NOTES

New Zealand Tablet, 8 December 1921, Page 26

NOTES

* ‘ground the Boree Log” Some time ago we heard it said in Sydney that John O’Brien’s” poems were about to appear in the book that many of us have long wished to hold in our hands. Now, the book has arrived, and we hasten to ' bid it a cordial cead mile faille , for the spirit of it is • great, the things it stands for are great, and altogether f it is a great book that, as the old people would say, is 1 in it this Christmas month when we ought to be thinking of where we should find a suitable book to send to our friends. When you turn to the first poem you will find that it gives the title to the publication, and a foot-note explains that Boree (sometimes accented on the last syllable) is the aboriginal name for the Weeping Myall—the best firewood in Australia except Gidgee. John O’Brien Seeing that an Australian periodical has already disclosed the fact that “John O’Brien” is Father P. Hartigan, there is no good reason, why we should not impart the same knowledge to our readers. No doubt many of them were curious about “John.” We have before now referred to him and we have had ample testimony that such of his poems as we quoted were | received with delight by. the readers of the Tablet. It is not long since we gave our whole poetry page to “The V Trimmin s of the Rosary,” and it was read with warm L appreciation in many a New Zealand Catholic home, verses from “Josephine” are familiar to most of us, anid - New Zealanders are not behind Australians in their recognition that “Josephine” was a masterly pic- >■ ture * of the old housekeeper who pottered round the | presbytery for thirty years and more and was, with all her peculiarities, the trustworthy and faithful Per.petua whom , no modern girl could replace : ] ' '

The people called her “curate,” yes, and “bishop” too, 1 hear; " ’ n 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 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 trusted to the winds and rain the name of Josephine. Old Friends and New Between the covers of the book we meet with many old friends, such as “The Old Mass Shandrydan,” “The. Little Irish Mother,” “Currajong,” and “The Presbytery Dog.” There are plenty of new poems too, some in the same tender, devotional, humorous strain, and . others that strike a clear Australian note sure to awaken stirring chords in the hearts of the children of the great new country which owes such an immeasurable debt to the old Irish exiles to whose prayers and faith is due whatever of sweetness and soundness there is in life throughout the vast southern continent today:—

What, no Australian songs, my dear? And yet I’ve heard the cottage ring With notes the world would pause to hear, When at their work your sisters sing. They sing the songs of all the earth, Of tender sky, and dimpling sea, But all their strains have not the worth Of one Australian song for me. I’ve heard the harp the breezes play Among the wilding wilga-trees; I’ve swept my world of care away When bush-birds lift their melodies; I’ve seen the paddocks all ablaze When spring in golden glory comes, The purple hills of summer days, The autumn ochres through their gums. What, no Australian song, my pet? No patriot note on native horn, To bind the hearts in kindness met, And link the leal Australian-born.

Such verses are a welcome contribution to Australian poetry, and they are full of patriotism and inspiration ; but for most of us “John O’Brien’s” real appeal is in the beautiful sentiment, the sly humor, the delicate character-drawing revealed in the poems that are inspired by the lives of the sterling old Catholic pioneers who are fading fast out of the picture to-day. Besides the poems already mentioned, others such ;»s “The Carey’s,” “Casey’s After Mass,” “The Parting Rosary” will go straight to Irish hearts. And perhaps the vivid and most characteristic sketch of them all is that devoted to “The Presbytery Dog”: He’s a hairy pld 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 —well it must be confessed Is unfit for a Presbytery Dog. His rotundity now to absurdity runs, Like a blackfellow gone to the grog; For the knowing old shaver the presbvterv shuns When it’s time for a meal, and goes off to the nuns, Who’re deceived in the Presbytery 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 Presbytery Dog. -

Once more we welcome “John O’Brien’s” poems for their kindly humanity, and their spiritual insight, and their wholesome humor, and their fine appreciation and generous recognition of the beautiful souls and the truly great lives of the old exiles'from Erin,