JOSEPHINE

[7]An over-smart would-be gentleman; a term of contempt.

[7]

An over-smart would-be gentleman; a term of contempt.

JOSEPHINE

The presbytery has gone to pot since this house-keeper came;She’s up-to-date and stylish, but the place is not the sameSince Death’s hard summons robbed me of the sterling old machine,That wore out in my service here—my faithful Josephine.Poor Josephine, she knew me well—and, faith, she ought to know;For since the bishop sent me here, some thirty years ago,My one and only manager, my right-hand man she’d been;I never had a word against my trusted Josephine.She pottered round the place herself for thirty years and more—This new one has a thuckeen now to sweep and mind the doorAnd entertain with parish chat each gossiping voteen[8]She’d have no thuckeen near the place, would crabbéd Josephine.They tell me this one’s up-to-date—too up-to-date for me;I tremble at her polished floors, and modern cookery,The old man finds the old ways best—old springs were twice as green—I’ve heard His Lordship praise the stews of clever Josephine.My study was my sanctum once—a castle all my own—But this one with her natty ways can’t leave the place alone.Her fingers ache to tidy up; and, when she’s extra clean,I sit a stranger in my room and sigh for Josephine.She says that table’s “awful” and it drives her to despair;Perhaps it does, but method’s in what seems confusion there—I know where every paper is, each book and magazine.That jumbled pile was sacred in the eyes of Josephine.This new one hides my things away in pigeon-hole and drawer,And, faith, she does her job so well, they’re lost for evermore.She’ll have to learn to let things be as they have ever been—Just make the bed, and sweep the floor, the same as Josephine.And yet no sthreel was Josephine, for quick was she to noteMy native country’s colour coming gently through my coat;I teased her—said she ought to like the wearing of the green;She couldn’t see a joke at all, poor, solemn Josephine.She used to hide my battered hats; my old birettas, too,Just when I had them broken in, would disappear from view.I wondered where my wardrobe went, until by chance I’d seenA tramp in full pontificals subscribed by Josephine.I mind the time the bishop came, one day in early spring.We brought him round to see the school, and hear the children sing;Bedad, I was a toff that day; you’d think I was a dean,Or some commercial traveller—my thanks to Josephine.My coat was pressed, just like a swell’s; the breeches that I woreHad creases in them fore and aft like new ones from the store.I smelt like some old motor-car, exuding kerosene;I noted, too, the furtive glance of anxious Josephine.She watched His Lordship’s portly form pass proudly o’er the mat,His Majesty the curate next, with gloves and shiny hat;I’d stuck an old biretta on, that better days had seen;She came and dragged it off my head—ah, wisha, Josephine!It sometimes strikes me, now she’s gone, she’d no drawbacks at all:Her features just a shade severe, her age canonical,In fashions of her mother’s day she trod her way serene,And wasteful ways of worldly dames disgusted Josephine.She knew the place from back to front, she knew the parish through,And those who never went to Mass, and those who did, she knew;The hours arranged for this and that—she had the whole routine—And oftentimes to ease a doubt I went to Josephine.She thought I couldn’t make mistakes, not even if I tried;She felt the Holy Ghost would send a mitre ere I died;She lay in wait for wagging tongues—and, faith, her own was keen;God help the one who dared complain in front of Josephine!The people called her “curate,” yes, and “bishop” too, I hear;They even called her “parish-priest”—in disrespect, I fear.They told me that she’d “roon” the church—too long with me she’d been;But only death could give the sack to faithful Josephine.Ah, soft and sweet be sleep to her who friendless trod her trackAlong the beaten road of life that knows no turning back.I marked the splendid Irish faith that met the closing scene,And heard the beat of angels’ wings that came for Josephine.She’s in her lonely grave to-night beneath the Murray pines,And haply in their breeze-swept song a requiem divines:The people raised a little stone to keep her memory green,And handed to the winds and rain the name of Josephine.How quickly have the days gone by! she’s dead—now, let me see—She’s dead twelve months: to-morrow is her anniversary:Now who’s the Saint to-morrow? Ah, a semi—“Hedwig, Queen.”I’ll use the black—and may God rest the soul of Josephine!

The presbytery has gone to pot since this house-keeper came;

She’s up-to-date and stylish, but the place is not the same

Since Death’s hard summons robbed me of the sterling old machine,

That wore out in my service here—my faithful Josephine.

Poor Josephine, she knew me well—and, faith, she ought to know;For since the bishop sent me here, some thirty years ago,My one and only manager, my right-hand man she’d been;I never had a word against my trusted Josephine.

Poor Josephine, she knew me well—and, faith, she ought to know;

For since the bishop sent me here, some thirty years ago,

My one and only manager, my right-hand man she’d been;

I never had a word against my trusted Josephine.

She pottered round the place herself for thirty years and more—This new one has a thuckeen now to sweep and mind the doorAnd entertain with parish chat each gossiping voteen[8]She’d have no thuckeen near the place, would crabbéd Josephine.

She pottered round the place herself for thirty years and more—

This new one has a thuckeen now to sweep and mind the door

And entertain with parish chat each gossiping voteen[8]

She’d have no thuckeen near the place, would crabbéd Josephine.

They tell me this one’s up-to-date—too up-to-date for me;I tremble at her polished floors, and modern cookery,The old man finds the old ways best—old springs were twice as green—I’ve heard His Lordship praise the stews of clever Josephine.

They tell me this one’s up-to-date—too up-to-date for me;

I tremble at her polished floors, and modern cookery,

The old man finds the old ways best—old springs were twice as green—

I’ve heard His Lordship praise the stews of clever Josephine.

My study was my sanctum once—a castle all my own—But this one with her natty ways can’t leave the place alone.Her fingers ache to tidy up; and, when she’s extra clean,I sit a stranger in my room and sigh for Josephine.

My study was my sanctum once—a castle all my own—

But this one with her natty ways can’t leave the place alone.

Her fingers ache to tidy up; and, when she’s extra clean,

I sit a stranger in my room and sigh for Josephine.

She says that table’s “awful” and it drives her to despair;Perhaps it does, but method’s in what seems confusion there—I know where every paper is, each book and magazine.That jumbled pile was sacred in the eyes of Josephine.

She says that table’s “awful” and it drives her to despair;

Perhaps it does, but method’s in what seems confusion there—

I know where every paper is, each book and magazine.

That jumbled pile was sacred in the eyes of Josephine.

This new one hides my things away in pigeon-hole and drawer,And, faith, she does her job so well, they’re lost for evermore.She’ll have to learn to let things be as they have ever been—Just make the bed, and sweep the floor, the same as Josephine.

This new one hides my things away in pigeon-hole and drawer,

And, faith, she does her job so well, they’re lost for evermore.

She’ll have to learn to let things be as they have ever been—

Just make the bed, and sweep the floor, the same as Josephine.

And yet no sthreel was Josephine, for quick was she to noteMy native country’s colour coming gently through my coat;I teased her—said she ought to like the wearing of the green;She couldn’t see a joke at all, poor, solemn Josephine.

And yet no sthreel was Josephine, for quick was she to note

My native country’s colour coming gently through my coat;

I teased her—said she ought to like the wearing of the green;

She couldn’t see a joke at all, poor, solemn Josephine.

She used to hide my battered hats; my old birettas, too,Just when I had them broken in, would disappear from view.I wondered where my wardrobe went, until by chance I’d seenA tramp in full pontificals subscribed by Josephine.

She used to hide my battered hats; my old birettas, too,

Just when I had them broken in, would disappear from view.

I wondered where my wardrobe went, until by chance I’d seen

A tramp in full pontificals subscribed by Josephine.

I mind the time the bishop came, one day in early spring.We brought him round to see the school, and hear the children sing;Bedad, I was a toff that day; you’d think I was a dean,Or some commercial traveller—my thanks to Josephine.

I mind the time the bishop came, one day in early spring.

We brought him round to see the school, and hear the children sing;

Bedad, I was a toff that day; you’d think I was a dean,

Or some commercial traveller—my thanks to Josephine.

My coat was pressed, just like a swell’s; the breeches that I woreHad creases in them fore and aft like new ones from the store.I smelt like some old motor-car, exuding kerosene;I noted, too, the furtive glance of anxious Josephine.

My coat was pressed, just like a swell’s; the breeches that I wore

Had creases in them fore and aft like new ones from the store.

I smelt like some old motor-car, exuding kerosene;

I noted, too, the furtive glance of anxious Josephine.

She watched His Lordship’s portly form pass proudly o’er the mat,His Majesty the curate next, with gloves and shiny hat;I’d stuck an old biretta on, that better days had seen;She came and dragged it off my head—ah, wisha, Josephine!

She watched His Lordship’s portly form pass proudly o’er the mat,

His Majesty the curate next, with gloves and shiny hat;

I’d stuck an old biretta on, that better days had seen;

She came and dragged it off my head—ah, wisha, Josephine!

It sometimes strikes me, now she’s gone, she’d no drawbacks at all:Her features just a shade severe, her age canonical,In fashions of her mother’s day she trod her way serene,And wasteful ways of worldly dames disgusted Josephine.

It sometimes strikes me, now she’s gone, she’d no drawbacks at all:

Her features just a shade severe, her age canonical,

In fashions of her mother’s day she trod her way serene,

And wasteful ways of worldly dames disgusted Josephine.

She knew the place from back to front, she knew the parish through,And those who never went to Mass, and those who did, she knew;The hours arranged for this and that—she had the whole routine—And oftentimes to ease a doubt I went to Josephine.

She knew the place from back to front, she knew the parish through,

And those who never went to Mass, and those who did, she knew;

The hours arranged for this and that—she had the whole routine—

And oftentimes to ease a doubt I went to Josephine.

She thought I couldn’t make mistakes, not even if I tried;She felt the Holy Ghost would send a mitre ere I died;She lay in wait for wagging tongues—and, faith, her own was keen;God help the one who dared complain in front of Josephine!

She thought I couldn’t make mistakes, not even if I tried;

She felt the Holy Ghost would send a mitre ere I died;

She lay in wait for wagging tongues—and, faith, her own was keen;

God help the one who dared complain in front of Josephine!

The people called her “curate,” yes, and “bishop” too, I hear;They even called her “parish-priest”—in disrespect, I fear.They told me that she’d “roon” the church—too long with me she’d been;But only death could give the sack to faithful Josephine.

The people called her “curate,” yes, and “bishop” too, I hear;

They even called her “parish-priest”—in disrespect, I fear.

They told me that she’d “roon” the church—too long with me she’d been;

But only death could give the sack to faithful Josephine.

Ah, soft and sweet be sleep to her who friendless trod her trackAlong the beaten road of life that knows no turning back.I marked the splendid Irish faith that met the closing scene,And heard the beat of angels’ wings that came for Josephine.

Ah, soft and sweet be sleep to her who friendless trod her track

Along the beaten road of life that knows no turning back.

I marked the splendid Irish faith that met the closing scene,

And heard the beat of angels’ wings that came for Josephine.

She’s in her lonely grave to-night beneath the Murray pines,And haply in their breeze-swept song a requiem divines:The people raised a little stone to keep her memory green,And handed to the winds and rain the name of Josephine.

She’s in her lonely grave to-night beneath the Murray pines,

And haply in their breeze-swept song a requiem divines:

The people raised a little stone to keep her memory green,

And handed to the winds and rain the name of Josephine.

How quickly have the days gone by! she’s dead—now, let me see—She’s dead twelve months: to-morrow is her anniversary:Now who’s the Saint to-morrow? Ah, a semi—“Hedwig, Queen.”I’ll use the black—and may God rest the soul of Josephine!

How quickly have the days gone by! she’s dead—now, let me see—

She’s dead twelve months: to-morrow is her anniversary:

Now who’s the Saint to-morrow? Ah, a semi—“Hedwig, Queen.”

I’ll use the black—and may God rest the soul of Josephine!

[8]A person who exaggerates his or her religious devotion.

[8]

A person who exaggerates his or her religious devotion.

THE OLD MASS SHANDRYDAN

I can see it in my dreaming o’er a gap of thirty years,And the rattle of its boxes still is music in my ears:With a bow to family vanity it rises from the pastAs the pride of the selection where my humble youth was cast.It was fashioned in a nightmare by some wandering genius,And it wasn’t quite a waggon, and it wasn’t quite a ’bus;’Twas an old four-wheeled gazabo that was something in between,And the wheels were painted yellow, and the rest was painted green(It would waken lively interest in the antiquarian)And ’twas known to all the country as the Old Mass Shandrydan.It did duty on a week-day in a dozen ways and more,And it seemed just made to order for whate’er ’twas wanted for;It would cart the chaff to market, carry wood and hay in turn,And the neighbours in rotation used to cadge the old concern.But the Sundays we were due for Mass would cancel every loan,For the Little Irish Mother then would claim it for her own.She inspected it the day before (and criticized it, too),And the ten of us were set to work to make it look like new.There was one to every yellow wheel—ay, one to every spoke;One to nail a piece of hardwood on the part “them Careys” broke:Another from the floor of it the chips and straw would rake,While the Dad went searching rubbish-heaps for old boots for the brake:So we rubbed and scrubbed and hammered up, and beat the rattertanTill it stood in all its glory as the Old Mass Shandrydan.When at last, with velvet sandals shod, the Holy Morning creptThrough the mists above The Sugarloaf, that silent vigil keptO’er a little old slab dwelling which the years have brushed away,You would hear the Little Mother stirring round before the day,Rousing sleepy heads from blankets, washing faces, doing hair,Scolding, coaxing, bustling, breathless in her hurry everywhere.Half the night before she laboured, and we’d hear her come and goWith the Sunday suits of “reach-me-downs” to place them in a row.There was this to patch, and that to darn, and something else to mend;She would see to every single thing before her work would end,To the dresses and the pinnies—oh, the memory she had!—There were lace-up boots for Morgan, and a clean white shirt for Dad.And the hubbub and the murder that the household used to make,When she had us tumbled out of bed, and painfully awake.Here a voice in anguish lifted to announce a button gone;Someone calling from the back-room “Mum, what socks will I put on?”While “Himself” was like a Bolshevik athirst for human blood,Shouting “Mother,” as he wrastled with a fractious collar-stud.But she kept the tumult under till she had us spick and span,Packed like pickles in a bottle in the Old Mass Shandrydan.We had ten good miles to drive to Mass—and Mass was sharp at eight;But we’d never hear the end of it if something kept us late;So we started ere the morning hung its bunting in the sky,And the kookaburras chortled as we rumbled slowly by.For the frost was on the barley, and the rime was on the trees,And our little faces smarted with the whip-lash of the breeze,Still we watched the branches redden to the first kiss of the sunAnd we counted all the cart-wheels that the busy spiders spun,Then the magpies sang to greet us, and our little hearts beganTo forget that we were shivering in the Old Mass Shandrydan.So the old contraption lumbered, safely towed, as Dad knew how,By a pair of hefty elephants promoted from the plough,And it rattled like a saw-mill, and it thundered like a dray;Faith, you’d hear the circus coming a half-a-dozen miles away!All along the road the neighbours used to take the time from us,For they never made a start until they heard our omnibus;Then a shrill soprano shouted, “Put the horses in the van,“Them’s The Sugarloaf O’Briens in the Old Mass Shandrydan.”We were first to Carey’s Crossing, first to reach Moloney’s Mill,But the opposition caught us as we laboured up the hill;Then the air became electric as they tried to pass us by,For “Himself” for family reasons (which I needn’t specify)Kept the road in deadly earnest, and would never seem to hearThe abuse of the procession that was gathering in the rear.Oh, they whistled and they shouted till their feelings overflowed,But the old man in the Dreadnought was the master of the road.It was suicide to bump it, and the horses wouldn’t shy,So he trundled on before them with a bad look in his eye.Then, as suddenly the whistling and the bantering shouting ceasedAnd a solemn hush denoted the arrival of the priest,Would a fine “good Catholic” thunder “Yerra, shame upon you, man!Pull one side there, Pat O’Brien, with your Old Mass Shandrydan.”Pull! Bedad, he’d pull the town down when His Reverence hove in sight,Pulled his hat off with the left hand, and pipe out with the right;Pulled his family in the gutter, pulled the horses off their feet,And a shower of small O’Briens went skedaddling from the seat.Then they rattled loudly past us, and a wild stampede began,For they all had family reasons to outpace the other man.There were buggies, traps, and turnouts there of every shape and rig;There were Murphys in a spring-cart, and the Caseys in a gig;There were Barnes’ ponies pounding twixt a gallop and a trot,While the Careys with their pacing-mare went sailing past the lot.Faith, we had it in for Carey, and our disrespect increasedAt the cheek of “them there Careys who would try to beat the priest.”No, we wouldn’t stoop to things like that; we’d act the gentlemanHalf a mile behind the others in the Old Mass Shandrydan.It’s a long way back I’m gazing, and the stage has changed since then;Just an echo finds me sometimes, bringing back the scene again.Oh, the heart beats slower measure than it used to beat, alas,When a Little Irish Mother dressed us all in time for Mass.I have lounged in fast expresses, I have travelled first saloon,I have heard the haunting music that the winds and waters croon,I have seen the road careering from a whirring motor-car,Where the Careys couldn’t pass us, or our sense of fitness jar;But the world is somehow smaller, somehow less enchanting thanWhen I saw it o’er the tail-board of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

I can see it in my dreaming o’er a gap of thirty years,

And the rattle of its boxes still is music in my ears:

With a bow to family vanity it rises from the past

As the pride of the selection where my humble youth was cast.

It was fashioned in a nightmare by some wandering genius,

And it wasn’t quite a waggon, and it wasn’t quite a ’bus;

’Twas an old four-wheeled gazabo that was something in between,

And the wheels were painted yellow, and the rest was painted green

(It would waken lively interest in the antiquarian)

And ’twas known to all the country as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It did duty on a week-day in a dozen ways and more,And it seemed just made to order for whate’er ’twas wanted for;It would cart the chaff to market, carry wood and hay in turn,And the neighbours in rotation used to cadge the old concern.But the Sundays we were due for Mass would cancel every loan,For the Little Irish Mother then would claim it for her own.She inspected it the day before (and criticized it, too),And the ten of us were set to work to make it look like new.There was one to every yellow wheel—ay, one to every spoke;One to nail a piece of hardwood on the part “them Careys” broke:Another from the floor of it the chips and straw would rake,While the Dad went searching rubbish-heaps for old boots for the brake:So we rubbed and scrubbed and hammered up, and beat the rattertanTill it stood in all its glory as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It did duty on a week-day in a dozen ways and more,

And it seemed just made to order for whate’er ’twas wanted for;

It would cart the chaff to market, carry wood and hay in turn,

And the neighbours in rotation used to cadge the old concern.

But the Sundays we were due for Mass would cancel every loan,

For the Little Irish Mother then would claim it for her own.

She inspected it the day before (and criticized it, too),

And the ten of us were set to work to make it look like new.

There was one to every yellow wheel—ay, one to every spoke;

One to nail a piece of hardwood on the part “them Careys” broke:

Another from the floor of it the chips and straw would rake,

While the Dad went searching rubbish-heaps for old boots for the brake:

So we rubbed and scrubbed and hammered up, and beat the rattertan

Till it stood in all its glory as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

When at last, with velvet sandals shod, the Holy Morning creptThrough the mists above The Sugarloaf, that silent vigil keptO’er a little old slab dwelling which the years have brushed away,You would hear the Little Mother stirring round before the day,Rousing sleepy heads from blankets, washing faces, doing hair,Scolding, coaxing, bustling, breathless in her hurry everywhere.Half the night before she laboured, and we’d hear her come and goWith the Sunday suits of “reach-me-downs” to place them in a row.There was this to patch, and that to darn, and something else to mend;She would see to every single thing before her work would end,To the dresses and the pinnies—oh, the memory she had!—There were lace-up boots for Morgan, and a clean white shirt for Dad.And the hubbub and the murder that the household used to make,When she had us tumbled out of bed, and painfully awake.Here a voice in anguish lifted to announce a button gone;Someone calling from the back-room “Mum, what socks will I put on?”While “Himself” was like a Bolshevik athirst for human blood,Shouting “Mother,” as he wrastled with a fractious collar-stud.But she kept the tumult under till she had us spick and span,Packed like pickles in a bottle in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

When at last, with velvet sandals shod, the Holy Morning crept

Through the mists above The Sugarloaf, that silent vigil kept

O’er a little old slab dwelling which the years have brushed away,

You would hear the Little Mother stirring round before the day,

Rousing sleepy heads from blankets, washing faces, doing hair,

Scolding, coaxing, bustling, breathless in her hurry everywhere.

Half the night before she laboured, and we’d hear her come and go

With the Sunday suits of “reach-me-downs” to place them in a row.

There was this to patch, and that to darn, and something else to mend;

She would see to every single thing before her work would end,

To the dresses and the pinnies—oh, the memory she had!—

There were lace-up boots for Morgan, and a clean white shirt for Dad.

And the hubbub and the murder that the household used to make,

When she had us tumbled out of bed, and painfully awake.

Here a voice in anguish lifted to announce a button gone;

Someone calling from the back-room “Mum, what socks will I put on?”

While “Himself” was like a Bolshevik athirst for human blood,

Shouting “Mother,” as he wrastled with a fractious collar-stud.

But she kept the tumult under till she had us spick and span,

Packed like pickles in a bottle in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

We had ten good miles to drive to Mass—and Mass was sharp at eight;But we’d never hear the end of it if something kept us late;So we started ere the morning hung its bunting in the sky,And the kookaburras chortled as we rumbled slowly by.For the frost was on the barley, and the rime was on the trees,And our little faces smarted with the whip-lash of the breeze,Still we watched the branches redden to the first kiss of the sunAnd we counted all the cart-wheels that the busy spiders spun,Then the magpies sang to greet us, and our little hearts beganTo forget that we were shivering in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

We had ten good miles to drive to Mass—and Mass was sharp at eight;

But we’d never hear the end of it if something kept us late;

So we started ere the morning hung its bunting in the sky,

And the kookaburras chortled as we rumbled slowly by.

For the frost was on the barley, and the rime was on the trees,

And our little faces smarted with the whip-lash of the breeze,

Still we watched the branches redden to the first kiss of the sun

And we counted all the cart-wheels that the busy spiders spun,

Then the magpies sang to greet us, and our little hearts began

To forget that we were shivering in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

So the old contraption lumbered, safely towed, as Dad knew how,By a pair of hefty elephants promoted from the plough,And it rattled like a saw-mill, and it thundered like a dray;Faith, you’d hear the circus coming a half-a-dozen miles away!All along the road the neighbours used to take the time from us,For they never made a start until they heard our omnibus;Then a shrill soprano shouted, “Put the horses in the van,“Them’s The Sugarloaf O’Briens in the Old Mass Shandrydan.”

So the old contraption lumbered, safely towed, as Dad knew how,

By a pair of hefty elephants promoted from the plough,

And it rattled like a saw-mill, and it thundered like a dray;

Faith, you’d hear the circus coming a half-a-dozen miles away!

All along the road the neighbours used to take the time from us,

For they never made a start until they heard our omnibus;

Then a shrill soprano shouted, “Put the horses in the van,

“Them’s The Sugarloaf O’Briens in the Old Mass Shandrydan.”

We were first to Carey’s Crossing, first to reach Moloney’s Mill,But the opposition caught us as we laboured up the hill;Then the air became electric as they tried to pass us by,For “Himself” for family reasons (which I needn’t specify)Kept the road in deadly earnest, and would never seem to hearThe abuse of the procession that was gathering in the rear.Oh, they whistled and they shouted till their feelings overflowed,But the old man in the Dreadnought was the master of the road.It was suicide to bump it, and the horses wouldn’t shy,So he trundled on before them with a bad look in his eye.Then, as suddenly the whistling and the bantering shouting ceasedAnd a solemn hush denoted the arrival of the priest,Would a fine “good Catholic” thunder “Yerra, shame upon you, man!Pull one side there, Pat O’Brien, with your Old Mass Shandrydan.”

We were first to Carey’s Crossing, first to reach Moloney’s Mill,

But the opposition caught us as we laboured up the hill;

Then the air became electric as they tried to pass us by,

For “Himself” for family reasons (which I needn’t specify)

Kept the road in deadly earnest, and would never seem to hear

The abuse of the procession that was gathering in the rear.

Oh, they whistled and they shouted till their feelings overflowed,

But the old man in the Dreadnought was the master of the road.

It was suicide to bump it, and the horses wouldn’t shy,

So he trundled on before them with a bad look in his eye.

Then, as suddenly the whistling and the bantering shouting ceased

And a solemn hush denoted the arrival of the priest,

Would a fine “good Catholic” thunder “Yerra, shame upon you, man!

Pull one side there, Pat O’Brien, with your Old Mass Shandrydan.”

Pull! Bedad, he’d pull the town down when His Reverence hove in sight,Pulled his hat off with the left hand, and pipe out with the right;Pulled his family in the gutter, pulled the horses off their feet,And a shower of small O’Briens went skedaddling from the seat.Then they rattled loudly past us, and a wild stampede began,For they all had family reasons to outpace the other man.There were buggies, traps, and turnouts there of every shape and rig;There were Murphys in a spring-cart, and the Caseys in a gig;There were Barnes’ ponies pounding twixt a gallop and a trot,While the Careys with their pacing-mare went sailing past the lot.Faith, we had it in for Carey, and our disrespect increasedAt the cheek of “them there Careys who would try to beat the priest.”No, we wouldn’t stoop to things like that; we’d act the gentlemanHalf a mile behind the others in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

Pull! Bedad, he’d pull the town down when His Reverence hove in sight,

Pulled his hat off with the left hand, and pipe out with the right;

Pulled his family in the gutter, pulled the horses off their feet,

And a shower of small O’Briens went skedaddling from the seat.

Then they rattled loudly past us, and a wild stampede began,

For they all had family reasons to outpace the other man.

There were buggies, traps, and turnouts there of every shape and rig;

There were Murphys in a spring-cart, and the Caseys in a gig;

There were Barnes’ ponies pounding twixt a gallop and a trot,

While the Careys with their pacing-mare went sailing past the lot.

Faith, we had it in for Carey, and our disrespect increased

At the cheek of “them there Careys who would try to beat the priest.”

No, we wouldn’t stoop to things like that; we’d act the gentleman

Half a mile behind the others in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It’s a long way back I’m gazing, and the stage has changed since then;Just an echo finds me sometimes, bringing back the scene again.Oh, the heart beats slower measure than it used to beat, alas,When a Little Irish Mother dressed us all in time for Mass.I have lounged in fast expresses, I have travelled first saloon,I have heard the haunting music that the winds and waters croon,I have seen the road careering from a whirring motor-car,Where the Careys couldn’t pass us, or our sense of fitness jar;But the world is somehow smaller, somehow less enchanting thanWhen I saw it o’er the tail-board of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It’s a long way back I’m gazing, and the stage has changed since then;

Just an echo finds me sometimes, bringing back the scene again.

Oh, the heart beats slower measure than it used to beat, alas,

When a Little Irish Mother dressed us all in time for Mass.

I have lounged in fast expresses, I have travelled first saloon,

I have heard the haunting music that the winds and waters croon,

I have seen the road careering from a whirring motor-car,

Where the Careys couldn’t pass us, or our sense of fitness jar;

But the world is somehow smaller, somehow less enchanting than

When I saw it o’er the tail-board of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

PITCHIN’ AT THE CHURCH

On the Sunday morning mustered,Yarning at our ease;Buggies, traps and jinkers clusteredUnderneath the trees,Horses tethered to the fences;Thus we hold our conferencesWaiting till the priest commences—Pitchin’ at the Church.Sheltering in the summer’s shiningWhere the shadows fall;When the winter’s sun is pining,Lined along the wall;Yarning, reckoning, ruminating,“Yeos” and lambs and wool debating,Squatting, smoking, idly waiting—Pitchin’ at the Church.Young bloods gathered from the othersTell their dreamings o’er;Beaded-bonneted old mothersGrouped around the door:Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy,All that’s neat and sweet and airy—Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mary—Pitchin’ at the Church.Up comes someone briskly driving,“Cutting matters fine”:All his “fam’ly lot” arrivingWander in a lineOff in some precise direction,Till they find their proper section,Greet it with an interjection—Pitchin’ at the Church.“Mornun’, Jack.” “Good mornun’, Martin.”“Keepin’ pretty dry!”“When d’you think you’ll finish cartin’?”“Prices ain’t too high?”Round about the yarnin’ strayin’—Dances, sickness—frocks surveyin’—Wheat is “growed,” the “hens is layin’ ”—Pitchin’ at the Church.

On the Sunday morning mustered,

Yarning at our ease;

Buggies, traps and jinkers clustered

Underneath the trees,

Horses tethered to the fences;

Thus we hold our conferences

Waiting till the priest commences—

Pitchin’ at the Church.

Sheltering in the summer’s shiningWhere the shadows fall;When the winter’s sun is pining,Lined along the wall;Yarning, reckoning, ruminating,“Yeos” and lambs and wool debating,Squatting, smoking, idly waiting—Pitchin’ at the Church.

Sheltering in the summer’s shining

Where the shadows fall;

When the winter’s sun is pining,

Lined along the wall;

Yarning, reckoning, ruminating,

“Yeos” and lambs and wool debating,

Squatting, smoking, idly waiting—

Pitchin’ at the Church.

Young bloods gathered from the othersTell their dreamings o’er;Beaded-bonneted old mothersGrouped around the door:Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy,All that’s neat and sweet and airy—Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mary—Pitchin’ at the Church.

Young bloods gathered from the others

Tell their dreamings o’er;

Beaded-bonneted old mothers

Grouped around the door:

Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy,

All that’s neat and sweet and airy—

Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mary—

Pitchin’ at the Church.

Up comes someone briskly driving,“Cutting matters fine”:All his “fam’ly lot” arrivingWander in a lineOff in some precise direction,Till they find their proper section,Greet it with an interjection—Pitchin’ at the Church.

Up comes someone briskly driving,

“Cutting matters fine”:

All his “fam’ly lot” arriving

Wander in a line

Off in some precise direction,

Till they find their proper section,

Greet it with an interjection—

Pitchin’ at the Church.

“Mornun’, Jack.” “Good mornun’, Martin.”“Keepin’ pretty dry!”“When d’you think you’ll finish cartin’?”“Prices ain’t too high?”Round about the yarnin’ strayin’—Dances, sickness—frocks surveyin’—Wheat is “growed,” the “hens is layin’ ”—Pitchin’ at the Church.

“Mornun’, Jack.” “Good mornun’, Martin.”

“Keepin’ pretty dry!”

“When d’you think you’ll finish cartin’?”

“Prices ain’t too high?”

Round about the yarnin’ strayin’—

Dances, sickness—frocks surveyin’—

Wheat is “growed,” the “hens is layin’ ”—

Pitchin’ at the Church.

SAID HANRAHAN

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,In accents most forlorn,Outside the church, ere Mass began,One frosty Sunday morn.The congregation stood about,Coat-collars to the ears,And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,As it had done for years.“It’s lookin’ crook,” said Daniel Croke;“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad,For never since the banks went brokeHas seasons been so bad.”“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil,With which astute remarkHe squatted down upon his heelAnd chewed a piece of bark.And so around the chorus ran“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan“Before the year is out.“The crops are done; ye’ll have your workTo save one bag of grain;From here way out to Back-o’-BourkeThey’re singin’ out for rain.“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said,“And all the tanks are dry.”The congregation scratched its head,And gazed around the sky.“There won’t be grass, in any case,Enough to feed an ass;There’s not a blade on Casey’s placeAs I came down to Mass.”“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,And cleared his throat to speak—“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,“If rain don’t come this week.”A heavy silence seemed to stealOn all at this remark;And each man squatted on his heel,And chewed a piece of bark.“We want a inch of rain, we do,”O’Neil observed at last;But Croke “maintained” we wanted twoTo put the danger past.“If we don’t get three inches, man,Or four to break this drought,We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,“Before the year is out.”In God’s good time down came the rain;And all the afternoonOn iron roof and window-paneIt drummed a homely tune.And through the night it pattered still,And lightsome, gladsome elvesOn dripping spout and window-sillKept talking to themselves.It pelted, pelted all day long,A-singing at its work,Till every heart took up the songWay out to Back-o’-Bourke.And every creek a banker ran,And dams filled overtop;“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,“If this rain doesn’t stop.”And stop it did, in God’s good time;And spring came in to foldA mantle o’er the hills sublimeOf green and pink and gold.And days went by on dancing feet,With harvest-hopes immense,And laughing eyes beheld the wheatNid-nodding o’er the fence.And, oh, the smiles on every face,As happy lad and lassThrough grass knee-deep on Casey’s placeWent riding down to Mass.While round the church in clothes genteelDiscoursed the men of mark,And each man squatted on his heel,And chewed his piece of bark.“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,There will, without a doubt;We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,“Before the year is out.”

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,In accents most forlorn,Outside the church, ere Mass began,One frosty Sunday morn.

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

In accents most forlorn,

Outside the church, ere Mass began,

One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,Coat-collars to the ears,And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,As it had done for years.

The congregation stood about,

Coat-collars to the ears,

And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,

As it had done for years.

“It’s lookin’ crook,” said Daniel Croke;“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad,For never since the banks went brokeHas seasons been so bad.”

“It’s lookin’ crook,” said Daniel Croke;

“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad,

For never since the banks went broke

Has seasons been so bad.”

“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil,With which astute remarkHe squatted down upon his heelAnd chewed a piece of bark.

“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil,

With which astute remark

He squatted down upon his heel

And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan“Before the year is out.

And so around the chorus ran

“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan

“Before the year is out.

“The crops are done; ye’ll have your workTo save one bag of grain;From here way out to Back-o’-BourkeThey’re singin’ out for rain.

“The crops are done; ye’ll have your work

To save one bag of grain;

From here way out to Back-o’-Bourke

They’re singin’ out for rain.

“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said,“And all the tanks are dry.”The congregation scratched its head,And gazed around the sky.

“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said,

“And all the tanks are dry.”

The congregation scratched its head,

And gazed around the sky.

“There won’t be grass, in any case,Enough to feed an ass;There’s not a blade on Casey’s placeAs I came down to Mass.”

“There won’t be grass, in any case,

Enough to feed an ass;

There’s not a blade on Casey’s place

As I came down to Mass.”

“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,And cleared his throat to speak—“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,“If rain don’t come this week.”

“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,

And cleared his throat to speak—

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

“If rain don’t come this week.”

A heavy silence seemed to stealOn all at this remark;And each man squatted on his heel,And chewed a piece of bark.

A heavy silence seemed to steal

On all at this remark;

And each man squatted on his heel,

And chewed a piece of bark.

“We want a inch of rain, we do,”O’Neil observed at last;But Croke “maintained” we wanted twoTo put the danger past.

“We want a inch of rain, we do,”

O’Neil observed at last;

But Croke “maintained” we wanted two

To put the danger past.

“If we don’t get three inches, man,Or four to break this drought,We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,“Before the year is out.”

“If we don’t get three inches, man,

Or four to break this drought,

We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

“Before the year is out.”

In God’s good time down came the rain;And all the afternoonOn iron roof and window-paneIt drummed a homely tune.

In God’s good time down came the rain;

And all the afternoon

On iron roof and window-pane

It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,And lightsome, gladsome elvesOn dripping spout and window-sillKept talking to themselves.

And through the night it pattered still,

And lightsome, gladsome elves

On dripping spout and window-sill

Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long,A-singing at its work,Till every heart took up the songWay out to Back-o’-Bourke.

It pelted, pelted all day long,

A-singing at its work,

Till every heart took up the song

Way out to Back-o’-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,And dams filled overtop;“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,“If this rain doesn’t stop.”

And every creek a banker ran,

And dams filled overtop;

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

“If this rain doesn’t stop.”

And stop it did, in God’s good time;And spring came in to foldA mantle o’er the hills sublimeOf green and pink and gold.

And stop it did, in God’s good time;

And spring came in to fold

A mantle o’er the hills sublime

Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet,With harvest-hopes immense,And laughing eyes beheld the wheatNid-nodding o’er the fence.

And days went by on dancing feet,

With harvest-hopes immense,

And laughing eyes beheld the wheat

Nid-nodding o’er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,As happy lad and lassThrough grass knee-deep on Casey’s placeWent riding down to Mass.

And, oh, the smiles on every face,

As happy lad and lass

Through grass knee-deep on Casey’s place

Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteelDiscoursed the men of mark,And each man squatted on his heel,And chewed his piece of bark.

While round the church in clothes genteel

Discoursed the men of mark,

And each man squatted on his heel,

And chewed his piece of bark.

“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,There will, without a doubt;We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,“Before the year is out.”

“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,

There will, without a doubt;

We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,

“Before the year is out.”

THE TIDY LITTLE BODY

Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy little body,Just as trim and prim and handy as you’d ever wish to see(She was well upon the weather-beaten side of thirty-three);And she’d chuckle and she’d titter when the people used to twit herOn the most pronounced attentions of one Lanty Hallissey(Now this Lanty was a bachelor of some antiquity).Well, he’d said good-bye to fifty; he was solemn, he was thrifty,And he’d come to Mass each Sunday decorated handsomely(With an eye upon the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see);And you’d see him titivated in a much abbreviatedKind o’ sort o’ style of swallow-tail that flogged him viciously(Which it needed the judicious use of treacle at the knee);And his hat was like a Quaker’s; but some fifteen hundred acresMore than evened up the lee-way of the said deficiency(Faith, he had a tidy cottage on the little property).So, when Mass at length was over, round his jinker he would hover,While the women teased the Tidy Little Body merrily(And my hero was unconscious of their jesting, homely glee);There he’d fool about, and truckle with a strap or with a buckle,And tighten this, and loosen that, a-gammon he do be(With the eye out for the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see).And the more they used to tease her, well, the more it seemed to please her;And she wriggled and she giggled, and she tittered girlishly—“Oh, it’s all so very silly. Picture Mr. Hallissey!”But, bedad, for all her stricture on the paintin’ of the picture,There were some of ’em a-bouncin’ in the swithers—true for me—When the Tidy Little Body married Lanty Hallissey.

Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy little body,

Just as trim and prim and handy as you’d ever wish to see

(She was well upon the weather-beaten side of thirty-three);

And she’d chuckle and she’d titter when the people used to twit her

On the most pronounced attentions of one Lanty Hallissey

(Now this Lanty was a bachelor of some antiquity).

Well, he’d said good-bye to fifty; he was solemn, he was thrifty,And he’d come to Mass each Sunday decorated handsomely(With an eye upon the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see);And you’d see him titivated in a much abbreviatedKind o’ sort o’ style of swallow-tail that flogged him viciously(Which it needed the judicious use of treacle at the knee);

Well, he’d said good-bye to fifty; he was solemn, he was thrifty,

And he’d come to Mass each Sunday decorated handsomely

(With an eye upon the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see);

And you’d see him titivated in a much abbreviated

Kind o’ sort o’ style of swallow-tail that flogged him viciously

(Which it needed the judicious use of treacle at the knee);

And his hat was like a Quaker’s; but some fifteen hundred acresMore than evened up the lee-way of the said deficiency(Faith, he had a tidy cottage on the little property).So, when Mass at length was over, round his jinker he would hover,While the women teased the Tidy Little Body merrily(And my hero was unconscious of their jesting, homely glee);

And his hat was like a Quaker’s; but some fifteen hundred acres

More than evened up the lee-way of the said deficiency

(Faith, he had a tidy cottage on the little property).

So, when Mass at length was over, round his jinker he would hover,

While the women teased the Tidy Little Body merrily

(And my hero was unconscious of their jesting, homely glee);

There he’d fool about, and truckle with a strap or with a buckle,And tighten this, and loosen that, a-gammon he do be(With the eye out for the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see).And the more they used to tease her, well, the more it seemed to please her;And she wriggled and she giggled, and she tittered girlishly—“Oh, it’s all so very silly. Picture Mr. Hallissey!”

There he’d fool about, and truckle with a strap or with a buckle,

And tighten this, and loosen that, a-gammon he do be

(With the eye out for the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see).

And the more they used to tease her, well, the more it seemed to please her;

And she wriggled and she giggled, and she tittered girlishly—

“Oh, it’s all so very silly. Picture Mr. Hallissey!”

But, bedad, for all her stricture on the paintin’ of the picture,There were some of ’em a-bouncin’ in the swithers—true for me—When the Tidy Little Body married Lanty Hallissey.

But, bedad, for all her stricture on the paintin’ of the picture,

There were some of ’em a-bouncin’ in the swithers—true for me—

When the Tidy Little Body married Lanty Hallissey.

THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH

Faith, ’tis good to see him comin’ when the bell for Mass is flingin’Gladsome golden notes appealin’ on the Sabbath-softened air,Sweet compellin’ invitations to the congregation stringin’Up the road to old St. Michael’s, on the blessed day of prayer.You might seek the boundin’ gait of him in any youth or maidenWith the rhythmic pulse of summer, and in vain would be the search;Steppin’ on with fine importance, like a general paradin’In his Sunday regimentals, comes the Pillar of the Church.There be mighty ones a-comin’, most bedazzlin’ in their dressin’—Silken, swishin’, sweepin’ garments, gold and gems so fine to see;There be homely ones in “fine clothes” with no less assurance pressin’,And the candid smell of moth-balls clingin’ round the finery,There be strength and fashion flauntin’ this their hour above their neighbours;Little faded beaded bonnets droppin’ slowly to the rear;Aged achin’ shoulders stoopin’ ’neath the trials and the labours,Hobblin’ on and crutch-supported where they hastened yester-year.But there’s somethin’ in the step of him, there’s somethin’ in his bearin’,Somethin’ haughty-like and scornful, as he paces to the fore,Somethin’ swellin’ out responsive to the flattery of the starin’,Of the little groups discussin’ parish gossip round the door.What if through the workin’ week-days, fame his humble labours scornin’,He is just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch,Whose opinions matter nothin’—here he is the Blessed Mornin’In his Sunday regimentals,—and the Pillar of the Church.Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he, and woe to them who’d doubt him;Faith, he’d put them to the right-about, and face them to the rear,For it’s never parish-priest there’s been could carry on without him,Since St. Michael’s been a parish church—it’s goin’ on fifty year.Don’t we see him time and time again, the chest of him expandin’,Superintendin’ things that matter not, and things that matter much?Don’t we see him with “the gentlemen,” the officer commandin’,Every Christmas Day and Easter writin’ down the names and such?Ain’t he present all occasions when there’s grave deliberatin’On important parish matters at the school or presbyt’ry?With the eyes of him a-blinkin’ and the wisdom radiatin’—He, the sole survivin’ member of the first church “Komitee”?And maintainin’ which distinction, don’t it make stonewallin’ sweeter?—And a heap of “argyfyin’ ” cannot shift him from his perch—Don’t he tell them how they did things in the time of Father Peter?Faith, he shows ’em there’s a kick left in the Pillar of the Church.Sure the Pillar of the Church it was that saved the situation,“With the whole of ’em agin him,” as I’ve often heard him tell;’Twas he “seen the danger comin’,” he that “med the suggestation.”He that “druv ’em to their rat-holes,” where he shook ’em good and well.He’s the Pillar of the Church, bedad, and never shy or shrinkin’,Nor afraid to be upstandin’ his opinions for to state.Times the priest he’s flabbergasted; once he set the bishop thinkin’;That he did, Man—“ups and ats” him, “lets him have it purty straight.”Och, ’twould do you good to hear him, with an “audjunce” round him gawkin’,Tell of openin’s here and “big days,” puttin’ modern feats to scorn;And the banquets and the speeches, and the “Arrah, don’t be talkin’,Sure the half of them that’s livin’ now don’t know that they are born.”And the priests he knew by dozens, and the strugglin’ and the strivin’,And the failure starin’ at ’em, had he left ’em in the lurch;Times and times he travelled with ’em, and “tremenjus” was the drivin’—Pshaw, a hundred miles was larkin’ to the Pillar of the Church.Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he; and still at Mass or meetin’There’s the crabbed old bald head of him, conspicuous to the view.And at answerin’ up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin’With its thunders shames the thin attempts of others in the pew;See the poisonous little face of him at Cooney’s baby screechin’,And the twistin’ and the glarin’, and then listenin’ like a hareWhile His Reverence reads the notices—but plottin’ through the preachin’For to get a kick at Murphy’s dog, that’s ramblin’ everywhere.Times and times he’s “riz their dander”—every member up agin him—And the jealous call him “Curate,” while the flippant call him “Pope”;But he doesn’t care a “thraneen,” for “the venyum” isn’t in him,Happy just to be a leader where the lesser spirits grope,Priests have come and priests have left us; change has blown from every quarter;Him alone the grim marauder ne’er has chanced on in the search;But we’d miss him were he taken, as we’d miss the holy water—He’s the feature of the Sunday, is the Pillar of the Church.

Faith, ’tis good to see him comin’ when the bell for Mass is flingin’

Gladsome golden notes appealin’ on the Sabbath-softened air,

Sweet compellin’ invitations to the congregation stringin’

Up the road to old St. Michael’s, on the blessed day of prayer.

You might seek the boundin’ gait of him in any youth or maiden

With the rhythmic pulse of summer, and in vain would be the search;

Steppin’ on with fine importance, like a general paradin’

In his Sunday regimentals, comes the Pillar of the Church.

There be mighty ones a-comin’, most bedazzlin’ in their dressin’—Silken, swishin’, sweepin’ garments, gold and gems so fine to see;There be homely ones in “fine clothes” with no less assurance pressin’,And the candid smell of moth-balls clingin’ round the finery,There be strength and fashion flauntin’ this their hour above their neighbours;Little faded beaded bonnets droppin’ slowly to the rear;Aged achin’ shoulders stoopin’ ’neath the trials and the labours,Hobblin’ on and crutch-supported where they hastened yester-year.

There be mighty ones a-comin’, most bedazzlin’ in their dressin’—

Silken, swishin’, sweepin’ garments, gold and gems so fine to see;

There be homely ones in “fine clothes” with no less assurance pressin’,

And the candid smell of moth-balls clingin’ round the finery,

There be strength and fashion flauntin’ this their hour above their neighbours;

Little faded beaded bonnets droppin’ slowly to the rear;

Aged achin’ shoulders stoopin’ ’neath the trials and the labours,

Hobblin’ on and crutch-supported where they hastened yester-year.

But there’s somethin’ in the step of him, there’s somethin’ in his bearin’,Somethin’ haughty-like and scornful, as he paces to the fore,Somethin’ swellin’ out responsive to the flattery of the starin’,Of the little groups discussin’ parish gossip round the door.What if through the workin’ week-days, fame his humble labours scornin’,He is just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch,Whose opinions matter nothin’—here he is the Blessed Mornin’In his Sunday regimentals,—and the Pillar of the Church.

But there’s somethin’ in the step of him, there’s somethin’ in his bearin’,

Somethin’ haughty-like and scornful, as he paces to the fore,

Somethin’ swellin’ out responsive to the flattery of the starin’,

Of the little groups discussin’ parish gossip round the door.

What if through the workin’ week-days, fame his humble labours scornin’,

He is just a common mortal whom the stains of toil besmirch,

Whose opinions matter nothin’—here he is the Blessed Mornin’

In his Sunday regimentals,—and the Pillar of the Church.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he, and woe to them who’d doubt him;Faith, he’d put them to the right-about, and face them to the rear,For it’s never parish-priest there’s been could carry on without him,Since St. Michael’s been a parish church—it’s goin’ on fifty year.Don’t we see him time and time again, the chest of him expandin’,Superintendin’ things that matter not, and things that matter much?Don’t we see him with “the gentlemen,” the officer commandin’,Every Christmas Day and Easter writin’ down the names and such?

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he, and woe to them who’d doubt him;

Faith, he’d put them to the right-about, and face them to the rear,

For it’s never parish-priest there’s been could carry on without him,

Since St. Michael’s been a parish church—it’s goin’ on fifty year.

Don’t we see him time and time again, the chest of him expandin’,

Superintendin’ things that matter not, and things that matter much?

Don’t we see him with “the gentlemen,” the officer commandin’,

Every Christmas Day and Easter writin’ down the names and such?

Ain’t he present all occasions when there’s grave deliberatin’On important parish matters at the school or presbyt’ry?With the eyes of him a-blinkin’ and the wisdom radiatin’—He, the sole survivin’ member of the first church “Komitee”?And maintainin’ which distinction, don’t it make stonewallin’ sweeter?—And a heap of “argyfyin’ ” cannot shift him from his perch—Don’t he tell them how they did things in the time of Father Peter?Faith, he shows ’em there’s a kick left in the Pillar of the Church.

Ain’t he present all occasions when there’s grave deliberatin’

On important parish matters at the school or presbyt’ry?

With the eyes of him a-blinkin’ and the wisdom radiatin’—

He, the sole survivin’ member of the first church “Komitee”?

And maintainin’ which distinction, don’t it make stonewallin’ sweeter?—

And a heap of “argyfyin’ ” cannot shift him from his perch—

Don’t he tell them how they did things in the time of Father Peter?

Faith, he shows ’em there’s a kick left in the Pillar of the Church.

Sure the Pillar of the Church it was that saved the situation,“With the whole of ’em agin him,” as I’ve often heard him tell;’Twas he “seen the danger comin’,” he that “med the suggestation.”He that “druv ’em to their rat-holes,” where he shook ’em good and well.He’s the Pillar of the Church, bedad, and never shy or shrinkin’,Nor afraid to be upstandin’ his opinions for to state.Times the priest he’s flabbergasted; once he set the bishop thinkin’;That he did, Man—“ups and ats” him, “lets him have it purty straight.”

Sure the Pillar of the Church it was that saved the situation,

“With the whole of ’em agin him,” as I’ve often heard him tell;

’Twas he “seen the danger comin’,” he that “med the suggestation.”

He that “druv ’em to their rat-holes,” where he shook ’em good and well.

He’s the Pillar of the Church, bedad, and never shy or shrinkin’,

Nor afraid to be upstandin’ his opinions for to state.

Times the priest he’s flabbergasted; once he set the bishop thinkin’;

That he did, Man—“ups and ats” him, “lets him have it purty straight.”

Och, ’twould do you good to hear him, with an “audjunce” round him gawkin’,Tell of openin’s here and “big days,” puttin’ modern feats to scorn;And the banquets and the speeches, and the “Arrah, don’t be talkin’,Sure the half of them that’s livin’ now don’t know that they are born.”And the priests he knew by dozens, and the strugglin’ and the strivin’,And the failure starin’ at ’em, had he left ’em in the lurch;Times and times he travelled with ’em, and “tremenjus” was the drivin’—Pshaw, a hundred miles was larkin’ to the Pillar of the Church.

Och, ’twould do you good to hear him, with an “audjunce” round him gawkin’,

Tell of openin’s here and “big days,” puttin’ modern feats to scorn;

And the banquets and the speeches, and the “Arrah, don’t be talkin’,

Sure the half of them that’s livin’ now don’t know that they are born.”

And the priests he knew by dozens, and the strugglin’ and the strivin’,

And the failure starin’ at ’em, had he left ’em in the lurch;

Times and times he travelled with ’em, and “tremenjus” was the drivin’—

Pshaw, a hundred miles was larkin’ to the Pillar of the Church.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he; and still at Mass or meetin’There’s the crabbed old bald head of him, conspicuous to the view.And at answerin’ up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin’With its thunders shames the thin attempts of others in the pew;See the poisonous little face of him at Cooney’s baby screechin’,And the twistin’ and the glarin’, and then listenin’ like a hareWhile His Reverence reads the notices—but plottin’ through the preachin’For to get a kick at Murphy’s dog, that’s ramblin’ everywhere.

Ay, the Pillar of the Church is he; and still at Mass or meetin’

There’s the crabbed old bald head of him, conspicuous to the view.

And at answerin’ up the prayers betimes the voice of him competin’

With its thunders shames the thin attempts of others in the pew;

See the poisonous little face of him at Cooney’s baby screechin’,

And the twistin’ and the glarin’, and then listenin’ like a hare

While His Reverence reads the notices—but plottin’ through the preachin’

For to get a kick at Murphy’s dog, that’s ramblin’ everywhere.

Times and times he’s “riz their dander”—every member up agin him—And the jealous call him “Curate,” while the flippant call him “Pope”;But he doesn’t care a “thraneen,” for “the venyum” isn’t in him,Happy just to be a leader where the lesser spirits grope,Priests have come and priests have left us; change has blown from every quarter;Him alone the grim marauder ne’er has chanced on in the search;But we’d miss him were he taken, as we’d miss the holy water—He’s the feature of the Sunday, is the Pillar of the Church.

Times and times he’s “riz their dander”—every member up agin him—

And the jealous call him “Curate,” while the flippant call him “Pope”;

But he doesn’t care a “thraneen,” for “the venyum” isn’t in him,

Happy just to be a leader where the lesser spirits grope,

Priests have come and priests have left us; change has blown from every quarter;

Him alone the grim marauder ne’er has chanced on in the search;

But we’d miss him were he taken, as we’d miss the holy water—

He’s the feature of the Sunday, is the Pillar of the Church.

TEDDO WELLS, DECEASED

Times I think I’m not the man—Must be some mistake.Me among the also ran?Cute and wideawake!Old and beat and crotchety—Sixty-five, at least—Knockin’ round the presbytery,Groomin’ for the priest,Choppin’ wood, and ringin’ bells,Dodgin’ work and takin’ spells!Me all right, one Ed’ard Wells(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)—Wheelin’ barrows round the yard,Gammon to be workin’ hard,A-groomin’ for the priest!Trainin’ prads was Teddo’s game;Made a tidy bit.Everybody knew the name,Teddo Wells was “It.”Bought that bit of property(Value since increased),Gettin’ on tremendously,Married by the priest.Papers full of Teddo Wells,Trainin’ horses for the swells;Since redooced to ringin’ bells(Teddo Wells, deceased)Shinin’ boots and learnin’ sense,Nailin’ palin’s on the fence,A-groomin’ for the priest.Lost that bit of property,Ended up in smoke—Too much “Jimmie Hennessy”—Down, and stony-broke.Used to think he knew the gameTill they had him fleeced.“Mud” is this ’ere hero’s name,Workin’ for the priest—Unbeknown to sports and swells;They’ve no time for Ed’ard Wells.Up the spout and ringin’ bellsAs “Teddo Wells, deceased”;Never noticed up the town,Never asked to keep one down—Groomin’ for the priest.Times I stops a cove to chat,One as gamed and spieled;Chips me in the curate’s hat,“Six to four the field.”“What-o! Teddo Wells,” sez he,“Him that horses leased,Owned that bit of property,Groomin’ for the priest?”“Guessin’ eggs and seen the shells;Brains,” sez I, “and breedin’ tells,This old gent is Ed’ard Wells,Late Teddo Wells, deceased.Ringin’ bells is Ed’ard’s game,Openin’ doors and closin’ same,Called ‘groomin’ ’ for the priest.”Never see a horse nohow,Just an old machine;Always in a tearin’ rowWith this Josephine.Got an eye that makes you feelWell and truly p’liced,Follerin’ out upon your heels,A-goin’ to tell the priest.“Can’t smoke here now, Ed’ard Wells,That old pipe offensive smells;Go and smoke outside,” she yells.So Teddo Wells, deceased,Him that once was in the boom,Wood-heap has for smokin’ room—A-groomin’ for the priest.Times I says it’s all a jokeSomeone’s puttin’ up;Me dead-beat and stony-broke,Me that won a cup,Owned that bit of property,Them good horses leased!Kickin’ round the presbyteryA-groomin’ for the priest!Choppin’ wood and ringin’ bells,Curby-hocked and takin’ spells!Me it is, one Ed’ard Wells,(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)Smokin’ hard and talkin’ freeOf the man he used to be,And groomin’ for the priest.

Times I think I’m not the man—

Must be some mistake.

Me among the also ran?

Cute and wideawake!

Old and beat and crotchety—

Sixty-five, at least—

Knockin’ round the presbytery,

Groomin’ for the priest,

Choppin’ wood, and ringin’ bells,

Dodgin’ work and takin’ spells!

Me all right, one Ed’ard Wells

(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)—

Wheelin’ barrows round the yard,

Gammon to be workin’ hard,

A-groomin’ for the priest!

Trainin’ prads was Teddo’s game;Made a tidy bit.Everybody knew the name,Teddo Wells was “It.”Bought that bit of property(Value since increased),Gettin’ on tremendously,Married by the priest.Papers full of Teddo Wells,Trainin’ horses for the swells;Since redooced to ringin’ bells(Teddo Wells, deceased)Shinin’ boots and learnin’ sense,Nailin’ palin’s on the fence,A-groomin’ for the priest.

Trainin’ prads was Teddo’s game;

Made a tidy bit.

Everybody knew the name,

Teddo Wells was “It.”

Bought that bit of property

(Value since increased),

Gettin’ on tremendously,

Married by the priest.

Papers full of Teddo Wells,

Trainin’ horses for the swells;

Since redooced to ringin’ bells

(Teddo Wells, deceased)

Shinin’ boots and learnin’ sense,

Nailin’ palin’s on the fence,

A-groomin’ for the priest.

Lost that bit of property,Ended up in smoke—Too much “Jimmie Hennessy”—Down, and stony-broke.Used to think he knew the gameTill they had him fleeced.“Mud” is this ’ere hero’s name,Workin’ for the priest—Unbeknown to sports and swells;They’ve no time for Ed’ard Wells.Up the spout and ringin’ bellsAs “Teddo Wells, deceased”;Never noticed up the town,Never asked to keep one down—Groomin’ for the priest.

Lost that bit of property,

Ended up in smoke—

Too much “Jimmie Hennessy”—

Down, and stony-broke.

Used to think he knew the game

Till they had him fleeced.

“Mud” is this ’ere hero’s name,

Workin’ for the priest—

Unbeknown to sports and swells;

They’ve no time for Ed’ard Wells.

Up the spout and ringin’ bells

As “Teddo Wells, deceased”;

Never noticed up the town,

Never asked to keep one down—

Groomin’ for the priest.

Times I stops a cove to chat,One as gamed and spieled;Chips me in the curate’s hat,“Six to four the field.”“What-o! Teddo Wells,” sez he,“Him that horses leased,Owned that bit of property,Groomin’ for the priest?”“Guessin’ eggs and seen the shells;Brains,” sez I, “and breedin’ tells,This old gent is Ed’ard Wells,Late Teddo Wells, deceased.Ringin’ bells is Ed’ard’s game,Openin’ doors and closin’ same,Called ‘groomin’ ’ for the priest.”

Times I stops a cove to chat,

One as gamed and spieled;

Chips me in the curate’s hat,

“Six to four the field.”

“What-o! Teddo Wells,” sez he,

“Him that horses leased,

Owned that bit of property,

Groomin’ for the priest?”

“Guessin’ eggs and seen the shells;

Brains,” sez I, “and breedin’ tells,

This old gent is Ed’ard Wells,

Late Teddo Wells, deceased.

Ringin’ bells is Ed’ard’s game,

Openin’ doors and closin’ same,

Called ‘groomin’ ’ for the priest.”

Never see a horse nohow,Just an old machine;Always in a tearin’ rowWith this Josephine.Got an eye that makes you feelWell and truly p’liced,Follerin’ out upon your heels,A-goin’ to tell the priest.“Can’t smoke here now, Ed’ard Wells,That old pipe offensive smells;Go and smoke outside,” she yells.So Teddo Wells, deceased,Him that once was in the boom,Wood-heap has for smokin’ room—A-groomin’ for the priest.

Never see a horse nohow,

Just an old machine;

Always in a tearin’ row

With this Josephine.

Got an eye that makes you feel

Well and truly p’liced,

Follerin’ out upon your heels,

A-goin’ to tell the priest.

“Can’t smoke here now, Ed’ard Wells,

That old pipe offensive smells;

Go and smoke outside,” she yells.

So Teddo Wells, deceased,

Him that once was in the boom,

Wood-heap has for smokin’ room—

A-groomin’ for the priest.

Times I says it’s all a jokeSomeone’s puttin’ up;Me dead-beat and stony-broke,Me that won a cup,Owned that bit of property,Them good horses leased!Kickin’ round the presbyteryA-groomin’ for the priest!Choppin’ wood and ringin’ bells,Curby-hocked and takin’ spells!Me it is, one Ed’ard Wells,(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)Smokin’ hard and talkin’ freeOf the man he used to be,And groomin’ for the priest.

Times I says it’s all a joke

Someone’s puttin’ up;

Me dead-beat and stony-broke,

Me that won a cup,

Owned that bit of property,

Them good horses leased!

Kickin’ round the presbytery

A-groomin’ for the priest!

Choppin’ wood and ringin’ bells,

Curby-hocked and takin’ spells!

Me it is, one Ed’ard Wells,

(Late Teddo Wells, deceased)

Smokin’ hard and talkin’ free

Of the man he used to be,

And groomin’ for the priest.

NORAH O’NEILL

That Norah O’Neill is a sthreel,[9]And I’m talking the way that I feel,With her dowdy old hat, and her hair pasted flat,And her skirt bobbing after her heel;And there to the church she will steal,And under the lamp she will kneelWhen confessions are done, and there’s never a oneTo be heard but that Norah O’Neill.It annoys the priest’s man a great deal,And it makes every one boogathielAt him scraping the floor, yes, and rattlin’ the doorJust to hurry my lady O’Neill.But there she will squat on her heel,While over the forms he will steal;He would put out the light, and close up for the night—But he can’t for that keershuch O’Neill.I believe (and I talk as I feel)When there at the Judgment we kneel,And, each in his place, is the whole human race—One half to be sent to the deil—That, just as they’re setting the seal,A dust-cloud a glance will revealAt the end of the day, Jerusalem way;And you’ll find ’twill be Norah O’Neill,With her skirt bobbing after her heel,And we’ll have to go through the whole business anew;Och, Norah O’Neill is a sthreel.

That Norah O’Neill is a sthreel,[9]

And I’m talking the way that I feel,

With her dowdy old hat, and her hair pasted flat,

And her skirt bobbing after her heel;

And there to the church she will steal,

And under the lamp she will kneel

When confessions are done, and there’s never a one

To be heard but that Norah O’Neill.

It annoys the priest’s man a great deal,And it makes every one boogathielAt him scraping the floor, yes, and rattlin’ the doorJust to hurry my lady O’Neill.But there she will squat on her heel,While over the forms he will steal;He would put out the light, and close up for the night—But he can’t for that keershuch O’Neill.

It annoys the priest’s man a great deal,

And it makes every one boogathiel

At him scraping the floor, yes, and rattlin’ the door

Just to hurry my lady O’Neill.

But there she will squat on her heel,

While over the forms he will steal;

He would put out the light, and close up for the night—

But he can’t for that keershuch O’Neill.

I believe (and I talk as I feel)When there at the Judgment we kneel,And, each in his place, is the whole human race—One half to be sent to the deil—That, just as they’re setting the seal,A dust-cloud a glance will revealAt the end of the day, Jerusalem way;And you’ll find ’twill be Norah O’Neill,With her skirt bobbing after her heel,And we’ll have to go through the whole business anew;Och, Norah O’Neill is a sthreel.

I believe (and I talk as I feel)

When there at the Judgment we kneel,

And, each in his place, is the whole human race—

One half to be sent to the deil—

That, just as they’re setting the seal,

A dust-cloud a glance will reveal

At the end of the day, Jerusalem way;

And you’ll find ’twill be Norah O’Neill,

With her skirt bobbing after her heel,

And we’ll have to go through the whole business anew;

Och, Norah O’Neill is a sthreel.

[9]Slattern; also spelt streel. In the next verse boogathiel means uncomfortable, and keershuch much the same as sthreel.

[9]

Slattern; also spelt streel. In the next verse boogathiel means uncomfortable, and keershuch much the same as sthreel.

THE PRESBYT’RY DOG

Now of all the old sinners in mischief immersed,From the ages of Gog and Magog,At the top of the list, from the last to the first,And by every good soul in the parish accursed,Is that scamp of a Presbyt’ry Dog.He’s a hairy old scoundrel as ugly as sin,He’s a demon that travels incog.,With a classical name, and an ignorant grin,And a tail, by the way, that is scraggy and thin,And the rest of him merely a dog.He is like a young waster of fortune possessed,As he rambles the town at a jog;For he treats the whole world as a sort of a jest,While the comp’ny he keeps—well, it must be confessedIt’s unfit for a Presbyt’ry Dog.He is out on the street at the sound of a fight,With the eyes on him standing agog,And the scut of a tail—well, bedad, it’s a fright;Faith, you’d give him a kick that would set him alight,But you can’t with the Presbyt’ry Dog.His rotundity now to absurdity runs,Like a blackfellow gone to the grog;For the knowing old shaver the presbyt’ry shunsWhen it’s time for a meal, and goes off to the nuns,Who’re deceived in the Presbyt’ry Dog.When he follows the priest to the bush, there is war.He inspects the whole place at a jog,And he puts on great airs and fine antics galore,While he chases the sheep till we’re after his gore,Though he may be the Presbyt’ry Dog.’Twas last Sunday a dog in the church went aheadWith an ill-bred and loud monologue,And the priest said some things that would shiver the dead,And I’m with him in every last word that he said—Ah, but wait—’twas the Presbyt’ry Dog.

Now of all the old sinners in mischief immersed,

From the ages of Gog and Magog,

At the top of the list, from the last to the first,

And by every good soul in the parish accursed,

Is that scamp of a Presbyt’ry Dog.

He’s a hairy old scoundrel as ugly as sin,He’s a demon that travels incog.,With a classical name, and an ignorant grin,And a tail, by the way, that is scraggy and thin,And the rest of him merely a dog.

He’s a hairy old scoundrel as ugly as sin,

He’s a demon that travels incog.,

With a classical name, and an ignorant grin,

And a tail, by the way, that is scraggy and thin,

And the rest of him merely a dog.

He is like a young waster of fortune possessed,As he rambles the town at a jog;For he treats the whole world as a sort of a jest,While the comp’ny he keeps—well, it must be confessedIt’s unfit for a Presbyt’ry Dog.

He is like a young waster of fortune possessed,

As he rambles the town at a jog;

For he treats the whole world as a sort of a jest,

While the comp’ny he keeps—well, it must be confessed

It’s unfit for a Presbyt’ry Dog.

He is out on the street at the sound of a fight,With the eyes on him standing agog,And the scut of a tail—well, bedad, it’s a fright;Faith, you’d give him a kick that would set him alight,But you can’t with the Presbyt’ry Dog.

He is out on the street at the sound of a fight,

With the eyes on him standing agog,

And the scut of a tail—well, bedad, it’s a fright;

Faith, you’d give him a kick that would set him alight,

But you can’t with the Presbyt’ry Dog.

His rotundity now to absurdity runs,Like a blackfellow gone to the grog;For the knowing old shaver the presbyt’ry shunsWhen it’s time for a meal, and goes off to the nuns,Who’re deceived in the Presbyt’ry Dog.

His rotundity now to absurdity runs,

Like a blackfellow gone to the grog;

For the knowing old shaver the presbyt’ry shuns

When it’s time for a meal, and goes off to the nuns,

Who’re deceived in the Presbyt’ry Dog.

When he follows the priest to the bush, there is war.He inspects the whole place at a jog,And he puts on great airs and fine antics galore,While he chases the sheep till we’re after his gore,Though he may be the Presbyt’ry Dog.

When he follows the priest to the bush, there is war.

He inspects the whole place at a jog,

And he puts on great airs and fine antics galore,

While he chases the sheep till we’re after his gore,

Though he may be the Presbyt’ry Dog.

’Twas last Sunday a dog in the church went aheadWith an ill-bred and loud monologue,And the priest said some things that would shiver the dead,And I’m with him in every last word that he said—Ah, but wait—’twas the Presbyt’ry Dog.

’Twas last Sunday a dog in the church went ahead

With an ill-bred and loud monologue,

And the priest said some things that would shiver the dead,

And I’m with him in every last word that he said—

Ah, but wait—’twas the Presbyt’ry Dog.

TANGMALANGALOO

The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime,And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time;And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around,With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound.Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded tooAn overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo?A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin’s rim,And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb;There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too—But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn’t sure of that.The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.“Come, tell me, boy,” his lordship said in crushing tones severe,“Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?“How is it that around the world we celebrate that day“And send a name upon a card to those who’re far away?“Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?”A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.And oh, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,“That’s good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?”The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew—“It’s the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo.”

The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime,

And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time;

And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around,

With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound.

Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too

An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo?

A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin’s rim,And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb;There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too—But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.

A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,

And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;

Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin’s rim,

And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb;

There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too—

But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.

The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn’t sure of that.The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.

The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;

He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.

But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;

He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn’t sure of that.

The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,

And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.

“Come, tell me, boy,” his lordship said in crushing tones severe,“Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?“How is it that around the world we celebrate that day“And send a name upon a card to those who’re far away?“Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?”A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.

“Come, tell me, boy,” his lordship said in crushing tones severe,

“Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?

“How is it that around the world we celebrate that day

“And send a name upon a card to those who’re far away?

“Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?”

A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.

He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.And oh, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,“That’s good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?”The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew—“It’s the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo.”

He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,

He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.

And oh, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,

“That’s good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?”

The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew—

“It’s the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo.”

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