Michael Earls

Ye who heed a nation's call And speed to arms therefor, Ye who fear your children's march

France tells the story, make our hearts know well, Christ His Figure stands against the gates of hell: Flame and shot may rive the fortress walls apart,

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,

(For John McCormack) June of the trees in glory, June of the meadows gay!

(POVERTY, CHASTITY, OBEDIENCE) Three little leaves like shamrock, And the trefoil's love-lit eyes,

And all the grottoed aisles along, Where servitors rejoice, The chorused echoes run-

(For Fr. C. L. O'Donnell) The interlacing trees Arise in Gothic traceries,

And the resounding harpers of the vine, Lone winter holds upon the Height Her court in full renown.

Obedience to the seasons' marshall-rod, That is a law of God, Here beauty passes with her gorgeous train,

(for Gerry) When May has spent its little song, And richer comes the June,

Let me go back again. There is the road, O memory! The humble garden lane So young with me. Let me rebuild again

O ye who sail Potomac's even tide To Vernon's shades, our Chieftain's hallowed mound; Or who at distant shrines high paeans sound

Gray mist on the sea, And the night coming down, She stays with sorrow

HOLY CROSS: MAY, 1917 (For Major Joseph W. O'Connor, '03) Birds are merry and the buds

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,

(For Jack) In a little ship and down the bay, Out to the calling sea,

Send us back the olden knights, tell no law to track 'em, Give to boy and maid the storytellers as of yore, Millionaires in legend-wealth, though no bank would back 'em,

(For Joyce Kilmer) When the dreamy night is on, up the Hudson river, And the sheen of modern taste is dim and far away,

(For Christine and Tom) Oases are charming 'mid the Afric sands, Beautiful is summer after rain;

But a fortnight later, by an autumn tree, Aileen and her brother came my way, And another, glad to tell the names of them and me,

The little green soldiers are here at last, With their waving blades and spears; And across the hills they are marching fast

Along the north a mountain crest, A row of trees runs towards the west; The south is all a field for play,

Gray lonely rocks about thee stand, Ignored of sun and dew, Yet is thy breath upon the land,

"Ready I ride to the Chief for the sign," Said little Dan O'Shea, "Though never I come from the picket's line,

Along Virginia's wondering roads While armies hastened on, To Beauregard's great Southern host,

IRELAND When shall we find the spring come in, And the fragrant air it blows?

You never know when war may come, And that is why I keep a drum: For if all sudden in the night

(For Osceola and Pocahontas) Was it a hundred years ago, Or was it but yesterday,

ON THE FIELD OF CORN Where is the war ye march unto, From the early tents of morn?

Two gloomy scenes may be, Or count you three: A building hope all crushed at morn,

Still goes the strife; the anguish does not die. Stronger the flesh is grown from earthy years, In siege about my soul that upward peers

Maelanfaid saw a tiny bird A-grieving on the ground, And O, the sad lament he heard,

But the children are the wise men, With the clearest heart and mind; If two and one are three, they say,

The best of true philosophers Are the children, after all,-- The children with laughing hearts

A sailor that rides the ocean wave, And I in my room at home: Where are the seas I fear to brave,

Tim of the Tales they call me, With a welcome heart and hand; But little they hold my brother

Two young lads from childhood up Drank together friendship's cup: Joe was glad with Bill at play,

(For W. M. Letts) The roads look up to Holy Cross, The sturdy towers look down,

(For T. A. Daly) America, Ireland and Italy, All have known this poor old tree.

We will go adventuring, will you come adventuring, Hail, to all who sail with us the seven pleasant seas: All the shores with lily bells, all the flutes of woodland dells

(For Aedh) 'Tis the queerest trade we have, the two of us that go about, I that do the talkin', and the little lad that sings,

Not from Mars and not from Thor Comes the war, the welcome war, Many months we waited for

Winter's tyrant king retires; Spring leads on her legion choirs Where the hedges sound their lyres;