Spun-yarn and Spindrift

Excerpt

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.

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.