Part 22 (1/2)
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._”