Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XLIX, Issue 21, 25 May 1922, Page 24

Sele cted Poetry

The Rachary Wor Said Pcdar the Rachary Wor (God rest him!), Man alive, an’ no one could best him, His back wouldn’t bend to the heaviest load, And his feet were as sure on the rise as the road — Foot-certain and lit on hill and on bog—(For the level the pup, for the rough the old dog). When he departed All his neighbors were broken-hearted, And they gathered together and pondered o’er The word and the wisdom of Rachary Wor. For thus he speaks; “ ’Twas me to discover That we twist the same rope over and over: Faith and Charity, Love and Hope Show in the strand of the meanest rope, And the seven threads of Deadly Sin Are set in the line that all men spin. For all is the same for us, man and men, On the lift of the hill and the lap of the glen— We come and go, but the end is sure. Kind word, act, and purposethese three endure — For ’tis digging of graves and sowing of corn Now as on the day we were born. . . , Not even here nor in any town Is the place for the man whose lip hangs down, Whose bitter word and jeering tone Cut to the heart and bite to the bone— For three are the things that come from the devil; The tongue, the eye, and the mind that’s evil. Cursed be he of blood and name Who jokes abroad of a woman’s shame, And scant is their welcome at Heaven’s door Who envy the wealthy and scorn the poor. Worthy your deed! Rut no one knew In your own townland what was done by you. Now close your lips on your deed of shame And seven townlands will speak your name: Though the worthy deed may be chained to its seat The deed that is evil has supple feet. Three things accursed; the Gambling Den, The Whisky Bottle, the Lawyer’s Ren. Once to the hazard, and Once calls Twice To win on the cards what you lose on the dice. Winning? A gift? No, a luckless bait That drags you to ruin soon or late: For this the say and the word of sense: Your profit is made at your friend’s expense— Thus the finish and this the end: You lose your portion or lose your friend.” A word in your hearing! Just listen once more To the Wit and Wisdom of Rachary Wor. “Three slender things on which all men rest: The slender stream of milk from the breast, The slender blade on the green corn land, And the slender thread through the spinner’s hand. Three sounds of increase: a lowing cow, The smithy sparks, the swish of the plough. Three things strong and a house is blest: The table, the fire, and the/hand to a guest. Three are the tokens of goodly dress: Elegance, comfort, and lastingness. Three hands, and the world its best will yield: The hand in the smithy, the byre, and the field. Three things to trouble a woman’s rest : A neighbor’s butter on bread for a guest, The word of esteem that comes too slow, The washing with never a shirt to show. Three are the words of grace from the tongue: The good, the merciful, the word that is sung. Three sorrowful things for a man of pride: A saddle but never a horse to ride, A narrow seat on the country’s land, The Treat in the ale-house ho cannot stand.

Two have feet that are often bare: The shoemaker’s wife and the smithy mare. Three are the suits for a man to own: One for the field where he works alone, A second to wear on a market day, Rut the best for the church where he goes to pray. Truth has one face, but seven a lie— All truths are good save three that try: The truth from the tongue of an angry lass, The truth that comes from the whisky glass, And the truth that drives a mother wild, The ill-timed truth from tho lips of a child.” Three times married; just listen once more While he speaks of his wives, the Rachary Wor: “Three things out years on a good man’s life: The curl on the gob of a scolding wife, The purse in the petticoat he cannot fill, And the nagging tongue that is never still. In your house be master, but remember still To a man his due, but a woman her will. ■ So Man of the House, be mute in your chair— Two women and a goose make a noisy fair. A man in the house and all to himself To milk the cows and wash tho dclf : The teapot is cold that sits on the hob (’Tis bad with Herself not there on the job), ' A tireless hearth at Wintertide Is' the single man's bed without a bride.” • MacGi.il. Patrick’s Day Like sunshine through the mirks of winter breaking Across a cold, gray sky, To whisper tales of bud and blossom waking In glen and mountain high, You come, 0 vigil! laden with the glory Of all the past dead years, Our hearts to lift by your eternal story, Your hope to dry our tears. From tho mist-mantled centuries you summon The Paschal fire again, And Laoghaire and his Druids mark the omen El aze blood-red over Slane. Tara and all her splendor drifts before us, The harp swells on the air, A dulcet quiet fills the azure o’er us, Learning and peace and prayer. Rut you bring other scenes —the pibroch screaming, The slogan on the breeze; Fierce clansmen trooping where broad claymores gleaming, Flash lightning through the trees; Sad mothers kneeling, wives and orphans wailing, Some loved one’s lifework done, And Eire o’er Lochlan’s hosts prevailing Beside the morning sun. Many a figure, too, of later glory Your magic spells renew, As memory through the centuries —Rory Cathal and Art and Hugh, Owen and Sarsfield, Clare’s resistless column — That one bright star alone Of Eire’s midnight— pale and solemn, And fate-defying Tone. And you bring memories of merry-making Of hopes that do not dim ; Affection’s thrill, the sorrow of leave-taking. Where’er o’er earth’s wide rim Our race has gone, you chase the whole world’s sadness And noise for one brave day, And conjure up in all her summer gladness The dear land far away. So, be you ever to the Gael a fountain Of memories and ties To train his soul, till over tower and mountain The olden banner flies; Till once again the tongues of generations Shall ring from sea to sea, As Eire stands amongst the gathered nations, “Great, glorious and free!” William Rooney, in the" Irish World.