Ballads of Peace in War | Page 4

they cried, "count three to death,?Or give us the countersign."
Lightly the lad leaped from his steed,?No fear was in his sigh,?But a mother's face and a home he loved?Under an Irish sky:?He made the Sign of the Cross and stood,?Bravely he stood to die.
Lips in a prayer at the blessed Sign,?And calmly he looked around,?And wonder seized his waiting soul?To hear no musket sound,?But only the pickets calling to him,?Heartily up the mound.
For this was the order of Beauregard?Around his camp that day---?The Sign of the Cross was countersign,?(And a blessing to Dan O'Shea)?And the word came quick to Colonel Smith?For the muster of the grey.
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A HILL O' LIGHTS
Turn from Kerry crossroads and leave the wooded dells,?Take the mountain path and find where Tip O'Leary dwells;?Tip O'Leary is the name, I sing it all day long,?And every bird whose heart is wise will have it for a song.
Tip O'Leary keeps the lights of many lamps aglow,?Little matters it to him the seasons come or go,?Sure if spring is in the air his hedges are abloom,?And fairy buds like candles shine across his garden room.
Roses in the June days are light the miles around,?Tapers of the fuchsias move along the August ground,?Sumachs light the flaming torches by October's grave?And like the campfires on the hills the oaks and maples wave.
All the lights but only one die out when summer goes,?One that Tip O'Leary keeps is brighter than the rose,?Through the window comes the bloom on any winter night,?And every sense goes wild to it, soft and sweet and bright.
Lamps are fair that have the light from flowers all day long, When the birds are here and sing the Tip O'Leary song,?But a winter window is the fairest rose of all,?When Tip O'Leary's hearth is lit and lamps upon the wall.
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OFF TO THE WAR
(For Jack)
In a little ship and down the bay,?Out to the calling sea,?A young brave lad sailed off today,?To the one great war went he:?The one long war all men must know?Greater than land or gold,?Soul is the prince and flesh the foe?Of a kingdom Christ will hold.
With arms of faith and hope well-wrought?The brave lad went away,?And the voice of Christ fills all his thought,?Under two hands that pray:?The tender love of a mother's hands?That guarded all his years,?Fitted the armor, plate and bands,?And blessed them with her tears.
Older than Rhodes and Ascalon?And the farthest forts of sea,?Is the Master voice that calls him on?>From the hills in Galilee:?>From hills where Christ in gentle guise?Called, as He calls again,?With His heart of love and His love-lit eyes?Unto His warrior men.
Christ with the brave young lad to-day?Who goes to the sweet command,?Strengthen his heart wherever the way,?Whether he march or stand:?And whether he die in a peaceful cell,?Or alone in the lonely night,?The Cross of Christ shall keep him well,?And be his death's delight.
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THE TOWERS OF HOLY CROSS
(For W. M. Letts)
The roads look up to Holy Cross,?The sturdy towers look down,?And show a kindly word to all?Who pass by Worcester Town;?And once you'd see the boys at play,?Or marching cap and gown.
The gallant towers at Holy Cross?Are silent night and day,?A few young lads are left behind?Who still may take their play;?The Cross and Flag look out afar?For them that went away.
And mine are gone, says Beaven Hall,?To camps by hill and plain,?And mine along by Newport Sea,?Says the high tower of O'Kane;?I follow mine, Alumni calls,?Across the watery main.
Their sires were in the old Brigade?That won at Fontenoy,?Stood true at Washington's right hand,?that were his faith and joy:?>From Holy Cross to Fredericksburg?Is many a gallant boy.
Then God be with you, says the Cross,?And the brave towers looking down;?I'll be your cloth, sings out the Flag,?For other cap and gown,?And may we see you safe again,?On the hills of Worcester Town.
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ALWAYS MAYTIME
(for Gerry)
When May has spent its little song,?And richer comes the June,?Through former eyes the heart will long?For May again in tune;?Though large with promise hope may be,?By future visions cast,?Our memoried thoughts will yearn to see?The happy little past.
And you, my loyal little friend,?(From May to June you go),?What years of loyalty attend?Great comradeship we know;?Yet joy have me in place of tears?To see your road depart,?For whether east or west your years,?A friend stays home at heart.
Then gladly let the Springtime pass?And Summer in its wake;?Ahead are fields of flower and grass?All fragrant for your sake:?With hearts of joy we say farewell,?With laughter, wave and nod,?It's always May for us who dwell?In seasons close to God.
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THE STORYTELLER
Tim of the Tales they call me,?With a welcome heart and hand;?But little they hold my brother?For all his cattle and land.
If I be walking the high road?>From Clare that goes to the sea,?A troop of the young run leaping?To gather a story from me.
Tim of the Tales, the folk