Borrowed Plumes. VI

Irish Jesuit Province

Borrowed Plumes. VISource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 29, No. 333 (Mar., 1901), pp. 153-164Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20499728 .

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[ 153 ]

BORROWED PLUMES

VI

W E do not know who A. M. A. may be who contributed to the

V Westminster Gazette of January 19, 1901, a little poemx

ending thus:

I could have spared him for a week

And borne it with a smile;

But life goes on and on and on, And death lasts such a while.

But we do know who K. T. H. is, though indeed we believe

that not even those initials are appended to these lines in the,

Pall Mall Gazette:

"No one will love you if you're naughty," said

HIis nurse demure and chill. The Three-years Wisdom shook his bitd-bright head

And answered, " Mother will."

He built a castle of his bricks the while, Poised tower and bastion still;

As one who suffers Folly with a smile,

He answered, "g Mother wi]l"

We are not sure that Mrs. Hinkson ought not to have mada

this a quatrain. It is the newest expression of the old, old faith

in the inexhaustible patience of maternal love. In one bright

Maytime long ago we dared to remind the Blessed Virgin herself

that

The mother's face beams kindly

When other faces frown.

Little children of all ages, love your mothers, and take every

means of showing that you love them.

Somer years ago the Rev. Dr. Kolbe quoted in his South.

African r Catholic Jaqazine (his alas 1 no longer), with very warm



154 THE IRISH MONTHLY

rraise, the following poem from the Det0oit Free Press. It

was written by Miss Helen Carey, and caled " Intuitions"

The poet knows if his song be true; For it comes with a whirl and a fire,

As his fingers, wandering in the dark

Over life's harp-strings, strike a spark

Out of the golden wire.

The artist knows if his art be true;

For it seizes and wields his hand,

While smites his anointed heart and eye

The Vision Beautiful passing by;

Few see, none understand.

The master knows if his theme be drawn

For the eternal score;

For his Eden, held by a flaming sword,

Opes, and he hears the liquid word

That haunts him evermore.

The lover knows if his love be true;

For he reads, untaught, the scroll Of another life, with the wondering thought

That the universe to man is brought

In tihe touch of a kindred soul.

The Christian knows if his faith be true;

For he feels the hallowed blade

Of his soul's ideal pierce his heart

With the wound that heals, and he bears his part

Of the cross on the Saviour laid.

Many hard things have been said about Mr. Alfred Austin who

had the misfortune to succeed Alfred Tennyson as: Poet Laureate.

It would have been an invidious position for a much- more gifted

man. Yet he has enough of poetry in his soul to fall in love with

Ireland, her people, and her scenery, as he haso shown in prose

contributed to Blackwood's Magazine, and in verse contributed to

the National Review. Ireland is supposed to speak as follows:

"They would not suffer me to weep or pray,

Upon the altar of my Saints they trod;

They banned my Faith, they took my Hea,ven away,

And tried to rob me of my very God:



BORROWED PLUMES 155

And when I sued them leave me where I lay, And get them hence, still, still they would not go. They reft the spindle from my famished hands,

My kith and kin they drove to other lands,

Widowed and orphaned me! And now you know

Why all my face is wet, and all my voice is woe!"

England is supposed to make answer in the following lines, to

which, in turn, a prose answer might be given if this were the time and place for it.

" We own our fault the greater, so we now

For balance of that wrong would make amends.

Lift the low wimple from your clouded brow, Give me your gaze, and say that we are friends, And be your mountains witness of that vow,

Your dewy dingles white with blossoming sloe, Your tawwny torrents tumbling to the sea;

For You are far the fairest of the Three,

And we can never, never, let you go,

Long as your warm heart beats, long as your bright eyes glow.

Live your own life, but ever at our side!

Have your own Heaven, but blend your prayers with ours! Remain your own fair self, to bridegroom bride,

Veiled in your midst and diamonded with showers, We twain love-linked hom nothing can divide! Look up! From Sli'evemore's brow to Dingle's shore, From Inagh's lake to Innisfallen's Isle

And Garriffe's glen, the land is one large smile! The dolphins gambol and the laverocks soar:

Lift up your heart and live, enthralled to grief no more !"

We wish we could refer to the page in some early volume of our

Magazine in which we placed side by side two beautiful passages

about the Bible from Cardinal Wiseman and Charles Dickens. Here is the third parallel passage from William Ewart Gladstone

"'Heaven and earth shall pass awa y, but My words shall not pass away.' As they have lived and wrought, so they will live and work. From the teacher's chair and' from the pastor's pulpit; in

the humblest hymn that ever mounted to the ear of God from

beneath a cottage roof, and in the rich, melodious choir of the




noblest cathedral, 'their sound is gone out into all lands, and

their words unto the ends of the world.' Nor here alone but in a

thousand silent and unsuspected forms will they unweariedly

prosecute their holy office. Who doubts that, times without

number, particular portions of Scripture find their way to the

human soul as if embassies from on high, each with its own

commission of comfort, of guidance, or of warning? What crisis,

what trouble, what perplexity of life has failed or can fail to draw

from this inexhaustible treasure-house its proper supply? What

profession, what position is not daily and hourly enriched by these

words which repetition never weakens, which carry with them

now, as in the days of their first utterance, the freshness of youth

and immortality ?- When the solitary student opens all his heart

to drink them in, they will reward his toil. And in forms yet more hidden and withdrawn, in the retirement of the chamber, in

the stillness of the night season, upoh the bed of sickness, a.nd in

the farce of death, the Bible will be there, its several words bow

often winged with their several and special messages, to heal and

to soothe, to uplift and uphold, to invigorate and stir. Nay, more, perhaps, than this; amid the crowds of the court, or the forum, or

the street, or the market-place, when every thought of every soul

seems to be set upon the excitements of ambition, or of business,

or of pleasure, there, too, even there, the still small voice of the

Holy Bible will be heard, and the soul, aided by some blessed

word, may find -wings like a dove, may flee away and be at rest."

This famous sohig, attributed to Dr. Thomas Nedley, was, in its.

day, very efficient in throwing contempt and ridicule upon that,

ignoble system of proselytising, which is known as Souperism.

Arrah, Mrs. Magrath, did you hear the news?

But, of course, my jewel, you knew it

The quality's going to save our sowls, An' pay us for lettin' them do it.

We may curse and swear-the devil may care

We may rob blaspheme, and be wicked;

Sure they'll send us-to heaven, and pay our fare, And give us a rst-class ticket.

So come along to Merrion-square, An' as sure as my name is Reilly,

Each murderin' thief will get, mutton and beei, If he prays with Mrs. Smiley.



BORROWVED PLUMES 157

There's my son Bill, got six months on the mill, And he'd steal the cross off a donkey;

Buit he's got a fine place-he's a " babe of grace,"

And he struts a well-dressed flunkey.

The most pious of all in the servants' hall,

He cribs the cold meat for his mammy;

He prays with my lady, and swears with my lord,

Saying, " I'm one of the elect, oh! dam'me."

So come along, &c.

There's Mrs. Magrane, when her man was slain,

On the banks of the bowld Crimea, Gave her clargy up, for the bit and the sup,

An' took to Luther's idea. Her child she sold for paltry gold,

To Kingstown he did go, ma'am

From the mother's breast to the vulture's nest;

The robin will soon be a crow, ma'am. So come along, &e.

But sure 'twas hard times that druv us to crimes

Here we are, with our clargy forsaken, And damning our souls for penny rowls,

And soup and hairy bacon.

But Ned's comin' home-no more he'll roam

From poverty he'll raise us;

So we'll bid adieu to the swaddling crew, An' owld Smiley may go to blazes.

So no more will I go to Merrion-square; And as sure as my name is Reilly,

The prayer I'll say to my dying day,

Is, bad luck to you, Mrs. Smiley.

Michael Hogan has often been called the Bard of Thomond,

from the signature to his poems M. H. Thomond. He was born at Thomond-gate in Limerick in 1832. He was at first a wheel wright, and his social circumstances have never been very

flourishing. He has published a greab deal of poetry of remarkable

merit when we consider his opportunities. The sample which

chances now to be at hand is an innocent love-song of a humorous tan which surely is very cleverly rhymed.



1 13 THE IRISH MONTHLY

Arrah ! Bridget MacSheehy, your eyes are the death o' me,

And your laugh, like a fairy-sthroke, knocks out the breath o' me;

The divil a cobweb of slumber, till dawn'd the day,

Has come to my lids while the long night I yawn'd away. Och! you heart-killing imp, 'twas your witchery dazzled me,

Like a bird by a night-lamp your beauty has puzzled me,

I'd rather be forty mile's, running away with you, Than live to be parted ten minutes one day with you.

'Pon my sowl, I was dhreaming last night that you came to me

With your own purty smile, like a sweet drink of crame to me;

Siz you, " Paddy Carthy, I'm coming to marry you !

"Faith, my darling," siz I, " to his Revirince I'll carry you."

Then I thought my poor heart gave a thump like a prize-fighter,

As off to the chapel I jumped like a lamp-lighter;

But scarce had the priest time to see how his robe was on,

When, och, blood-an'-ouns ! I awoke ere the job was done.

Now, faith, 'tis a heart-ache, between you and I, Biddy,

To let that sly rogue of a dhrame tell a lie, Biddy, If your sweet mouth just siz, "I My dear lad, here's my hand to

you!" By the Lord of Kilsmack.! Paddy Carthy will stand to you! In the meadow I'll mow, in the haggard I'll work for you

Say the word, and I'll walk on my head to New York for you;

My heart with the heat of devotion so beats for you, 'Tis just like a little child crying for sweets to you.

Did you hear what a great name my ancesthors had of id ?

From Blarney to Munster they own'd every sod of id ?

The MacCarthy Mores they wor christen'd by raison, sure,

For their fighting and feasting wor always in season, sure:

Arrah thim were the blood that kep 'up the ould cause for us,

Ere the red robbing sthranger kern here wid mock laws for us;

Bale darlings they wor for love, spending, and sporting, too,

And sure I'm a boy of their clan that's now coorting you.

There's Judy Moloney, wid ten on the watch for her,

Her uncle kem to me to make up a match for her:

There's Thady Mulready, near Loch Quinlan's water clear,

Faith, he'd give me six cows if I'd marry his daughter dear.



BORROWED PLUMES 159

But no, by the powers! I would sooner go beg wid you,

Hopping from village to town on one leg wid you,

Than be walking on two wid a rich heiress stuck to me If I'm not speaking true to you, jewel, bad luck to me!

You're the queen of the lilies that grow up so tenderly, And your arm is as fair as white wax moulded tenderly, The berries are so like your lips that the pick of 'em

I pluck'd from the bush till I ate myself sick of 'em.

Where the hawtree its flowers to the sunbeams is handing up, I saw, like your white neck, a blossom-branch standino up;

I climbed to get at it-you'd pity the trim o' me.

For (my curse on the thorns) they carved every limb o' me.

I'll purchase the best wedding-ring in the town or you,

Or, by thunder ! to make one I'll pull the moon down for you; If I could reach my hand to the sun for a crown for you,

Och, I am the boy would win light and renown for you.

Now, Biddy, my primrose, what have you to say to me?

Just give up your heart widout farther delay to me!

I'll be blessing this day as a glorious fine day to me

If a queen got such courting, by Jove, she'd give way to me!

This passage from "A Strange Story7" might we-l be taken to,

heart by our young medical students preparing for their noble; profession:-

-

" To the true physician there is an inexpressible sanctity in

the sick chamber. At its threshold the mere human passions.

quit their hold on his heart. Love there would be profanation. Even the grief permitted to others he must put aside. He must: enter that room a Calm Intelligence. He is disabled for his

mission if he suffer ought to obscure the keen, quiet glance of his.

wience. Age or youth, beauty or deformity, innocence or guilt, merge their distinctions in one common attitude-human suffering appealing to human skill. Woe to the household in which the trusted healer feels not on his conscience the solemn obligations. of his glorious art."

We doaTnot know where the Yankee Blade is published from which an Australian journal copies this extravaganza:

An editor was sitting in his office one day when a man entered




whose brow was clothed with thunder. Fiercely seizing a chair,

he slammed his hat on the table, hurled his umbrella on the floor,

and sat down.

"Are you the editor ?' he asked.

"Yes."

"Can you read writing ?"

Of course."

"Read that," he said, thrusting at the editor an envelope

with an inscription on it.

"-B " said the editor, trying to spell it.

"Thatfs not a ' B,' it's an ' S," said the man.

"'5?' Oh, yes, I see. Well, it looks like ' Sal for Dinner,'

or 'Souls of Sinners," said the editor.

No, Sir," replied the man; "I nothing of the sort. That's

my name-Samuel Brunner. I knew you couldn't read. I called

-to see abdut that poem of mine you printed the other day,

entitled ' The Surcease of Sorrow.'"

"I don't remember it" saiid the editor.

"Of course, you don't, because it went into the paper under

the villainous title of ' Smearcase To-morrow.'

"A blunder of the printer, I suppose."

"Yes, sir, and that's what I want to see you about. The way

ain which that poem wvas mutilated was simply scandalous. I

haven't slept a wink since. It exposed me to derision. People

think I am an ass. (The editor coughed.) Let me: show you.

The first line, when I wrote it, read this way-: Lying by a weep

ing willow, underneath a gentle slope.' That is beautiful and

poetic. Now, how did your vile sheet represent it to the public ?

Lying to a weeping widow, I induleud her to elope.' 'Weeping

widow,' mind you. A widow. Oh, thunder and lightning, this is

too much ! But look at the ourth verse. That's worse yet.

Cast thy pearls before swine, and lose them in the dirt.' He

makes it to read in this fashion: ' Cart thy pills before sunrise,

~and love them if they hurt.' Now, isn't that a cold-blooded

outrage on a man's feelings?" "It's hard, very hard," said the editor.

"Then take the fifth verse. In the original manuscript it

said, as plain as daylight, 'Take away the jingling mpney; it is

only glittering dross.' In its printed form you ma.de me say

'Take away the tinglinlg honey; put sonme flies in for the boss.'



BORROWED PLUMES 161

By George! I feel like attacking somebody with yon fire-shovel 1 But, oh! look at the sixth verse. I wrote: 'I'm weary of the tossing of the ocean as it heaves.' When I opened your paper

and saw the line transformed into ' I'm wearing out my trousers till they're open at the knees,' I thought that was taking it an inch too far. I have a right to murder that compositor. Where

is he?"

"He is out just now," said the editor. " Come to-morrow." I will," said the poet, " and I will come armed."

And here is another shrewd American homily upon Patience, which is credited to the curiously-named journal, Texas

Stftings

"We should all strive to be patient. If, however, we cannot

be patient, we may at least advise others to be calm under

difficulties, no matter how trying they may be. It is much easier to advise friends to bear up under misfortune than it is to do so

ourselves. 'Pashuns,' wrote Josh Billings, 'iz like kastor ile.

It is one thing to prescribe it; it iz another thing to take it.' Patience is always a virtue-in other people. Small troubles are the most troublesome. An elephant that will face an-army of men

will make an inglorious retreat before an army of gallinippers. Man should be wiser. He who murmurs at his lot is like one who

bares his feet to tread upon thorns. Always look at your worries

through the wrong end of the opera glass; examine your, joys with a micro-scope. At the same time, while it is an undoubted fact that worry is a bad thing, it is not the worst thing in the world.

There are some men who do not worry enough."

The concluding sentence of this extract, "There are some men who do not worry enough," re;minds me of a friend whom I used. to accuse of being incapable of remorse. Perhaps he did in reality,

but he never seemed to regret some very regrettable things. It is

silly indeed to be peevish with oneself, and to scold oneself for

mibtakes or for one's neglect of some duty, especially when some

thing as bad or worse will happen to-morrow; but on the other

hand there are men who, instead of worrying too much over their

blunders and shortcomings, forgive themselves quite too readily.

They have an utter incapacity for remorse.

Thirty years ago we culled these cotiplets from a poem by

TOL xxIx.-No. 333 M



162 THE IRISH MaNTHLY

Oliver Wendell Holmes called "Urania." They are not con

secutive, as we give them here.

Be firm! one constant element in luck

Is genuine, solid, old Teutonic pluck.

Leave what you've done for what you have to do:

Don't be "consistent" but be simply true.

Run if you like but try to keep your breath:

Work like a man, but don't be worked to death.

And with new notions-let me change the rule

Don't strike the iron till it's slightly cool.

And then, after a great many excellent hints, the poet goes

onX:

Once more: speak clearly if you speak at all, Carve every word before you let it fall.

Do put your accents in the proper spot

Don't (let me beg you), don't say How ? for What?

And, when you stick in conversation's burs,

Don't strew your pathway with those dreadful urs.

We are not sure that it is in the same, poem this important

counsel is given:

Have a good hat; the secret of your looks

Lives with the beaver -in Canadian brooks.

Virtue may flourish in an old cravat, But man and nature scorn the shocking hat.

No doubt it was in the United States also that Abraham

Linco a, their murdered President, chose his favourite poem;

which is said to have been the following. Of William Knox, to

whom it is assigned, we know nothing. Why does he not make

some reference to the after-fate of those whose mortality he

describes with such simple but forcible iteration and exhaustive

ness ? We are really glad to give another little term of life to

this impressive poem.

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proudc?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast flying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

Man passes from life to his rest in the grave.



BORROWED PLUMES 163

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,

Be scattered around and together be laid; And the young and the old, and the low and the high, Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant a mother attended and loved,

The mother that infant's affections who proved;

The busband that mother and infant who blessed,

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those who loved her and praised,

Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne; The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn; The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,

Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman, who climbed with his goat up the steep;

The beggar who wandered in seareh of his breadd,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,

The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;

The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,

Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

For we are the same that our fathers have been;

We see the same sights our fathers have seen

We drink the same stream and view the same sun,

And run the same course our fathers have run

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink,

To the life we are clinging they also would cling; But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.



164 THE IRISH MQNTHLY

They died, ayel they died; and we, things that are now,

Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, Meet the things that-ithey met on their pilgrimage road.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis&the draught:of a breath,

From the blossom: of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon -to the bier and the shroud-:

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be, proud?

cal cY- cnNvr i T-he. following was called "You can Never Tell" in the place

where we saw it quoted, without any signature or hint as to its

authorship

You- can never tell when you send a word Like an arrow shot from a bow

By an archer blind-'be it cruel or kind, Just where it may chance to go,

It may pierce the breast of your dearest friend, Tipped with poison or balm;

To a stranger's heart in. life's great mart

It may carry its pain or its calm.

You can never tell when you do an act Just what the result may be;

But with every deed you are sowing a seed, Though its harvest you may not see.

Each kindly act is an acorn dropped In God's productive soil;

Though you may not know, yet the tree shall grow And shelter the brows that toil.

You can never tell what your thoughts will do In bringing you hate or love;

For thoughts are things, and their airy wings Are swifter than carrier dove.

They follow the law of the universe Each thing must create its kind;

And they speed o'er the track to bring you back

Whatever went out from your mind.



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Borrowed Plumes. VI

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