For Our Lady Readers.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXV, Issue 15, 13 August 1897, Page 29

For Our Lady Readers.

AX IRISH WIFE. EAUL DESMOXD's APOLCKJY, by THOMAS D'AItCY M'GnE. [To understand the " thread " of this poem it is necessary to note that " in 1837 the Statute of Kilkenny forbade the English settlers in Ireland to intermarry with the old Irish under pain of outlawry." James, Earl of Desmond, was one of the first to violate and defy th? law ; he took an Irish wife, a lady named M'Cormack. The Earl was himself an accomplished poet, and D'Arey M'Gee in the following poem represents him as giving sound reasons why he would rather ■■ break "' the law than his " heart."] I would not give my Irihh wife For all the dames of the Saxon land ; I would not give my Irish wife For the Queen of France's hand ; For she to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or life — An outlaw — so I'm near her, To love till death my Irish wife. 0 what would be this home of mine / A ruined, hermit-haunted place. But lor the light that nightly shines Upon its walls from Kuthleen'b face ' What comfort in a mine of gold, What pleasure in a royal life. If the heart w ithin lay dead and cold, If I could not wed my Irish wife .' 1 know the law forbade the barms — I knew my king abhorred her race — Who never bent before their clans Must bosv before their Indies' grace, Take all my forfeited domain, I cannot wage with kinsmen strife — Take knightly gear and noble name, And I will keep my Irish wile. My Irihh wife has clear blue eyes, My heaven by day, mv stars by night — ■ And twm-hke, truth and fondness lie Wiihin her swelling bosom white. My Irish wife has golden hair — A])> lllo s haip hdd once such stilng-i — Apollo's self might inihf to luar Her bird-like caiol w ken stie sin 1 ;-. I would not vu r i\e my Iri-h wife Tor all the il.iino- olo l ilw S.ixon land ; I would not gne my hi-.li wife For the (Jueen of Putney's hand ; For sh<> to me is dearer Than castles strong, or lands, or lit\ — • An outlaw — so I'm no.ir her. To lo\e till death my liish wifo. AN litlMl Mill lir.u. I wonder if she issti 1 in the OH Land Ihe blessed Irish mother. who put a cap around her comely i.ice b"tweeu the twenties mid thirties, and covered her brown \\a\es fro. a sight. To her simple bjul marriage mi ant consecration . the m.in who cho-e her need nut oneern. him-elf about the htfle tendernesses, her affection w.is a--fixed as the stars. Hi might be unre isonabk-. exacting, nay, in trying times he might be cruel, but h r faith in the Divine right of husbands was unshaken. She would have the children reveiential to their father, even it she t-hould have to r nn nice a little to effect it, and with what lo\ ing sophistiy she explained away his weaknesses! She never uniL'i-sto id a const aution. political or physical, but when sickness was in the family her pathetic care made the poor broth strengthening and the bitti r medicine sweet. No sleep, no rest, no peace for hoi while the shadow ot death lay acros, the threshold ; and how hard it was die to under her beseeching eyes , but if a summons had really come. -,he wo.ild hold a cruciiiCto the dying lips, and the beloved son ord iu;hter camel the sound of her voice with thutn to heiven. lor w h it hish moth* r but could say the prayers for the departing soul / Not e\ en the btory of her country V wrongs could embitter her guileless n ituro Tiie mantle ot hoi charity covered even the cruel Sassen.i' h. and sometimes, secretly, not daring to let it be known, she recommended them to the Virgin Mother. If her belief in her husband was btrong. who could measure the confidence she repo-ed in the br.ue boys who o\ertopped her at sixteen / Anything owl in them her glory and her delight? Impossible ' They were always white boys in their moth.Cs eyes, howevr dark and desperate m the siglitot thosj who dwell 'in palaces. Her unque turning trust mil earnest teach ng kept them pure and honest m their only days, and later when they discovered their dear mother was only a simple, illogical, unlelteied woman, their loyalty and cle\otiou deepened to Hud wh.it wonders

she had worked with her few talents. What a tragedy Shakespeare could have woven round her, haunted all her life by a phantom ship at anchor in some harbour, waiting till the children of her love were old enough to take passage and leave her for ever ! How sorrowful must have been her joy on seeing them rise to the stature of men and women ! I wonder if she is st,ll in the Old I and, stealing out of her lonely home at nightfall, and looking with her tender eyes always eastward ! Airi when no one is by, falling on her knees and lifting 1 her hands in such intensity of supplication that they touch the horn of His garment, and her blessing falls on her flesh and blood in the far-off land ; her faith has made them whole. If flowers emblematic of their lives could spring from the dust beneath it would be easy to find the grave of the Irish mother.