No warmth the sun had as it shone;

The kine were stalled, the birds were gone;
Like wild things seemed the shapes of fur
With which was every street astir,
And over all the huddling crowd

The thick breath hung--a solid cloud,-
Roof, road, and river, all were white;
Men moved benumbed by day—by night
The boldest durst not bivouac,
When André rode to Pont-du-lac.

When André rode to Pont-du-lac,
We scarce could stem his swift attack;
A halt, a cheer, a bugle-call,-
Like wild-cats they were up the wall:
But still as each man won the town,
We tossed him from the ramparts down;
And when at last the stormers quailed,
And back the assailants shrank assailed,
Like wounded wasps that still could sting,
Or tigers that had missed their spring,
They would not fly, but turned at bay
And fought out all the dying day;-
Sweet saints! it was a curious track
That André left by Pont-du-lac.

When André rode to Pont-du-lac,
Said he, "A troop of girls could sack
This huckster town, that hugs its hoard
But wists not how to wield a sword."
It makes my blood warm now to know
How soon Sir Cockerel ceased to crow,
And how 'twas my sure dagger-point
In André's harness found a joint:
For I, who now am old, was young,
And strong the thews were, now unstrung,
And deadly though our danger then,
I would that day were back again;
Ay, would to God that day were back
When André rode to Pont-du-lac!

A. H. Beesly [18

The Ballad of Father Gilligan 2717

THE BALLAD OF FATHER GILLIGAN

THE old priest Peter Gilligan

Was weary night and day;

For half his flock were in their beds,

Or under green sods lay.

Once, while he nodded on a chair,
At the moth-hour of eve,
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.

“I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die";

And after cried he, "God forgive!

My body spake, not I!"

He knelt, and leaning on the chair

He prayed and fell asleep;

And the moth-hour went from the fields,

And stars began to peep.

They slowly into millions grew,

And leaves shook in the wind;

And God covered the world with shade,

And whispered to mankind.

Upon the time of sparrow chirp

When the moths came once more,

The old priest Peter Gilligan

Stood upright on the floor.

"Mavrone, mavrone! the man has died,

While I slept on the chair";

He roused his horse out of his sleep,

And rode with little care.

He rode now as he never rode,

By rocky lane and fen;

The sick man's wife opened the door:

"Father! you come again!"

"And is the poor man dead?" he cried.
"He died an hour ago."

The old priest Peter Gilligan

In grief swayed to and fro.

"When you were gone, he turned and died

As merry as a bird."

The old priest Peter Gilligan

He knelt him at the word.

"He who hath made the night of stars

For souls, who tire and bleed,

Sent one of His great angels down

To help me in my need.

"He who is wrapped in purple robes,

With planets in His care,

Had pity on the least of things

Asleep upon a chair."

William Buller Yeats [1865

THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS

Five fearless knights of the first renown
In Elizabeth's great array,

From Plymouth in Devon sailed up and down—

American sailors they;

Who went to the West,

For they all knew best

Where the silver was gray

As a moonlit night,

And the gold as bright

As a midsummer day—

A-sailing away

Through the salt sea spray,

The first American sailors.

Sir HUMPHREY GILBERT, he was ONE
And Devon was heaven to him,

He loved the sea as he loved the sun

The First American Sailors

2719

And hated the Don as the Devil's limb

Hated him up to the brim!

In Holland the Spanish hide he tanned,
He roughed and routed their braggart band,
And God was with him on sea and land;

Newfoundland knew him, and all that coast,
For he was one of America's host-

And now there is nothing but English speech
For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,
From near the Equator away to the Pole;
While the billows beat and the oceans roll
On the Three Americas.

Sir FRANCIS DRAKE, and he was TWO
And Devon was heaven to him,

He loved in his heart the waters blue
And hated the Don as the Devil's limb-
Hated him up to the brim !

At Cadiz he singed the King's black beard,
The Armada met him and fled afeard,
Great Philip's golden fleece he sheared;
Oregon knew him, and all that coast,
For he was one of America's host-
And now there is nothing but English speech
For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,
From California away to the Pole;

While the billows beat and the oceans roll

On the Three Americas.

1

Sir WALTER RALEIGH, he was THREE

And Devon was heaven to him,

There was nothing he loved so well as the seaHe hated the Don as the Devil's limb—

Hated him up to the brim !

He settled full many a Spanish score,
Full many's the banner his bullets tore
On English, American, Spanish shore;

Guiana knew him, and all that coast,
For he was one of America's host-
And now there is nothing but English speech
For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,

From Guiana northward to the Pole;
While the billows beat and the oceans roll
On the Three Americas.

Sir RICHARD GRENVILLE, he was FOUR
And Devon was heaven to him,

He loved the waves and their windy roar
And hated the Don as the Devil's limb—

Hated him up to the brim !

He whipped him on land and mocked him at sea, He laughed to scorn his sovereignty,

And with the Revenge beat his fifty-three;

Virginia knew him, and all that coast,
For he was one of America's host-
And now there is nothing but English speech
For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,
From the Old Dominion away to the Pole;
While the billows beat and the oceans roll

On the Three Americas.

And Sir JOHN HAWKINS, he was FIVE
And Devon was heaven to him,

He worshipped the water while he was alive
And hated the Don as the Devil's limb-

Hated him up to the brim !

He chased him over the Spanish Main,
He scoffed and defied the navies of Spain-
His cities he ravished again and again; 7
The Gulf it knew him, and all that coast,
For he was one of America's host

And now there is nothing but English speech
For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,

From the Rio Grande away to the Pole;
While the billows beat and the oceans roll
On the Three Americas.

Five fearless knights have filled gallant graves
This many and many a day,

Some under the willows, some under the waves—
American sailors they;