Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LI, Issue 40, 24 September 1924, Page 51

Selected Poetry

THE OULD PLAID SHAWL (By Request.) Not far from old Kinvara, in the merry month of May, * When birds were singing cheerily, there came across my way, As if from out the sky above an angel chanced to fall, A little Irish cailin in an ould plaid shawl. She tripped along right joyously, a basket on her arm; And, oh, her face, and, oh! her grace, the soul of saint would charm; Her brown hair rippled o'er her brow, but greatest charm of all Was her modest blue eyes beaming 'neath her ould plaid shawl. I courteously saluted her—" God save you, miss," says I; "God save you, kindly sir," said she, and shyly passed me by; * ! i Off went my heart along with her, a captive in her thrall, Imprisoned in the corner of her ould plaid shawl. Enchanted with her beauty rare. I gazed in pure delight, Till round an angle of the road she vanished from my sight But ever since I sighing say, as I that scene recall, "The grace of God about you and your ould plaid shawl." I've heard of highway robbers that, with pistols and with knives, • i ~*.,^j Make trembling travellers yield them up their money or their lives; But think of me that handed out my heart and head and all To a simple little cailin in an ould plaid shawl; Oh! graceful the mantillas that the signorinas wear, And tasteful are the bonnets of Parisian ladies fair, But never cloak or hood or robe, in palace, bow'r, or hall, Clad half such witching beauty as that ould plaid shawl. Oh! some men sigh for riches, and some men live for fame, And some on history's pages hope to win a glorious name; My aims are not ambitious, and my wishes are but small — You might wrap them all together in an ould plaid shawl. I'll seek her all through Galway, and I'll seek her all through Clare, I'll search for tale or tidings of my traveller everywhere. For peace of mind I'll never find until my own I call That little Irish cailin in her ould plaid shawl. —Francis A. Fahy. A CLASSIC OF THE 'EIGHTIES Great-uncle's oils, all waterscapes, To auction rooms were sent long since, And with them, food for many japes, Victorian pastels and prints. The gay bisque milkmaid and her swain ' (He with his rake, she with her pail) Were parted, not to meet again, At some un-Christian rummage sale. The crayon portraits in the hall Off went their heads at one fell swoop! Time's filched my treasuresbut not all! I still possess a Rogers Groupl

The spreading whatnot that displayed Vertu from all the hemispheres Has languished in the attic's shade These many, many, many years. The centre table's floral shrine Has melted into thinnest air, Moth and corruption got lang syne The wreath wrought of Aunt Fanny's hair. Of changing fashion, freak and fad I've been a silly, sorry dupe, Yet, after all, it's not so bad, / still possess a Rogers Groupl Youth is the Great Iconoclast; Our household gods abruptly fall As ripe leaves in an autumn blast When he becomes a whimsy's thrall. Where once the sturdy sofa stood A frail chaise-longue mocks thoughts of rest; Babette would banish, if she could, The old carved bed her coming blest. Well, well, I must not scold, revile! Of memories a merry troupe Will crowd the evening spaces while I still possess a Rogers Group ! —Edward N. Barnard, in Harper's Weekly. ¥ VENICE XV. Century. The Doge goes down in state to the sea To inspect, with beady traders' eyes, New cargoes from Crete, Mytilene, Cyprus and Joppa; galleys piled With bales off which, in all the days Of sailing, the sea-wind has not blown The dust of Arabian caravans. In velvet the Doge goes down to the sea, And sniffs the dusty bales of spice; Pepper from Cathay, nard and musk; Strange marbles from ruined cities, packed In unfamiliar-scented straw. Black slaves sweat and grin in the sun. Marmosets pull at the pompous gowns Of burgesses. Parrots scream And cling, swaying, to the ochre bales . . . Dazzle of the rising dust of trade, Smell of pitch and straining slaves. . „ And, out on the green tide, toward the sea, Drift the rinds of orient fruits •Strange to the lips; bitter, and sweet. —John Dos Passos, in Vanity Fair. THE SHIP Over the shining pavement of the sea, Breathless, the white hind flees Southward, with beating heart and fear-torn soul; Fast on her track she sees Leap from their hidden caves the frantic wolves, Snarling, they race beside, Dart at her unprotected throat and seek ' Hold on her foam-streaked side. Lo! on her straining sight the harbor breaks, Panting, its shade she gains, Hears but heeds not the baffled howls as now Down through its quiet lanes Safely she takes her way and drops to rest, Peace-filled and unafraid. Louise A. Doran, in Interludes.