Roisin Dubh - Sligo Poets

Sligo Champion. January 20, 1912

                  RAIN.

Rain, relentless, drenching,
And my heart throbbing out its great unrest,
The fire in my brain unquenching
Burns like the fire of the unblest.
Ghosts of the dead past,
Come memories hurrying fast
Of joy that comes no more,
Of the happiness of love.
True, I thought, as God above,
That made my life a heaven on earth before.

Rain, destroying, washing
The colour from each fragrant, fragile flower;
Rain, against the window lashing,
This is no pretty Summer shower.
But nothing matters now,
Nor rain, nor hail, nor snow,
I, too, am fading with the constant rain of tears
And my heart, though rent in twain,
Keeps throbbing out its pain,
For me no comfort comes as pass the years.

Rain—my pain renewing,
’Twas in rain that first we met,
And memory pursuing,
Ah, God! could I forget!
The long years stretch before
Loveless, Oh! I implore,
Lord let my memory go,
The past but mocks me now,
And yet—I know not how—
I want it even so.

Rain, and the grey mist rising
And shrouding all the blue of heaven’s home,
Rain—man’s work despising,
Mocks me, here alone.
Yet love makes up life’s day
And chaseth night away,
And though it brought me pain,
Though lone I droop and pine,
I’m glad that it was mine,
Glad—though ’tis gone again

ROISIN DUB

Sligo Champion 21 December 1912

                       MICK

He came to school on an autumn day,
  With his sunny curls and merry smiles,
And he taxed my patience in every way,
  Yet won my heart with his childish wiles:
       Vexing, teasing—at every trick,
       Yet a coaxing, pleasing, lovable Mick.

Through the livelong day his wee feet ran
  Across the floor—now here, now there;
And from every corner his laughter rang
  Till I thought of my discipline in despair.
       Vexing, teasing—at every trick,
       Yet a coaxing, pleasing, lovable Mick.

When my teacher’s soul could bear no more,
  I’d put him sitting on my own chair,
Till a plaintive voice I’d hear implore:
  ‘Miss, Miss, Miss, may I tum down dere?’
       Vexing, teasing—at every trick,
       Yet a coaxing, pleasing, lovable Mick.

He’d never known a mother’s love,
  This tiny mite of summer’s three,
But surely his mother watched above
  If souls in Heaven their loved can see
       Vexing, teasing—at every trick,
       Coaxing, pleasing, lovable Mick.

I often think of the weary road
  Those little feet may travel yet,
Of the pitfalls that be—of sorrows load
  Of the myriad worries that manhood fret.
       Vexing, teasing—at every trick,
       Coaxing, pleasing, lovable Mick.

And I think of the sights those innocent eyes
  May have to see on the road of life
’Ere the sun shall set for them ne’er to rise
  On the world’s sadness, pain and strife.
       God’s angels keep you from harm, a mhic,
       Coaxing, pleasing, lovable Mick.

                                        Róisín Dubh