SPUN-YARN AND SPINDRIFT

THE LITTLE DOG-ANGEL

High up in the courts of Heaven to-day
A little dog-angel waits,
With the other angels he will not play,
But he sits alone at the gates;
"For I know that my master will come," says he:
"And when he comes, he will call for me."

He sees the spirits that pass him by
As they hasten towards the throne,
And he watches them with a wistful eye
As he sits at the gates alone;
"But I know if I just wait patiently
That some day my master will come," says he.

And his master, far on the earth below,
As he sits in his easy chair,
Forgets sometimes, and he whistles low
For the dog that is not there;
And the little dog-angel cocks his ears,
And dreams that his master's call he hears.

And I know, when at length his master waits
Outside in the dark and cold
For the hand of Death to ope the gates
That lead to those courts of gold,
The little dog-angel's eager bark
Will comfort his soul in the shivering dark.

SHULE AROON

Fair are the fields of Canada, and broad her rivers flow,
But my heart's away from Canada to seek the hills I know,
Far, far away o'er billows grey, where western breezes sweep,
And—it's not the songs of Canada go sounding through my sleep.

Shule, shule, shule, aroon,
Shule go soccair, agus shule go cuain,
Shule, shule, shule, aroon,
Sgo Dhae tu, mavourneen, slan.

Along the sides of old Slieve Dhu again my footstep falls,
Again the turf smoke rises blue, again the cuckoo calls,
Once more adown the mountain brown the brown bog-waters leap—
Oh how the croon of "Shule aroon" goes sounding through my sleep!

Shule, shule, shule, aroon,
Shule go soccair, agus shule go cuain,
Shule, shule, shule, aroon,
Sgo Dhae tu, mavourneen, slan.

Oh 'tis I am here in Canada, far, far across the foam,
And many years and many tears divide me from my home;
But still above the Irish hills the stars their watches keep,
And—it's not the songs of Canada go sounding through my sleep.

Shule, shule, shule, aroon,
Shule go soccair, agus shule go cuain,
Shule, shule, shule, aroon,
Sgo Dhae tu, mavourneen, slan.

A SONG OF ERIN

Far to westward in the sunset tall and bare her cliffs arise,
Mother Erin, with the tender love and laughter in her eyes,
Looking out across the waters, dreaming of her argosies.

Argosies that sail forever, laden down with hopes and fears,
Ships of dream, returning never, though she waits throughout the years,
Waits, with eyes wherein the laughter grows more sorrowful than tears.

One by one her children leave her—stalwart sons and daughters fair,
Straining eyes grown dim with anguish as her hilltops melt in air;
Bending from her cliffs she watches, drinking deep of their despair.

Yet she showers her gifts upon them—gifts of laughter and of tears;
Gives their eyes the Vision Splendid, fairy music to their ears,
Weaves around their feet her magic—spells that strengthen through
the years,

So her children, unforgetting, howsoe'er their footsteps roam,
Turn their hearts forever westward, longing for the day to come
When once more they see her stooping from her heights to call them home.

THE ROAD ACROSS SLIEVE RUE

As I went down to Dublin town
The road across Slieve Rue,
I met a maid in crimson gown;
Her little feet were bare and brown,
She looked at me, she laughed at me
With eyes of watchet blue.

No mortal maid was half so fair,
Or half so dainty sweet;
The sun was tangled in her hair,
And O her feet were brown and bare;
I laid the very heart of me
Before those dancing feet.

"O go you down to Dublin quay
To sail upon the Bay?
I pray you, gentle sir," said she,
"To turn and walk a mile with me."
So witching were the eyes of her
I could not say her nay.

She gave to me a ring of gold,
And kisses, two and three;
She sang me elfin songs of old,
She lured my heart into her hold,
Then turned and left me lonely there—
A wicked witch was she.

As I went down to Dublin quay
By darkling ways alone,
My fairy maid was gone from me,
For O a wicked witch was she,
And all my heart within me lay
As heavy as a stone.

TO W. B. YEATS

A wind of dreams comes singing over sea
From where the white waves kiss the shores of home,
Bringing upon its rainbow wings to me
Glimpses of days gone by—
Of wastes of water, where the sea-gulls cry
Above the sounding foam.

Or through the mists do Finn and Usheen ride,
With all their men, along some faery shore,
While Bran and Sgeolan follow at their side
Adown the shadowy track,
Till in the sunset Caoilte's hair blows back
And Niamh calls once more.

Or the brown bees hum through the livelong day
In glades of Inisfree, where sunlight gleams,
The bean flower scents again the dear old way,
Once more the turf-fire burns;
The memory of the long dead past returns
Borne on that wind of dreams.

A FAIRY TALE

With sword at side, on his charger good,
The King's son of Erin
Into the depths of the dark, green wood
Forward was faring;
Golden-armoured and golden-curled,
Faith, the sweetest song in the world
His heart was hearing!

Onward he rode, with heart elate;
Gaily he sought her—
She, the Princess to be his mate,
The great King's daughter,
Jewelled fingers and golden crown,
Slim young body and eyes as brown
As the brown bog-water.

On he rode through a laughing land:
The ways grew wider,
There stood a cottage close at hand,
And there he spied her—
O but her feet were brown and bare,
And brown were her curls, as she stood there
With her geese beside her.

Alas! for the Princess, proud and slim,
The great King's daughter;
We'll trust she wasted no thought on him,
For he straight forgot her,
Forgot her jewels and golden crown,
For the goose-girl's laughing eyes were brown
As the brown bog-water.

Then straightway down from his steed he sprang
And bent above her;
O sweet were the songs the breezes sang
Across the clover;
But what the words he said in her ear,
Since none but her geese were by to hear,
I can't discover.

And what of the Princess, proud and high?
Good luck upon her!
Sure, another Prince came riding by,
And he wooed and won her.
Now I tell the tale as 'twas told to me
By a fairy lad, across the sea
In County Connor.

THE KING OF ERIN'S DAUGHTER

The King of Erin's daughter had wind-blown hair and bright,
The King of Erin's daughter, her eyes were like the sea.
(O Rose of all the roses, have you forgotten quite
The story of the days of old that once you told to me?)

The King of Erin's daughter went up the mountain side,
And who but she was singing as she went upon her way?
"O somewhere waits a King's son, and I shall be his bride;
And tall he is, and fair he is, and none shall say him nay."

The King of Erin's daughter (O fair was she and sweet)
Went laughing up the mountain without a look behind,
Till on the lofty summit that lay beneath her feet
She found a King's son waiting there, his brows with poppies twined.

O tall was he and fair was he. He looked upon her face
And whispered in her ear a word unnamed of mortal breath,
And very still she rested, clasped close in his embrace,
The King of Erin's daughter, for the bridegroom's name was Death.

KITTY O'NEIL

O a bit of a dance in an Irish street—
Hogan was there, and Hennessy,
Many a colleen fair and sweet,
And Kitty O'Neil she danced with me;
Kitty O'Neil, with eyes of brown,
And feet as light as the flakes o' snow.
Was it last year, O Kitty aroon,
Or was it a hundred years ago?

Hogan is out on a Texan plain,
Hennessy fell in Manila fight,
And I—I am back in New York again
In my old arm-chair at the Club to-night;
And Kitty O'Neil—the snow lies white
On the turf above her across the sea,
And stranger colleens are dancing light
Where Kitty O'Neil once danced with me.

O the Antrim glens and the thrushes' song,
And the hedges white with blossoming may,
Many a colleen tripping along,
But none so fair as the one away:
"Musha, God save you!" I to them say,
"God save you kindly!" they answer me;
I shiver and wake, in the dawning grey,
And Kitty O'Neil lies over the sea.

O a bit of a dance in an Irish street—
Hogan was there, and Hennessy,
Many a colleen fair and sweet,
And Kitty O'Neil she danced with me;
Kitty O'Neil, with eyes of brown,
And feet as light as the flakes of snow.
Was it last year, O Kitty aroon,
Or was it a hundred years ago?

SPRING IN THE CITY

Outside my garret window, set
Amid the city's dust and blare,
One bit of green is growing yet—
A gnarled old hawthorn tree stands there

A little bird sings in its bough,
Where may-buds break as white as foam;
It breaks my heart to hear him now,
For O, he sings the songs of home.

His wings are of the hodden grey,
A little lilting thing is he;
He pipes a carol blythe and gay;
But sad the thoughts he brings to me.

Once more the Irish hills rise green,
The lark springs to the sun once more,
Once more I tread the old boreen
And see you at the cabin door.

The young May moon her cresset burns
In misty skies of Irish blue,
And for an hour my spirit turns
From dreary streets to dream of you

O little, lilting birdeen, cease!
You stab my heart with every strain
Bringing me back old memories
Of days that will not come again.

THE WILD GEESE

O pleasant are the fields of France, her vine-clad hills aglow,
And broad and smooth her rivers are, as singing on they go,—
Durance and Seine and Loire and Rhone—but not for us they flow.

And sweetly on a Frenchman's ear the songs of France may ring,
But not for us their melody who still amid their swing
The sobbing beat alone can hear of songs we used to sing.

For, as the streams of Babylon, though broad and fair they swept,
Were waters of captivity, whereby the Hebrews wept,
Dreaming of dear Jerusalem, where their forefathers slept—

So dreaming by the waves of France we think on Sion too,
Heartsick with longing for the streams we and our fathers knew—
Liffey and Lee and Avonmore and tawny Avondhu.

And turning homeward yearning eyes that ne'er shall see her strand,
We tune our harps and strike once more the chords with faltering hand,
And sing again the song of home, far in a lonely land.

"If we forget Jerusalem!" Ah, well we know the song—
Our waters of captivity, bitter their waves and strong,
And faint our hearts for weariness, how long, O Lord, how long?

A SONG OF MEMORY

Here as I sit in the dark and ponder,
Watching the firelight dance and gleam,
What brings them back to my mind, I wonder?
Those old days of laughter and dream.
Dear old days, when we roamed together
All the pathways that cross Slieve Rue,
Caring for naught in the sunny weather,
Laughing together, I and you.

Voice of the west wind, calling, calling,
Sobbing beat of the Irish rain,
Whispering leaves and waters falling,
Ay, and you by my side again;
Out of the past I hear them ringing—
All the songs of the days of old;
Hear the lark on the hillside singing,
See the gleam of the gorse's gold.

Till, as I sit in the firelight dreaming,
Watching the shadows grow apace,
Out of the long dead years comes gleaming
There in the flames your laughing face;
All the days that are past and over
Gone in the turf smoke, curling blue,
And from their wreckage I recover
Song and sunshine and youth and you.

IN MEMORY OF A FAILURE

O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, in blood and ashes lie
The dreams we dreamed, the faith we held, the hopes we builded high;
Once more the path that Emmet trod our bleeding feet must press,
Once more our hearts must bear the load of failure and distress;
But though the dream in ruin fell, yet this much still is true—
O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, at least we died for you.

O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, the hills with Spring are fair,
And fragrant blows the daffodil and violets scent the air,
Once more from out the morning sky the lark's gay challenge rings,
Mounting the blue to Heaven's gate, but not for us he sings,
And summer comes, and autumn tints with bronze and gold the fern,
And bees hum in the heather bloom, but we shall not return.

O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, give us nor praise nor blame,
Only a little Irish dust to cover up our shame;
Only a sod of Irish ground our broken dream to hide,
Where some may pause and say a prayer and "'Twas for her they died;"
For though we brought you grief and pain, yet this much still is true—
O Kathaleen ni Houlihan, at least we died for you.

THE UNCHRISTENED CHILD

Alanna! Alanna! within the churchyard's round
There's many graves of childer' there, they lie in holy ground;
But yours is on the mountain side beneath the hawthorn tree—
O fleet one, my sweet one, that's gone so far from me.

Alanna! Alanna! When that small mound was made,
No mass was sung, no bell was rung, no priest above it prayed;
Unchristened childer's souls, they say, may ne'er see Heaven's light—
O lone one, my own one, where strays your soul to-night?

Alanna! Alanna! This life's a weary one,
And there's little time for thinking when the hours of work are done,
And the others have forgotten, but there's times I sit apart,
O fair one, my dear one, and hold you in my heart.

Alanna! Alanna! If I were Mary mild,
And heard outside the gates of Heaven a little crying child,
What though its brow the chrisom lacked, I'd lift the golden pin,
O bright one, my white one, and bid you enter in.

Alanna! Alanna! The mountain side is bare,
And the winds they do be blowing and the snows be lying there,
And unchristened childer's souls, they say, may ne'er see
Heaven's light—
O lone one, my own one, where strays your soul to-night?

TO AUDREY, AGED FOUR

Light feet, white feet, dancing down the ways,
Spilling out the honey from the flowery days,
May your paths forever flowery be and sweet,
Stony roads of sorrow wait not for your feet.

Light feet, white feet, as you older grow,
Fain are we to keep you from all care and woe;
But if thorn and brier in your roadway be,
Light feet, white feet, meet them merrily.

Light feet, white feet, as you dance along,
God, Who made you, keep you free from stain of wrong,
Give you song and sunshine, laughter, love and praise,
Light feet, white feet, dancing down the ways.

A LULLABY

Little brown feet, that have grown so weary,
Plodding on through the heat of day,
Mother will hold you, mother will fold you
Safe to her breast; little feet, rest;
Now is the time to cease from play.

Little brown hands, that through day's long hours
Never rested, be still at last;
Mother will rest you; come, then, and nest you
Here by her side, nestle and hide;
Creep to her heart and hold it fast.

Little brown head, on my shoulder lying,
Night is coming and day is dead;
Mother will sing you songs, that shall bring you
Childhood's soft sleep, quiet and deep;
Sweet be your dreams, O dear brown head.

O LITTLEST HANDS AND DEAREST

O littlest hands and dearest,
O golden heads and bright,
From out what dear dream country
Come you to me to-night?
For through the shadows falling
I hear your voices calling
Out of the magic spaces
Of infinite delight.

I see your curls a-glimmer,
I see your dear eyes shine,
I feel the childish fingers
Slipped softly into mine;
You bring me back the May-time,
The old, delightful play-time
When all the world was laughter
And life seemed half divine.

Thus, from the shades that gather
Around my path to-night
Your glad child-hands have drawn me
Back to your lands of light,
Giving me for my sadness
The medicine of your gladness,
O littlest hands and dearest,
O golden heads and bright.

A LOVE SONG

Love came to me once more,
His wings all drenched with rain;
Silent his singing lips,
His eyes were dark with pain.

Dead roses in his hands—
Gone were the flowers of yore;
Only a poor, grey ghost,
Love lingered at my door.

Wasted his rounded limbs
And grey his golden hair—
Poor, shadowy, silent God,
Who once had been so fair.

"O Love, great Love," I cried,
"Why come you thus to me?"
"I am Love's ghost," he said;
"Men name me Memory."

A SONG OF LOVE

Love came loitering down the way,
(Heart, but we two were young!)
Laughter light in his eyes there lay,
Music was on his tongue;
"Stay, Love, stay—walk with us, pray!
(Sweet were the songs he sung.)

Love with us goes wandering still,
(Heart, but his songs are sweet!)
Suns may shine, or the rains beat chill,
What matter cold or heat?
Blue or grey, Love goes our way;
(Summer follows his feet.)

Love, he has been a comrade true,
(Heart, how the seasons fly!)
Joy and Sorrow have found us too,
Greeted and passed us by;
So Love stay, they may go their way;
(And Love can never die.)

DEAD LOVE

Fold the hands, grown still and cold;
Lay ye by
The broken bow that shall feel his hold
Nevermore, while the seasons fly.
Draw the shroud above his eyes,
Love, that laughs an hour and dies.

Seek no more to entrance win
At his gate;
Silent now are the song and din,
Jest and dance, that were there of late.
Never more shall he arise,
Love, that laughs an hour and dies.

Listen not, for ye shall catch
Nevermore
The sound of his finger on the latch,
Nor see him stand in the open door;
Ne'er shall see, in any guise,
Love, that laughs an hour and dies.