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Read Ebook: Ballads of Peace in War by Earls Michael
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Ebook has 193 lines and 13964 words, and 4 pages
BALLADS OF PEACE IN WAR
HIS LIGHT
Gray mist on the sea, And the night coming down, She stays with sorrow In a far town.
They would be wedded On a fair yesterday, But the quick regiment Saw him away.
Gray mist in her eyes And the night coming down: He feels a prayer From a far town.
He goes the sea-ways, The land lights are dim; She and an altar light Keep watch for him.
THE COUNTERSIGN
Along Virginia's wondering roads While armies hastened on, To Beauregard's great Southern host, Manassas fields upon, Came Colonel Smith's good regiment, Eager for Washington.
But Colonel Smith must halt his men In a dangerous delay, Though well he knows the countryside To the distant host of grey. He cannot join with Beauregard For Bull Run's bloody fray.
And does he halt for storm or ford, Or does he stay to dine? Say, No! but death will meet his men, Onward if moves the line: He dares not hurry to Beauregard, Not knowing the countersign.
Flashed in the sun his waving sword; "Who rides for me?" he cried, "And ask of the Chief the countersign, Upon a daring ride; Though never the lad come back again With the good that will betide.
"I will send a letter to Beauregard," The Colonel slowly said; "The bearer dies at the pickets' line, But the letter shall be read When the pickets find it for the Chief, In the brave hand of the dead."
THE COUNTERSIGN
"Ready I ride to the Chief for the sign," Said little Dan O'Shea, "Though never I come from the picket's line, But a faded suit of grey: Yet over my death will the road be safe, And the regiment march away."
"In a mother's name, I bless thee, lad," The Colonel drew him near: "But first in the name of God," said Dan, "And then is my mother's dear-- Her own good lips that taught me well, With the Cross of Christ no fear."
Quickly he rode by valley and hill, On to the outpost line, Till the pickets arise by wall and mound, And the levelled muskets shine; "Halt!" they cried, "count three to death, Or give us the countersign."
Lightly the lad leaped from his steed, No fear was in his sigh, But a mother's face and a home he loved Under an Irish sky: He made the Sign of the Cross and stood, Bravely he stood to die.
Lips in a prayer at the blessed Sign, And calmly he looked around, And wonder seized his waiting soul To hear no musket sound, But only the pickets calling to him, Heartily up the mound.
For this was the order of Beauregard Around his camp that day-- The Sign of the Cross was countersign, And the word came quick to Colonel Smith For the muster of the grey.
A HILL O' LIGHTS
Turn from Kerry crossroads and leave the wooded dells, Take the mountain path and find where Tip O'Leary dwells; Tip O'Leary is the name, I sing it all day long, And every bird whose heart is wise will have it for a song.
Tip O'Leary keeps the lights of many lamps aglow, Little matters it to him the seasons come or go, Sure if spring is in the air his hedges are abloom, And fairy buds like candles shine across his garden room.
Roses in the June days are light the miles around, Tapers of the fuchsias move along the August ground, Sumachs light the flaming torches by October's grave And like the campfires on the hills the oaks and maples wave.
All the lights but only one die out when summer goes, One that Tip O'Leary keeps is brighter than the rose, Through the window comes the bloom on any winter night, And every sense goes wild to it, soft and sweet and bright.
Lamps are fair that have the light from flowers all day long, When the birds are here and sing the Tip O'Leary song, But a winter window is the fairest rose of all, When Tip O'Leary's hearth is lit and lamps upon the wall.
OFF TO THE WAR
In a little ship and down the bay, Out to the calling sea, A young brave lad sailed off today, To the one great war went he: The one long war all men must know Greater than land or gold, Soul is the prince and flesh the foe Of a kingdom Christ will hold.
With arms of faith and hope well-wrought The brave lad went away, And the voice of Christ fills all his thought, Under two hands that pray: The tender love of a mother's hands That guarded all his years, Fitted the armor, plate and bands, And blessed them with her tears.
Older than Rhodes and Ascalon And the farthest forts of sea, Is the Master voice that calls him on From the hills in Galilee: From hills where Christ in gentle guise Called, as He calls again, With His heart of love and His love-lit eyes Unto His warrior men.
Christ with the brave young lad to-day Who goes to the sweet command, Strengthen his heart wherever the way, Whether he march or stand: And whether he die in a peaceful cell, Or alone in the lonely night, The Cross of Christ shall keep him well, And be his death's delight.
THE TOWERS OF HOLY CROSS
The roads look up to Holy Cross, The sturdy towers look down, And show a kindly word to all Who pass by Worcester Town; And once you'd see the boys at play, Or marching cap and gown.
The gallant towers at Holy Cross Are silent night and day, A few young lads are left behind Who still may take their play; The Cross and Flag look out afar For them that went away.
And mine are gone, says Beaven Hall, To camps by hill and plain, And mine along by Newport Sea, Says the high tower of O'Kane; I follow mine, Alumni calls, Across the watery main.
Their sires were in the old Brigade That won at Fontenoy, Stood true at Washington's right hand, that were his faith and joy: From Holy Cross to Fredericksburg Is many a gallant boy.
Then God be with you, says the Cross, And the brave towers looking down; I'll be your cloth, sings out the Flag, For other cap and gown, And may we see you safe again, On the hills of Worcester Town.
ALWAYS MAYTIME
And you, my loyal little friend, , What years of loyalty attend Great comradeship we know; Yet joy have me in place of tears To see your road depart, For whether east or west your years, A friend stays home at heart.
Then gladly let the Springtime pass And Summer in its wake; Ahead are fields of flower and grass All fragrant for your sake: With hearts of joy we say farewell, With laughter, wave and nod, It's always May for us who dwell In seasons close to God.
THE STORYTELLER
Tim of the Tales they call me, With a welcome heart and hand; But little they hold my brother For all his cattle and land.
If I be walking the high road From Clare that goes to the sea, A troop of the young run leaping To gather a story from me.
Tim of the Tales, the folk say, Is known the world around, For children by taking his stories To their homes in foreign ground.
I pity my brother his fortunes, And how he sits alone, With the money that keeps his body, But leaves his heart a stone.
And sometimes do I be feeling A dream of death in my ear, And a heaven of children calling, "Tim of the Tales is here."
MY FATHER'S TUNES
My father had the gay good tunes, the like you'd seldom hear, A whole day could he whistle them, an' thin he'd up an' sing, The merry tunes an' twists o'them that suited all the year, An' you wouldn't ask but listen if yourself stood there a king. Early of a mornin' would he give "The Barefoot Boy" to us, An' later on "The Rocky Road" or maybe "Mountain Lark," "Trottin' to the Fair" was a liltin' heart of joy to us, An' whin we heard "The Coulin" sure the night was never dark.
An' what's the good o' foolish tunes, the moilin' folks 'ud say, It's better teach the children work an' get the crock o' gold; Thin sorra take their wisdom whin it makes them sad an' gray,-- A man is fitter have a song that never lets him old. A stave of "Gillan's Apples" or a snatch of "Come Along With Me" Will warm the cockles o' your heart, an' life will keep its prime. Yarra, gold is all the richer whin it's "Danny, sing a song for me" Or what's the good o' money if you're dead afore your time.
It's sense to do your turn o' work, it's healthy to be wise, An' have the little crock o' gold agin the day o' rain; But whin the ground is heaviest, your heart will feel the skies, If you know a little Irish song to lift the road o' pain. The learnin' an' the wealth we have are never sad an' gray with us, The dullest times in all the year are merry as the June: For we've the heart to up an' sing "Arise, an' come away with us," The way my father gave it, an' we laughin' in the tune.
A SONG
June of the trees in glory, June of the meadows gay! O, and it works a story To tell an October day.
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