The Latest Martyr (Mexico 1926)
The morn is sweet and radiant with blue sky over all,
There’s a flame of Oleanders over the adobe wall,
And the birds are singing gaily – I must crush my sorrow down
Why should a woman weep whose son doth wear a martyr’s crown?
‘Tis many hundred years since Stephen knelt in the market place,
Facing the cruel heathen stones battering his boyish face,
St. Stephen, first of the martyred bans! And he, my little son,
My little black-eyed Juan, he is the latest one!
It is almost too much honour – ah! Madre de Dios, be kind,
I am only a human mother, sinful and weak and blind,
I could not say “They will be done,” on that terror-haunted day,
When he faced their coward bullets, with a “Viva Cristo Rey.”
I can see the fearless flashing eyes, I can hear the ringing cry
As he fell ‘mid the blood-stained flowers, ‘neath the cruel-smiling sky,
His young form riddled with bullets, and I ran and held him fast,
And he smiled “Adios, Madre” for comfort at the last.
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Old Tin Liz
We have scrubbed, and scoured and polished, till she's looking just like new,
And her good old engines singing, and our hearts are singing too,
While the magpies pipe a chorus, and the air's like a sparkling fizz.
And we're going to the races in the Old Tin Liz.
T'was the first car in the district, how we swelled our chests with pride,
As we asked our poorer neighbours to step up and take a ride,
Now they pass us by, disdainful, in the newest make there is,
Wondering why we cling so faithfully to Old Tin Liz.
When we'd got her, new and shining, Oh the picnics that we had,
Mother shredding all her troubles, Father larking like a lad,
While we youngsters sang in chorus, as our bubbling spirits riz,
Sitting decked with ferns and wattles in the Old Tin Liz.
But when Janey got a snake bite, ah! the terror of that day,
Nothing in the house to cure her, and the doctor miles away,
'Twas then Lizzie showed her mettle. Oh she had a heart of gold
Roaring up those flinty ridges liked a blessed two-year-old.
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The First School Day
We are saddling Don and Laddie,
Mid laughter, and fun and noise
And maybe, a sigh in passing
For vanished holiday joys.
And Mother is cutting lunches,
There are only four as a rule,
But to-day another is added,
For Baby is going to school.
‘You’ll take her on Laddie between you,
And hold her tight at the creek.”
And Mother parts with her darling
With a kiss on her dimpled cheek.
“You needn’t be fwightened.” Says baby,
“I’ll be as wight as tan be,
I’LL give Sister our names, and I’ll tell her
That ‘Mary Beronica’s’- me.”
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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A Young Rebel
The sun is setting behind the range,
his golden rays pour down
On a little figure, childish, strange,
Bending over a volume worn,
Whose green-clad cover, dusty and torn,
Bears a 'harp without a crown'.
The young eyes turn to the distant west,
Where the sunset colours glow,
And thoughts are thrilling the childish breast
Of gallant, valorous deeds long done,
Of glorious battles, fought and won
In the days of long ago.
His fancy peoples the lonely glen
With the ghosts of the vanished past,
Till he hears the tramp of armed men,
And O'Niall's plumed horsemen ridge
While the 'Red Hand' flutters in all its pride
Above them on the blast.
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Murtagh The Cobbler
The harvest moon was shinin’
As Murtagh came from the fair,
And Oh! The scent of the new-mown hay
And the gorsebloom in the air.
The night wind lifted his shock of hair
With whisperings weird and low,
And sang in his lonely, aching heart
Till he could not choose but go.
Aside from the dusky highway
Down a haunted old boreen
To where a strange light flickered
In under the hollies green--
All night he spent in that fairy dell,
Till the red dawn stained the sky;
And he sold his soul to the fairy folk
For the gift of the seeing eye.
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The Young Rebel
The sun is setting behind the range,
His golden rays pour down
On a little figure, childish and strange,
Bending over a volume worn,
Whose green-clad cover, dusty and torn,
Bears a ‘harp without a crown.”
The young eyes turn to the distant west,
Where the sunset colours glow,
And thoughts are thrilling the childish breast
Of a gallant, valorous deeds long done,
Of glorious battles fought and won
In the days of long ago.
His fancy peoples the lonely glen
With the ghosts of the vanished past,
Till he hears the tramp of armed men,
And O’Niall’s plumed horsemen ride
While the ‘Red Hand’ flutters in all its pride
Above them on the blast.
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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When Rody Came To Ironbark
When Rody came to Ironbark, there spread a hectic glow
around the little township - a dozen years ago,
and the townsfolk were divided, twixt laughter and dismay
at the roysterin' ways of Rody - the madcap tricks he'd play.
When whisky-primed and mischief bent, he drove in wild career
the parson's sulky hitched behind O'Grady's brindled steer,
and he, and other reckless lads, with laughter, song and joke,
made life on earth a burden for all sober-minded folk.
When Rody came to Ironbark, 'twas fun to watch the girls,
Such sorting out of frills and frocks such pinning up of curls,
there were no 'bob's no 'shingles' then but ringlets floated down,
and the the curling tongs worked overtime, when Rody came to town.
And all the girls in Ironbark for Rody pined and sighed,
save little Nora Shanahan, all scorn and maiden pride,
(Now Rod was like a pine-tree, so straight and slim and tall,
but she was pink and dainty, as an apple-blossom small).
She captured Rody's wilful heart, but though he'd beg and pray,
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Sixty Years Ago
I
The double-blossomed peach-trees with rosy bloom were gay
When grandpa rode beneath them upon his courting way,
From the white gate to the homestead they stretched in stately row,
And showered his path with petals, just sixty years ago.
His riding suit was spick and span, his jingling bridle rein,
Was polished to the limit, his top-boots shone again;
A mass of youthful vanity, from curly head to toe,
Was my darling gay young grandpa – just sixty years ago.
Upon the broad veranda, demure my grandma sat,
And hid her girlish blushes beneath her garden hat,
Her dainty flowing muslins enfolded her like snow;
Ah! Very sweet my grandma was, just sixty years ago.
With sweeping bow and fluttering heart he told his hopes and fears,
And grandma gently said him ‘Yea’, mid blushes, smiles and tears.
When the double-blossomed peach-trees with fruit were bending low,
Good Father Flynn united them – just sixty years ago.
II
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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O’Grady’s Little Girl
Her hair was dark and curly, floatin’ to the saddle bow,
Her laugh was frank and girlish, and her voice was sweet and low;
When I was one-and-twenty, sure my heart was in a whirl,
Ridin’ neath the blossomed gum-trees with O’Grady’s little girl.
And ah! The dear grey eyes of her all truth and purity
What a beacon-light to goodness, such a colleen’s eyes can be!
The blazed a track to Heaven for me an’ it struck me like a blow
When O’Grady left the township, just twenty years ago.
In those years I’ve grown and prospered-sure the township’s half me own-
But my heart’s been empty-aching-since she left me all alone.
Now we’ve got a “Back-to-She-Oak’ week, celebratin’ royally,
And Nora’s coming home again, to join the revelry.
I’ll know her by here wild-rose face, her floatin’ curling hair,
By the neat black skirt and frilly blouse she always loved to wear,
I’ve never looked at wimmin since, but at the township ball
I’ll tell her all my faithful love-my hopes, and dreams and all.
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The Silver Box
Old tales of valour fire our blood
But this, the bravest deed I know
Is written of our modern times,
No myth of long ago.
It was a convent grim and grey,
Whose vine-clad balconies looked down
On stately old Colonial homes
Of a fair Southern town.
And daughters of those grand old homes
Dwelt, humble Nuns, within its shade,
Serving their Lord with zealous hearts,
Joyous and unafraid.
From the dear Rectress, staid and old
To the small novice whose sweet eyes
Held the soft blue of Mary’s cloak
Or flowers of Paradise.
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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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