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We meet him first in frills immersed,
By everyone caressed and nursed,
A bonny baby-rather!
But, though they please his every whim,
Fill up his comforts to the brim,
And "ketchie ketchie" say to him,
He whimpers for his father;
Nor any plan of all the clan,
Nor fiction re the bogie-man
Can coax him from his father.
Then, done with frocks and curly locks,
Promoted into knickerbocks,
This wholesome, healthy laddie
Will entertain the other kid
With tales of what his Daddy did;
He lives a splendid dream amid
Heroic deeds of Daddy.
In grief or mirth he's proved his worth;
The greatest man in all this earth
Is Knickerbocker's Daddy.
Long pants at last, and stretching fast-
Said pants are what is termed "half-mast,
And most attenuated-
Great notions now his head cloth hold,
And schemes of mischief manifold,
He talks as though he had a cold
In slang adulterated.
He has the shy and shifty eye,
He burns tobacco on the sly,
In black butts immolated.
Now mark his ways these latter days;
He sounds no more his father's praise
With fervent admiration;
In fact, his father's got to be
An out-of-date necessity,
A clog upon his destiny
And youthful recreation.
As like as not, in anger hot,
He'll speak of him as "my old pot"-
A homely appellation.
Another page, the dandy stage
That starts at eighteen years of age.
His talk is all of horses;
He now selects his socks and ties
To match the colour of his eyes;
He's learnt the art of looking wise,
And on his Dad's resources
He gaily goes in Yankee clothes,
And backs the ponies through his nose
At most suburban courses.
He swaggers when amongst the men,
And takes a "tonic" now and then
To make a good impression;
And by the hour he will relate
The deeds that made him truly great,
Just pausing to expectorate
By way of a digression.
And here, mayhap, to fill a gap
He'll just allude to his "old chap"-
A valueless possession.
Next, older grown, the rolling-stone
Is out in business on his own.
We find him somewhat later
With this new burden to his song,
"Your old contraptions all are wrong."
He's going to move the world along,
His fortune's own dictator.
And, all the while, he can but smile
About the antiquated style
That ruled the poor old Pater.
We meet him next somewhat perplexed,
By business problems badly vexed-
The other fellow's caught him.
Then, while he's chafing in the thrall,
Dad in some ways, he can recall,
Was not so hopeless after all
As in the past he thought him;
At any rate, he's free to state
The old man's head was "screwed on straight,"
And knocking round had taught him.
We come again to find him when
He's stood within the lion's den,
And trembled at disaster.
It was the Dad who pulled him through,
And now he will admit to you
The old man knows a thing or two;
Then, troubles coming faster,
He's very glad to mount his prad
And go and have a word with Dad,
For Dad is now the Master.
But further on, life's springtime gone,
The winter snow his brows upon,
Adown the current carried,
He'll show you with a tender glance
A photo framed with elegance-
The old man in the "bell-loot" pants,
The suit in which he tarried
That day in town a joy to crown
(Most likely 'twas a "reach-me-down"),
The day the Dad was married.
His dreams dispersed, the bubble burst,
We find him where we found him first,
Right proud about his father;
And now again he writes in sooth
The head-line of his early youth,
But he observes-unwelcome truth,
At times he's worried, rather-
His hopeful son has just begun
The same old devious course to run:
And now it's he's the father.
Fall the shadows on the gullies, fades the purple from the mountain;
And the day that's passing outwards down the stairways of the sky,
With its kindly deeds and sordid on its folded page recorded,
Waves a friendly hand across the range to bid the world "good-bye."
Comes a buoyant peal of laughter from the tall, white, slender timber,
Rugged mirth that floods the bushland with the joy of brotherhood,
With the rustic notes sonorous of a happy laughing chorus,
When the kookaburras bless the world because the world is good.
Oh, 'tis good and clean and wholesome when we take the sheep-track homewards,
And the kindly kitchen chimney flaps its homely bannerets;
All our twigs of effort, shooting golden promise for the fruiting,
Bring a night in peace enfolded that a useful day begets.
Hopeful dreams, their visions weaving, steel our hearts against to-morrow,
And we dare the challenge, strengthened by today's assaults withstood;
Beam the pregnant days before us; and another laughing chorus
Wraps the world in rippling revelry, because the world is good.
Loving eyes to watch our coming, loving arms to twine around us-
Tender tendrils, soft and silken, firmer far than iron stay-
All our little world upholding, gentle hearts and home enfolding,
And a cheery, friendly neighbour dropping in upon his way:
Mellow joy the soul refreshes with the scented breath of heaven,
With the whispered songs of other spheres, hereafter understood:
Angels keep their sure watch o'er us: and another laughing chorus
Flings a vesper blessing round the world, because the world is good.
Do you ever dream you hear it, you who went the lonely track?
Do you ever hear its simple melodies
Tossing round deserted beaches, with the flotsam and the wrack,
When the moonlight sprinkles silver on the trees?
Do you hearken now, I wonder, when the birds have gone to rest,
And the blotted book of day once more is shut?
When the saffron stains have faded, and the swans have vanished west,
Does your heart remember Peter Nelson's hut?
Lonely, stooped old Peter Nelson, with his "most peculiar" ways,
With the clean-cut face, and hair as white as snow!
Something lingering round the old man seemed to tell of better days,
Seemed to hint of love and laughter long ago.
Kindly silence wrapped the bushland; every warring note was still
Soft heart-tremors stirred, and smiling eyes grew dim.
Weaving fancies went the fiddle; dreams prophetic made us thrill-
From the grave the visions stretched their hands to him.
There was rapture in the stillness; there were voices in the night;
Trooped the angels with a beat of velvet wings;
And the stars stood still and listened, and the moon's face, strangely white,
Kissed the sleeping world to dreams of better things.
Joy was lit in every corner, love was smiling at our side,
Golden glamour o'er the dawning days was cast;
Gaily, gaily sang the fiddle, while we marched with swinging stride
Through the flowers that hid the failures of the past.
Do you ever dream you hear it? Does it bring the vision back,
With the curlew, and the moonlight ore the trees?
Do the waveless ripple shoreward with the flotsam and the wrack,
When a fiddle plays the simple melodies ?
Lonely, bent old Peter Nelson with the quaint, uncommon ways,
"Spruced and tidied" when the book of day was shut,
With the dim light in the window, and the friends of better days
Summoned round him by the fiddle in the hut.
A simple thing of knotted pine
And corrugated tin;
But still, to those who read, a sign,
A fortress on the farthest line
Against the march of sin.
Though rich man's gold was lacking quite,
We built it strong and sure,
With willing hands and (Faith's delight)
The savings spared, the widow's mite,
The shillings of the poor.
Nor could it fail to meet the eye
And reverent thoughts instil,
As there above the township high,
And pointing always to the sky,
It stood upon the hill.
And through our lives in wondrous ways
Its holy purpose led
From limpid lisping cradle-days
To where the silent moonlight lays
White hands upon the dead.
For when the Holy Morning strung
Its beads upon the grass,
You'd see us driving-old and young-
The tall white graceful trees among,
On every road to Mass.
It brought the brave young mother there,
Surrounded by her brood,
To wrap their tiny hearts in prayer,
And teach them how to cast their care
Upon the Holy Rood.
It watched the little bush girl grow,
And kept her life from harm,
Till, spotless as the virgin snow
In wreath and veil, it saw her go
Upon her husband's arm.
It blessed strong, trembling shoulders bent:
Helped many a soul in thrall
To climb again the steep ascent,
And reft the grim entanglement
That brought about the fall.
It soothed the grey old mother's pain,
A-swaying while she told
Her rosary o'er and o'er again,
For griefs that rent her heart in twain-
So new, and ah, so old!
(There's "that poor boy who went astray,"
And lined her gentle brow;
There's "them that's wand'rin' fur away,"
And "them that's in their grave to-day"
And "beck'nin'" to her now.)
Refuge it gave the weary heart,
Beyond the sordid din
And conflict of the crowded mart,
One sweet, sequestered nook apart,
Where all might enter in.
Though high and grand cathedrals shine,
To my mind grander still
Is that wee church of knotted pine,
That rampart on the outer line
That stood upon the hill.
Old Father Pat! They'll tell you still with mingled love and pride
Of stirring deeds that live and thrill the quiet country-side;
And when they praise his tours-de-force, be sure it won't be long
Before they talk about his horse-the old grey Currajong.
For twenty years he drove him through the bush and round the town,
Until the old white stager knew the parish upside down;
He'd take his time, and calculate, and have his wilful way,
And stop at every Catholic gate to bid them all good day.
But well I mind the stories told when Father Pat was young
At least, when he was not so old-his scattered flock among;
When health and strength were on his side, you'd see him swing along
With that clean, easy, sweeping stride that marked old Currajong.
Through all the years he ne'er was late the second Mass to say,
And twenty miles he'd "duplicate," and pass us on the way.
Hard-held and beating clean tattoos, the old gray, stepping kind,
Like gravel from his twinkling shoes would fling the miles behind.
And often some too daring lad, a turn of speed to show,
Would straighten up his sleepy prad and give the priest a "go";
But, faith, he found what others found, and held the lesson long,
That nothing in the country round could move with Currajong.
And, oh, the din I and, oh, the fuss! mere words were vain to tell
Of how they stopped the night with us; and don't I mind it well?
The boree-log ablaze "inside ' and gay with rug and mat;
The "front room," to the world denied, made snug for Father Pat.
We knew his distant hoof-beats; ay, and grief they could forebode;
So, when we heard a horse go by, clean-stepping down the road,
Round many a log-fire burning bright there passed the word along,
"There's someone sick and sore the night; I'll bet that's Currajong."
Whereat you'd hear the old men tell-perhaps a trifle add-
Of some sick-call remembered well, when "soand-so took bad."
"You couldn't see your hand in front." "'Twas rainin' pitchforks, too."
"The doctor fibbed, to put it blunt-but Father Pat went through."
Ay, he went through in shine or shade; so, when the days were fair,
And at our simple sports we played, 'twas good to see him there;
And under troubled, angry skies, when all the world went wrong,
With aching hearts and misted eyes we watched for Currajong.
We watched, and never watched in vain, whatever might befall.
When summoned to the bed of pain, he answered to the call.
He came through rain or storm or heat; and in the darkest night
We heard his hoofs the music beat, we saw the welcome light.
And when again, with plumes ahead and horses stepping slow,
We followed on, behind our dead, the road all men must go,
A loitering line, with knots and gaps, the funeral passed along,
And half a mile of lurching traps was led by Currajong.
But, as the good priest older grew, and aches and troubles came,
His buggy and the white horse, too, were stricken much the same.
The springs went down the side he sat, and altarboys and such
Kept sliding in on Father Pat, and woke him at the touch.
Then, pensioned off at last and done, a sorry thing it stood,
With sagging cobwebs round it spun, and nesteggs in the hood.
Just once a year it lived again, and groaned and creaked along
To fetch the bishop from the train with limping Currajong.
Ah, newer methods, younger men I the times are moving fast,
And but in dreams we tread again the wheelruts of the past;
The eyes are filmed that watched of old, the kindly hearts are still,
And silent tombstones white and cold are glimmering on the hill,
While scorching up the road, belike, with singing gears alive
The curate on his motor-bike hits up his fortyfive;
But tender, tingling memories swell, and love will linger long
In all the stirring yarns they tell about Old Currajong.
When that hour comes when I shall sit alone,
And ponder on the things that were, but are no more,
The while the weird night-breeze's dirge-like monotone
Is sobbing fitful anthems round the door;
When homing billows moan and croon unchecked,
And no light glimmers on the ocean's broad expanse;
When all my anxious hopes are safe in port, or wrecked
On sharp unchartered rocks of circumstance;
When I have lived my life, and Time at last
Displays the mottled fate the sisters three have spun,
When the night's mystic, sombre, starless cloak is cast
Around the naked shoulders of the sun;
I shall be tired, I know, and long to rest,
And o'er the past sleep's veil of sweet oblivion draw,
To feel myself drawn softly, dream-like on the breast
Of life's ebb-tide that laps the Eternal Shore.
When that hour comes, and I am drifting slow
To azure distance stretching on, and on, and on;
When earth's coast-lights are dim and blurred and burning low,
And other stars rise other worlds upon;
I shall not fear to meet my Master's gaze,
Nor, like an idling child, His Searching Presence shun,
E'en though no herald trumpet-voice pronounce my praise,
And earth-won hero garlands wear I none.
E'en though the best the world shall know of me,
When mouldering clay is laid with kindred clay again,
Is but a stone on which the stars shine carelessly
Smooth-polished by the fingers of the rain:
I shall not fear to stand before His Face
And answer for the schemes I reared on shifting sand
Whereon the waves are trailing albs of pointed lace,
If on my way I've lent the helping hand
To fellow-pilgrims toiling at my side,
Who, worn and weary, faint and fall beside the road,
If here betimes the blinding, scalding tear I've dried,
Or soothed a heart, or eased a galling load,
For He shall say "Your name In dust is hid,
No thought or word has earned you immortality;
Immortal only are the kindly things you did-
Amen I say, you did them unto me."
Yes, that's the hardest hand at all upon my frosted head-
That telegram that brought the news that Father Pat is dead-
I cannot grip its message yet; we were such cronies, that
The world is not a world to-night without poor Father Pat.
Nigh eighty years I've known him now. Since ever we were boys
Across the sea in Ireland, each other's cares and joys
We've shared as with their leaden step they strode across the mat;
The kindest heart that ever beat is stilled in Father Pat.
They knew him round the country wide; from here to Carrathool
The teamster toiling by his dray, the youngsters home from school,
Would greet him with a curt "good day," and shyly pull the hat
Down farther on the forehead in respect for Father Pat.
I see him in my mind to-night, a diamond in the rough,
A kindly soul that hid the gold, but showed the sterner stuff-
The wise old eye, the homely face, the scant hairs pasted flat
Across the wide wise baldness of the head of Father Pat;
The collar caught with honest tape when fleeting studs had gone;
The suit that said good-bye to cut the day he put it on;
The handsome stock the sisters built, the tassels on the hat,
The stout umbrella in the hand of manly Father Pat.
I see the ordered sitting-room he'll never enter more,
The ivory bead-crowned crucifix, the font behind the door,
The parish books, the registers and, handy where he sat,
The well-thumbed breviary that warmed the heart of Father Pat.
A man of method all the time~the pigeon-holes a-line,
A dozen keys upon a chain, his pockets filled with twine.
His actions told the time of day, and rivalled e'en in that
The sober clock that ticked away the life of Father Pat.
He used to run the curate on the lines he ran himself;
A list of parish duties stood upon the mantelshelf,
As binding as the decalogue, so all-embracing that
The bishop had to keep the step, when guest of Father Pat.
He'd argue till the cows came home, and never know a doubt;
But when he "showed the p'liteness," it was then, my boy, look out!
He'd lay the shoneen by the heels, and shake him like a rat;
He wasn't worth a straw, bedad, when trimmed by Father Pat.
His sermons were tremendous things, and thunderbolts would drop;
The trouble with poor Father Pat was when and how to stop.
Theology? don't mention it! he'd talk the bishop flat;
One half was Father Gury, and the rest was Father Pat.
I'd quoted him so often to the young lads round about
To show that we old fellows still were far from petered out,
Could take a hand at ceremonies, could sing a Mass and that;
So when we had a big day here I called on Father Pat.
He came-but didn't conquer, faith, though every nerve was strained;
He'd waved his hand to rubrics on the day he was ordained;
He went along his old, old way in broken notes and flat
To tell the truth, I felt ashamed for once of Father Pat.
These young lads build their castles up, and fancy's beacons glow.
Ah well, poor Father Pat and I went through that years Ego;
And some of those ideals are dead, and some we've jested at,
And some are where the failures wait for me and Father Pat.
Though brighter far the morning seems than does the setting sun,
Still, they but carry on the work by such as us begun.
We blazed the tracks they tread to-day-at least they'll grant us that-
The men who sailed in sixty-five along with Father Pat.
We left the friendly stars astern, the Irish lights agleam,
We dared the seas in sailing-ships before the days of steam,
We faced a weird wild waste of world that brave men trembled at:
No shipside welcome met the men who came with Father Pat.
We turned our horses' heads out west, beyond the farthest track,
With nothing but an alien star to light the journey back.
The echoes mocked us as we went, and silence startled sat
When out beyond the rim of things we marched with Father Pat.
We said our Mass in canvas tents, and neath the gnarled trees;
Of red-gum slabs and sheets of bark we built our sanctuaries;
Our axes rang on timbered slopes above the mining flat,
And church and school and convent mark the path of Father Pat.
We made our bow to wild and waste, and hardships worse than those;
We leave a gracious golden land that blossoms like the rose.
Far defter hands may now adorn the work we laboured at,
But granite base and buttressed wall were built by Father Pat.
Well may his arms drop idly down at eighty years of age;
His story goes behind him with no stain upon its page.
I'll bet he played the innings through and carried out his bat,
And none dare hint "retiring hurt" in front of Father Pat.
And with him goes the little band that sailed in sixty-five;
A dreamer by his lamp to-night is all that's left alive.
Poor Father James, and Father Ned, and jovial Father Mat
Are waiting out beyond the dark to welcome Father Pat.
I'll not attend the obsequies: I feel I could not face
The office that I know so well, and see his vacant place:
We saw a generation pass while side by side we sat:
Another starts its march to-day-without us, Father Pat.
They'll wonder why I am not there-I, last of all the band-
To take farewell of him that's gone; but he will understand.
We'll have a little requiem my own loved altar at,
And just ourselves-alive and dead-shall chant it, Father Pat.
The presbytery has gone to pot since this housekeeper 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'dbeen;
I never had a word against my trusted Josephine.
She pattered 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
She'd have no thuckeen near the place, would crabbed Josephine.
They tell me this one's up-to-date-too up-todate 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 pigeonhole 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 wasshe 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 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.
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!
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 toJosephine.
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 "roan" 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 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.
How quickly have the days gone by I 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!
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 years:
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 gazebo 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 whateter '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 criticised 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 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 sleeply 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 divas 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 house-hold used to make,
When she had us tumbled out of bed, and pain-fully 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 wrestled 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 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-adozen 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 Grossing, 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 banter-ing 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 I 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 skedad-dling 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 leach 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.