Ballads of Peace in War | Page 5

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.
7
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 say,
Is known the world around,
For
children by taking his stories
To their homes in foreign ground.
I pity my brother his fortunes,
And how he sits alone,
With the
money that keeps his body,
But leaves his heart a stone.
And sometimes do I be feeling
A dream of death in my ear,
And a
heaven of children calling,
"Tim of the Tales is here."
8
MY FATHER'S TUNES
My father had the gay good tunes, the like you'd seldom hear, A whole
day could he whistle them, an' thin he'd up an' sing, The merry tunes an'
twists o'them that suited all the year, An' you wouldn't ask but listen if
yourself stood there a king. Early of a mornin' would he give "The
Barefoot Boy" to us,
An' later on "The Rocky Road" or maybe
"Mountain Lark,"
"Trottin' to the Fair" was a liltin' heart of joy to us,

An' whin we heard "The Coulin" sure the night was never dark.
An' what's the good o' foolish tunes, the moilin' folks 'ud say, It's better
teach the children work an' get the crock o' gold; Thin sorra take their
wisdom whin it makes them sad an' gray,-- A man is fitter have a song
that never lets him old.
A stave of "Gillan's Apples" or a snatch of
"Come Along With Me" Will warm the cockles o' your heart, an' life
will keep its prime. Yarra, gold is all the richer whin it's "Danny, sing a
song for me" Or what's the good o' money if you're dead afore your
time.
It's sense to do your turn o' work, it's healthy to be wise, An' have the
little crock o' gold agin the day o' rain;
But whin the ground is
heaviest, your heart will feel the skies, If you know a little Irish song to
lift the road o' pain.
The learnin' an' the wealth we have are never sad
an' gray with us, The dullest times in all the year are merry as the June:

For we've the heart to up an' sing "Arise, an' come away with us,"

The way my father gave it, an' we laughin' in the tune.
9
A SONG
(For John McCormack)
June of the trees in glory,
June of the meadows gay!
O, and it works
a story
To tell an October day.
Blooms of the apple and cherry
Toil for the far-off hours;
Never is
idleness merry,
In song of the garden bowers.
Brooks to the sea from mountains,
Yea, and from field and vine:

Rain and the sun are fountains
That gather for wheat and wine.
Cellar and loft shall glory,
Table and hearth shall praise,
Hearing
October's story
Of June and the merry days.
10
A BALLAD OF FRANCE
Ye who heed a nation's call
And speed to arms therefor,
Ye who
fear your children's march
To perils of the war,--
Soldiers of the
deck and camp
And mothers of our men,
Hearken to a tale of
France
And tell it oft again.
0. * *
In the east of France by the roads of war,
(God save us evermore
from Mars and Thor!}
Up and down the fair land iron armies came,

(Pity, Jesu, all who fell, calling Thy name).
Pleasant all the fields were round every town,
Garden airs went
sweetly up, heaven smiled down;
Till under leaden hail with flaming

breath,
Graves and ashen harvest were the keep of death.
One little town stood, white on a hill,
Chapel and hostel gates, farms
and windmill,
Chapel and countryside met the gunner's path,
Till no
blade of kindly grass hid from his wrath.
Lo! When the terrain cleared out of murky air,
When mid the ruins
stalked death and despair,
One figure stood erect, bright with day,--

Christ the Crucified, though His Cross was shot away.
Flame and shot tore away all the tender wood,
Yet with arms uplifted
Christ His Figure stood;
Out reached the blessing hands, meek bowed
the head,
Christ! The saving solace o'er the waste of dead.
11
A Ballad of France
France tells the story, make our hearts know well,
Christ His Figure
stands against the gates of hell:
Flame and shot may rive the fortress
walls apart,
Christ the Crucified will heal the breaking heart.
Wear Him day and night, wherever be the war,
(God save us
evermore from Mars and Thor!)
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