The Cornflower, and Other Poems Part 22

An' I tell myself I'll never Cheat at marbles any more, Nor make faces at my teacher, Nor hang round the corner store

'Stead of goin' on my errands; Never touch the cookie pail, Nor play hooky an' go skatin', Nor tie cans on Rover's tail;

Never let ma think it's spellings When it's only Robin Hood.

With the gladness comes the wis.h.i.+n'

To be, oh, just awful good!

'Bout this time of year it takes me-- Pa, he doesn't understand, Always says: "You sly young codger, You know Christmas is at hand."

But it isn't that, it's something-- Can't explain it very well-- Takes me when ma fills the kitchen With this juicy Christmas smell.

When she chops the spice an' raisins, With the peels an' Northern Spies, Sleeves rolled up above her elbows, Makin' mincemeat for the pies.

A BIT O' SHAMROCK.

We met her on the hillside green Below old Castle Blarney; Her name, she whispered, was Eileen, Her home it was Killarney.

I see her yet, her Irish eyes Blue gray as seas in summer, And hear her welcome, on this wise, Vouchsafed to each new-comer:

"I'll guide ye up the stairway steep, And naught will ye be missing O' battlement or donjon keep, Or blarney stone for kissing.

"The tower that was McCarthy's pride, The scene o' battles thrilling, And where the Desmond kept his bride-- Me fee is but a s.h.i.+lling.

"Here's for ye, now, a keepsake charm"-- Her low tones grow caressing-- "A bit o' shamrock green and warm, To bring ye luck and blessing."

The "keepsake charm"--I have it yet-- A thing of guile and blarney; Each green leaf dares me to forget Fair Eileen o' Killarney.

SLANDER.

He does the devil's basest work, no less, Who deals in calumnies--who throws the mire On snowy robes whose hem he dare not press His foul lips to. The pity of it! Liar, Yet half believed by such as deem the good Or evil but the outcome of a mood.

That one who, with the breath lent him by Heaven, Speaks words that on some white soul do reflect, Is lost to decency, and should be driven Outside the pale of honest men's respect.

O slanderer, h.e.l.l's imps must say of you: "He does the work we are ashamed to do!"

ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

"_Poet by the grace of G.o.d._"

You sing of winter gray and chill, Of silent stream and frozen lake, Of naked woods, and winds that wake To shriek and sob o'er vale and hill.

And straight we breathe the bracing air, And see stretched out before our eyes A white world spanned by brooding skies, And snowflakes drifting everywhere.

You sing of tender things and sweet, Of field, of brook, of flower, of bush, The lilt of bird, the sunset flush, The scarlet poppies in the wheat.

Until we feel the gleam and glow Of summer pulsing through our veins, And hear the patter of the rains, And watch the green things sprout and grow.

You sing of joy, and we do mark How glad a thing is life, and dear; Of sorrow, and we seem to hear The sound of sobbing in the dark.

The subtle power to sway and move, The stamp of genius strong and true, This, friend, was heaven's gift to you, This made you great and won you love.

Your song goes ringing clear and sweet-- Though on earth's bosom, bare and brown, All willingly you laid you down, The music is not incomplete.

Sleep on, it is not by the years We measure life when all is done; Your rest is earned, your laurels won; Sleep, softly sleep, we say with tears.

A HINT.

Among the vivid green I see A yellow leaf, And yonder in the ba.s.swood tree An empty nest swings lonesomely-- The wheat's in sheaf.

CHRYSANTHEMUM'S COURT.

They lift their faces to the light, And aye they are a gallant band; The queen of all is snowy white-- A stately thing, and tall and grand.

See, close beside, in yellow drest, Is the prince consort of the hour; A bit of G.o.d's own suns.h.i.+ne prest Into a glorious golden flower!

And mark the courtiers' n.o.ble grace-- Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine-- Their satin doublets slashed with lace, Their velvet cloaks as red as wine.

Each maid-in-waiting is most fair-- Note well the graces she unfurls-- The winds have tossed her fluffy hair, And left it in a thousand curls.

And yonder quaint, old-fas.h.i.+oned one, Arrayed in palest lavender, Ah! few there are, when all is done, In beauty can compare with her.

The pink--I've seen at eventide A something very like to this, A cloud adrift upon the sky, All rosy from the sun's last kiss.

Without the court, the chill and gloom Of autumn twilight o'er the land; Within, the grandeur and the bloom Of queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.

HER LITTLE WAY.