To An Old Friend In England
WAS it for nothing in the years gone by,
O my love, O my friend,
You thrilled me with your noble words of faith? —
Hope beyond life, and love, love beyond death!
Yet now I shudder, and yet you did not die,
O my friend, O my love!
Was it for nothing in the dear dead years,
O my love, O my friend,
I kissed you when you wrung my heart from me,
And gave my stubborn hand where trust might be?
Yet then I smiled, and see, these bitter tears,
O my friend, O my love!
No bitter words to say to you have I,
O my love, O my friend!
That faith, that hope, that love was mine, not yours!
And yet that kiss, that clasp endures, endures.
I have no bitter words to say. Good-bye,
O my friend, O my love!
Dublin At Dawn
IN the chill grey summer dawn-light
We pass through the empty streets;
The rattling wheels are all silent;
No friend his fellow greets.
Here and there, at the corners,
A man in a great-coat stands;
A bayonet hangs by his side, and
A rifle is in his hands.
This is a conquered city;
It speaks of war not peace;
And that's one of the English soldiers
The English call 'police.'
You see, at the present moment
That noble country of mine
Is boiling with indignation
At the memory of a 'crime.'
In a path of the Phoenix Park where
The children romped and ran,
An Irish Ruffian met his doom,
And an English Gentleman.
For a hundred and over a hundred
Years on the country side
Men and women and children
Have slaved and starved and died,
That those who slaved and starved them
Might spend their earnings then,
And the Irish Ruffians have a 'good time,'
And the English Gentlemen.
For a hundred and over a hundred
Years, that Christian land
Has read its Bible and looked at all this,
And lifted nor foot nor hand.
But still at the present moment
This noble country of mine
Is boiling with indignation
At the memory of this 'crime.'
For the Irish Ruffians (they tell me,
And it looks as if 'twere true)
And the English Gentlemen are so scarce,
We must wildly avenge these two.
In the chill grey summer dawn-light
We pass through the empty streets;
The rattling wheels are all silent;
No friend his fellow greets.
Here and there at the corners,
A man in a great-coat stands;
A bayonet hangs by his side, and
A rifle is in his hands.
This is a conquered city;
It speaks of war not peace;
And that's one of the English soldiers
The English call 'police.'
