Hide me, Mother! my Fathers belong'd to the church of old, I am driven by storm and sin and death to the ancient fold, I cling to the Catholic Cross once more, to the Faith that saves,...
Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see, By dawn or sunset shone across, When the ebb of the sea has left them free, To dry their fringes of gold-green moss For there the river comes winding down,...
Day of ending for beginnings! Ocean hath another innings, Ocean hath another score; And the surges sing his winnings, And the surges shout his winnings, And the surges shriek his winnings,...
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante" Got scar't an' run below For de win' she blow lak hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more,...
Within the greenhouse dim and damp The heat floats like a cloud. Pale rose-leaves droop from the rust roof With rust-edged roses bowed. As I go in Out flies the startled wren. ...
Early each spring the little wren Came scolding to his nest of moss; We knew him by his peevish cry, He always sung so very cross. His quiet little mate would lay Her eggs in peace, and think all day....
Old monasteries under steadfast walls Displayed tableaux of holy Verity, Warming the inner men in those cold halls Against the chill of their austerity. ...
The Bishop tells us: "When the boys come back They will not be the same; for they'll have fought In a just cause: they lead the last attack On Anti-Christ; their comrade's blood has bought...
Jolly boys of St. Kevan's,[2] St. Patrick's, Donore And Smithfield, I'll tell you, if not told before, How Bettesworth, that booby, and scoundrel in grain,...
THIS is the Yak, so neg-li-g'e: His coif-fure's like a stack of hay; He lives so far from Any-where, I fear the Yak neg-lects his hair, And thinks, since there is none to see,...
They're all buildin nests for thersen, One bi one they goa fleetin away; A suitable mate comes, - an then, I'th' old nest they noa longer can stay. Well, - it's folly for th' old en's to freeat,...
She sings by her wheel at that low cottage door, Which the long evening shadow is stretching before; With a music as sweet as the music which seems Breathed softly and faintly in the ear of our dreams! ...
They are blind, and they are dead: We will wake them as we go; There are words have not been said, There are sounds they do not know: We will pipe and we will sing-- With the Music and the Spring...
The Loch Achray was a clipper tall With seven-and-twenty hands in all. Twenty to hand and reef and haul, A skipper to sail and mates to bawl "Tally on to the tackle-fall,...