant qu’à l’arme blanche - Harold tua Tostique, son frère. - - Parlons donc de l’armée anglaise. - Victorieuse à Stamford-le-Pont, - Elle poussa fortement vers le camp - Ou plutôt position française. - S’arrêtant à deux lieues de là, - Harold envoya des espions, - Qui lui rapportèrent la nouvelle - “Plus prêtres que soldats entre Normands.” - Rit bien et long le roi anglais: - “Ceux que vous vîtes si bien rasés - Ne sont ni prêtres ni gens mal-nés, - Ce sont de vaillans Chevaliers.” - - De Conches, de Toarz, Montgomméri - A l’extrême gauche étaient rangés; - A droite, de Fergert, Améri - Poitevins et Bretons commandaient; - Au centre, l’Evesque de Bayeux, - Grand et majestueux Odon; - Puis Guillaume, avec tous ses preux; - Ainsi se rangèrent les Normands. - Brave Taillefer, le Menestrel, - Le premier coup de sabre donnant, - Le premier tomba de sa selle, - Chantant la chanson de Roland. - - Fils-Osbert et Montgomméri - Attaquèrent sur la droite anglaise, - Avec Boulogne et Berri, - En partant de la gauche française. - De l’autre flanc, Alain Fergert, - Barons de Maine et d’Améri - Se ruèrent sur la haute terre - Retranchée de gros pilotis, - Où l’étendard au dragon d’or - Flottait dessus les écussons - Plantés en ligne, et juste derrière - Brillaient les hâches-d’armes des Saxons. - - Les hommes de Boulogne et de Poix - Suivaient le Baron d’Améri - Et donnèrent rudement maintes fois - Sur la ligne des gros pilotis. - Mais sous les coups terribles des hâches - Et testes et bras tombaient par terre; - A vrai dire n’y avait point de lâches, - Car corps-à-corps se fit la guerre. - Tout de même dans le vaste fossé - Bien des chevaliers sans chevaux - De coups de hâche furent assommés, - En tâchant de sortir de l’eau! - - Troublés, et même un peu confus, - Les écuyers aux destriers, - Voyant ainsi tuer les preux, - S’écriaient: “Fuyez donc, fuyez!” - Mais le dur évesque de Bayeux - Arriva bientôt au galop, - “Holà!” dit-il; “splendeur de Dieu! - Faites face à l’ennemi, salops!” - Donc piquant fort des éperons - Et frappant fortement de sa masse, - Poussant toujours son cheval blanc, - Le brave évesque se faisait place. - - Le terrible combat rageait - Du matin jusques après-midi; - Les Normands tous criaient, “Dex aie!” - Les Saxons criaient fort aussi. - Vu que les flêches de nos archers - N’atteignirent point à l’ennemi, - Tous derrière leurs remparts courbés, - Guillaume à ses gens commanda - De tirer haut dans l’air les flêches. - Arriva donc comme il pensa, - Même sans pratiquer de brêche! - - Le roi Harold et Gyrt, son frère, - Ensemble bravement se battaient - En haut du grand rempart de terre - De gros pilotis couronné. - Une flêche, qui semble tomber du ciel - Et dans sa chute descendante vire, - Atteignit Harold près de l’œil. - Le roi tout hardiment retire - De la blessure le bois cassé. - Il tombe, se tenant à demi - Evanoui sur son bouclier. - L’ange gardien des Saxons frémit! - - Sur toute la ligne des Français - Se fit un mouvement en arrière; - C’était le moment des Anglais, - Qui sautèrent par-dessus barrière. - Ils criaient hautement en revanche, - “A quoi bon, imbéciles, de fuir? - A moins de sauter par La Manche - Vous ne reverrez point Saint-Cyr.” - Arrive Sieur de Montgomméri, - “Frappez, François! à nous le jour; - Frappez! frappez! frappez!” il crie: - Les coups Normands redoublent d’ardeur! - - Les Saxons, eux aussi frappent fort, - Poussés sur Senlac-la-Colline, - Se battaient toujours corps-à-corps, - Quoique prévoyant leur ruine. - L’on vit d’Auviler et d’Onbac, - Saint-Clair, Fils-Ernest, Mortemer, - Poussant les premiers vers Senlac, - Fils-Ernest tombant mort à terre. - Harold trois fois blessé est mort - Et Gyrt est tué par Guillaume, - Chancelle le fameux dragon d’or, - Et tombe, le symbole du royaume. - - Fut ainsi que tomba le sort! - Guillaume rendit grâces à Dieu, - Pleura la perte de ses deux frères, - Remercia encore ses preux. - Il donna au Grand Dieu la gloire - Et fit planter les léopards - Qui flottèrent avec la victoire - Où gisait sale le dragon d’or. - D’Harold parmi tous les blessés - Fut impossible de connaître corps, - Mais Edith la Belle a trouvé - Son amant vivant, hélas! mort. - - J’ai tâché, chers et bons amis, - En réduisant ce rondelai - En termes tout simples, où il s’agit - De coups de lance, et coups d’épée, - De faire à tout le monde comprendre, - Marins, soldats, hommes, femmes, enfance, - Qu’il faut garder et pas rendre - Notre souveraine independence! - Une île n’est jamais à l’abri - D’un coup de main bien préparé: - Donc, sans négliger votre marine, - Veillez toujours sur votre armée. - - - - -Christmas-tide. - - - Silently the snowflakes fall - O’er the black and hardened ground; - Radiant crystals form a pall, - Stretching far and wide around. - - From the Ice-King’s glitt’ring halls - Bitterly the north wind blows; - Heap the logs within your walls, - All the doors and windows close. - - Many a hundred years ago, - On this very Christmas Day, - In a manger mean and low - Christ, the son of Mary, lay. - - Let our ways this Christmas-tide - Follow in His steps above! - Poor he lived and poor he died, - All His doctrine was of love. - - Ours to soothe the aching heart, - Ours to charity bestow, - Ours His knowledge to impart - To the suffering ones below! - - May that charity ne’er fail, - May those good deeds never cease, - Till our bark shall lower sail - In the haven where is peace! - -PRINTED BY -SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. LTD., ETON -COLCHESTER AND LONDON - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[A] Babyónka, baby. - -[B] Bábochka, little woman, mother. - -[C] The sandbanks in the Oka and Volga are strewn with small white -shells, and partly covered with sweet-smelling dock leaves; they swarm -with landrails and woodcock. (D. Grigorovitch.) - -[D] The Rev. William Hamilton, D.D., born in Londonderry in December -1757, Rector of Clondevaddock, on Mulroy Bay, gives several instances -of the encroachment of the sea sand on fertile and inhabited land. The -town of Bannow in Wexford was a flourishing borough in the early part -of the seventeenth century, while in his day the site was marked only -by a few ruins, appearing above heaps of barren sand. Ulster Folk Lore, -E. Andrews. - -[E] H.M.S. “Saldanha,” wrecked in Ballymastocker Bay, 1813. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A HAPPY NEW YEAR, AND OTHER -VERSES *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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