Songs from Vagabondia | Page 7

to clink it!
Here's
a flagon of old wine,
And here are we to drink it.
Wine that maketh glad the heart
Of the bully boy!
Here's the toast
that we love most,
"Love and song and joy!"
Song that is the flower of love,
And joy that is the fruit!
Here's the
love of woman, lad,
And here's our love to boot!
You and I are far too wise
Not to fill our glasses.
Here's to me and
here's to thee,
And here's to all the lasses!
THE KAVANAGH.
A stone jug and a pewter mug,
And a table set for three!
A jug and
a mug at every place,
And a biscuit or two with Brie!
Three stone
jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn,
And a cheese like crusted foam!
The
Kavanagh receives to-night!
McMurrough is at home!
We three and the barley-bree!
And a health to the one away,
Who
drifts down careless Italy,
God's wanderer and estray!
For friends
are more than Arno's store
Of garnered charm, and he
Were blither
with us here the night
Than Titian bids him be.
Throw ope the window to the stars,
And let the warm night in!
Who
knows what revelry in Mars
May rhyme with rouse akin?
Fill up
and drain the loving cup
And leave no drop to waste!
The moon
looks in to see what's up--

Begad, she'd like a taste!

What odds if Leinster's kingly roll
Be now an idle thing?
The world
is his who takes his toll,
A vagrant or a king.
What though the
crown be melted down,
And the heir a gypsy roam?
The Kavanagh
receives to-night!
McMurrough is at home!
We three and the barley-bree!
And the moonlight on the floor!
Who
were a man to do with less?
What emperor has more?
Three stone
jugs of Cruiskeen Lawn,
And three stout hearts to drain
A slanter to
the truth in the heart of youth
And the joy of the love of men.
A CAPTAIN OF THE PRESS-GANG.
Shipmate, leave the ghostly shadows,
Where thy boon companions
throng!
We will put to sea together
Through the twilight with a
song.
Leering closer, rank and girding,
In this Black Port where we bide,

Reel a thousand flaring faces;
But escape is on the tide.
Let the tap-rooms of the city
Reek till the red dawn comes round.

There is better wine in plenty
On the cruise where we are bound.
I've aboard a hundred messmates
Better than these 'long-shore knaves.

There is wreckage on the shallows;
It's the open sea that saves.
Hark, lad, dost not hear it calling?
That's the voice thy father knew,

When he took the King's good cutlass
In his grip, and fought it
through.
Who would palter at press-money
When he heard that sea-cry vast?

That's the call makes lords of lubbers,
When they ship before the
mast.
Let thy cronies of the tavern
Keep their kisses bought with gold;
On
the high seas there are regions
Where the heart is never old,

Where the great winds every morning
Sweep the sea-floor clean and
white,
And upon the steel-blue arches
Burnish the great stars of
night;
There the open hand will lose not,
Nor the loosened tongue betray.

Signed, and with our sailing orders,
We will clear before the day;
On the shining yards of heaven
See a wider dawn unfurled....
The
eternal slaves of beauty
Are the masters of the world.
THE BUCCANEERS.
Oh, not for us the easy mirth
Of men that never roam!
The
crackling of the narrow hearth,
The cabined joys of home!
Keep
your tame, regulated glee,
O pale protected State!
Our
dwelling-place is on the sea,
Our joy the joy of Fate!
No long caresses give us ease,
No lazy languors warm,
We seize
our mates as the sea-gulls seize,
And leave them to the storm.
But
in the bridal halls of gloom
The couch is stern and strait;
For us the
marriage rite of Doom,
The nuptial joy of Fate.
Wine for the weaklings of the town,
Their lucky toasts to drain!

Our skoal for them whose star goes down,
Our drink the drink of men!

No Bacchic ivy for our brows!
Like vikings, we await
The grim,
ungarlanded carouse
We keep to-night with Fate.
Ho, gamesters of the pampered court!
What stakes are those at strife?

Your thousands are but paltry sport
To them that play for life.

You risk doubloons, and hold your breath.
Win groats, and wax elate;

But we throw loaded dice with Death,
And call the turn on Fate.
The kings of earth are crowned with care,
Their poets wail and sigh;

Our music is to do and dare,
Our empire is to die.

Against the
storm we fling our glee
And shout, till Time abate
The exultation of

the sea,
The fearful joy of Fate.
THE WAR-SONG OF GAMELBAR.
Bowmen, shout for Gamelbar!
Winds, unthrottle the wolves of war!

Heave a breath
And dare a death
For the doom of Gamelbar!

Wealth for Gamel,
Wine for Gamel,
Crimson wine for Gamelbar!
CHORUS:--Oh, sleep for a knave,
With his sins in the sod!
And death for the brave,
With his glory up
to God!
And joy for the girl,
And ease for the churl!
But the great
game of war
For our lord Gamelbar,
Gamelbar!
Spearmen, shout for Gamelbar,
With his Saxon thirty score!
Heave
a sword
For our overlord,
Lord of warriors, Gamelbar!
Life for
Gamel,
Love for Gamel,
Lady-loves for Gamelbar!
Horsemen, shout for Gamelbar!
Swim the ford and climb the scaur!

Heave a hand
For the maiden land,
The maiden land of