WEST COAST POET.

Grey River Argus, 16 October 1922, Page 3

WEST COAST POET.

THE GIFTED C. J. O'REGAN

(By “Metallic Circuit.) Many an old Greymouth. boy who attended school in the early nineties will remember the gifted young West Coast poet, C. J. O’xtegan, who attended the Greymouth High School at that time. Cornelius J. O’Regan was a member of the well-known O’Regan family of the Inangahua district, and a brother of Mr I*. J. O’Regan, a former Member of Parliament, and now one of New* Zealand’s most brilliant barristers. Con. O’Regan, as he was known to his schoolmates, received his early •education in the Inangahua district, and at Totara Plat. While at the latter school, he won a scholarship which entitled him to two years’ tuition at the Greymouth High School, and he received, in addition, the special commendation of the examiner. He afterwards passed the Junior Civil Service and Matriculated for the University of New Zealand. While at the Greymouth High School, he first commenced the art of verse-making, and his earliest effusions dealt chiefly with topical subjects of ephemeral interest. His later work had the distinguishing characteristics of both strength and tenderness, and his character sketches of the early West Coast miner show that lie possessed a keen sense of humour, and that h-c was also a student of human nature. Like tne late Henry Lawson, and many other poets, young O’Regan became a schoolmaster, to which profession he applied himself with all the enthusiasm of a devotee. But his health was not good, and he passed away at Westport on September 7, 1895, at the early age of 21, being the first native-born New Zealander to write poetry instinct with the melody and the mental power of a master. A well-known Greymouth citizen ,who was at school with C. J. O’Regan, possesses many of the young poet’s manuscripts. The following poem is taken from a small volume of his verses, and was written shortly before the author’s death:— A LAY OF THE OLD LIFE. I wonder ,old mate, do you ever Lie dreaming, as I do to-day, Of a life by a tree-shaded river, From men and their strife far away? Do you ever rebel ’gainst the new life, In orthodox wooden house pent, And long for the old life, the true life, The life that we lived in a tent You can fancy, old mate, how I’m longing To floe from the dust and the street, And the dross-seeking crowds that are 4 .’longing, And tiic hard, loveless faces 1 meet. To flee with a “billy” and “blu-ey” To the spot where our springtime we spent, ’Mid the wilds with the weka and tuis, In the days when we lived in a tent. Though of windows ils number was nil, Ned, And the floor was constructed of part h, Through ils portals the wind came at will, Ned, And of tables and chairs there was dearth; ’though the couches we slept on ne’er had tick, Save tops by manuka trees lent. There was something supremely ecstatic, In the life that we lived in a tent. 1 might sit at the banquet of kings, and On a Sybarite’s pillow recline, Still I’d long tor a bed without springs, and For “damper” and “duff” I’d repine. With a draught of the billy’s sweet

| From a pannikin blackened and bent—f Oh, surely, where Heaven’s elect are. j The people must live in a tent! ■ How happy were we, Ned, when lying I In bunk, with the “clays” well > alight; I Hearing weka to weka replying In the beautiful fall of the night; And watching the smoke wreaths ascending, As upwards they twistingly. went — . Ah, me, they were days worth the spending, Those days when wo dwelt in a tent! But they 'I me you’re now cockatooing, And worried to death, I suppose, With striving and riving and rue ing, And a grindstoneawearing your i nose; , And in teaching the young generation , My energies daily are spent, But, in sooth, ’tis a dry occupation, And I sigh for a “claim” and a 4 tent.” But that old life is dead as the dust. Ned, W-c know’ all its beauties too late; And we don’t like the new, but we must, Ned, Let us bear it and labour and wait. Till we meet once again, when I trust. Ned, We will give all our joyfulness vent. And I hope in the Land of the Just, Ned, We’ll live, as we lived, in a tent. Again, in his sonnets, O’Regan’s work suggests spiritual insight and a meditative mood, which entitles the young author to an honourable place among the legitimate poets of our day. The following sonnet, which appears amongst his occasional pieces, is another example of tho thought and feeling which the young poet was capable of giving expression. THEY NAMED HIM A FOOL! They named him Fool! Far from the roar and toil Of life’s mad surge, from mobs athirst with greed, He walked the quiet ways that Godward lead; Scorning to palter for a worldling’s goal! Their base, blind eyes saw not the shining soul Within the clod. He walked, nor gave them heed, Intent he read the secrets poets read, Writ by God’s hand on Nature’s mystic scroll. He died, and then they round him thronged, and said The common words they say of aU tho dead; And, heedless, flung the mould upon his breast, And went their way. But highest Heaven rang With the grand anthem that the angels sang, [As God said: “Welcome, great soul, to thy rest!” I O’Regan’s other sonnets, such as | “The Slaying of the King,” “Poetic ■lnspiration,” and many other verses, • are enough to show that, had the young poet been spared to reach a mature age, New Zealand could have claimed a poet who would have been an honour to any period or country.