The Old Soldiers Story Part 13

A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street: The slow hea.r.s.e and the hosses--slow enough, to say the least, Fer to even tax the patience of the gentleman deceased!

The low scrunch of the gravel--and the slow grind of the wheels,-- The low, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!

So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whiplash crack A quickstep fer the hosses, When the Hea.r.s.e Comes Back!

Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes-- But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise-- You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day!

Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest-- Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast!

And this is why--when airth and sky's a-gittin' blurred and black I like the flash and hurry When the Hea.r.s.e Comes Back!

It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes, Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks;-- I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps-- Fer my heart's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's,-- I've buried father, mother--but I'll haf to jes' git _you_ To "excuse _me_," as the feller says.--The p'int I'm drivin' to Is, simply, when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack, It he'ps to shape us up, like, When the Hea.r.s.e Comes Back!

The idy! wadin' round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe, When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and suns.h.i.+ne, don't you know!

When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars: And so when _my_ time comes to die, and I've got ary friend 'At wants expressed my last request--I'll, mebby, rickommend To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the _out'ard_ track, But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em When the Hea.r.s.e Comes Back!"

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun; It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not, Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot; It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black, And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;-- But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay, And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway; I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall, That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all; I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can; I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman; But most I like--with you, my boy--our old friend Neverfail, When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!

DAN O'SULLIVAN

Dan O'Sullivan: It's your Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure!-- To be trillin' praise av me, Dhrippin' shwate wid poethry!-- Not that I'd not have ye sing-- Don't lave off for anything-- Jusht be aisy whilst the fit Av me head shwells up to it!

Dade and thrue, I'm not the man, Whilst yer singin', loike ye can, To cry shtop because ye've blesht My songs more than all the resht:-- I'll not be the b'y to ax Any shtar to wane or wax, Or ax any clock that's woun', To run up inshtid av down!

Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan!-- Him that made the Irishman Mixt the birds in wid the dough, And the dew and mistletoe Wid the whusky in the quare Muggs av us--and here we air, Three parts right, and three parts wrong, Shpiked wid beauty, wit, and song!

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY

SEPULTURE--BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890

Dead? this peerless man of men-- Patriot, Poet, Citizen!-- Dead? and ye weep where he lies Mute, with folded eyes!

Courage! All his tears are done; Mark him, dauntless, face the sun!

He hath led you.--Still, as true, He is leading you.

Folded eyes and folded hands Typify divine commands He is hearkening to, intent Beyond wonderment.

'Tis promotion that has come Thus upon him. Stricken dumb Be your moanings dolorous!

G.o.d knows what He does.

Rather as your chief, _aspire_!-- Rise and seize his toppling lyre, And sing Freedom, Home, and Love, And the rights thereof!

Ere in selfish grief ye sink, Come! catch rapturous breath and think-- Think what sweep of wing hath he, Loosed in endless liberty.

MEREDITH NICHOLSON

Keats, and Kirk White, David Gray and the rest of you Heavened and blest of you young singers gone,-- Slender in sooth though the theme unexpressed of you, Leave us this like of you yet to sing on!

Let your Muse mother him and your souls brother him, Even as now, or in fancy, you do: Still let him sing to us ever, and bring to us Musical musings of glory and--you.

Never a note to do evil or wrong to us-- Beauty of melody--beauty of words,-- Sweet and yet strong to us comes his young song to us Rippled along to us clear as the bird's.

No fame elating him falsely, nor sating him-- Feasting and feting him faint of her joys, But singing on where the laurels are waiting him, Young yet in art, and his heart yet a boy's.

G.o.d'S MERCY

Behold, one faith endureth still-- Let factions rail and creeds contend-- G.o.d's mercy _was_, and _is_, and _will_ Be with us, foe and friend.

CHRISTMAS GREETING

A word of G.o.dspeed and good cheer To all on earth--or far or near, Or friend or foe, or thine or mine-- In echo of the voice divine, Heard when the Star bloomed forth and lit The world's face, with G.o.d's smile on it.

TO RUDYARD KIPLING

To do some worthy deed of charity In secret and then have it found out by Sheer accident, held gentle Elia-- That--that was the best thing beneath the sky!

Confirmed in part, yet somewhat differing-- (Grant that his gracious wraith will pardon me If impious!)--I think a better thing Is: being found out when one strives to be.

So, Poet and Romancer--old as young, And wise as artless--masterful as mild,-- If there be sweet in any song I've sung, 'Twas savored for that palate, O my Child!

For thee the lisping of the children all-- For thee the youthful voices of old years-- For thee all chords untamed or musical-- For thee the laughter, and for thee the tears.

And thus, borne to me o'er the seas between Thy land and mine, thy Song of certain wing Circles above me in the "pure serene"