Sligo Times 10 June 1911
The Knight and the Roses.
’Twas on a Sunday afternoon—
The sun was warm and bright—
When through our quiet neighbourhood
Came motoring the Knight.
A welcome diversion,
When visitors are few,
He left a cloud of dust behind
And a box of roses too.
"Who are they for," asked Patricia.
"Ah, who?" I echoed low,
My tone was fraught with meaning,
And her cheeks took on a glow.
Then up spoke Jean in wisdom;
"Why, there are only two,
So one is for Patricia,
And the other is for you."
But I laughed in high derision,
The Knight I knew right well;
I also knew he didn’t approve
Of thoughtless Clarabel.
Yes, I felt an odd elation
As I gazed at the proffered prize—
A little thing gains value
When it takes one by surprise.
So I took the dainty blossom—
It seemed the thing to do—
"Are you sure," I asked Patricia,
"They are not both for you?"
For I suddenly remembered,
Tho’ she distained to speak,
The Knight had brought her a bouquet
Only the previous week.
We stood in meditation
And each of us breathed a name,
I looked at my rose for sytmpathy,
But it seemed to droop in shame.
Then the thought came to torment me
And with each moment grew;
"I will wither in your keeping,
For it was not meant for you."
The Knight admires Patricia,
Disapproves of me and my fun.
Well, she has a thousand virtues,
I haven’t a single one.
I looked at my dainty blossom,
I looked at it long and deep.
The rose is my favourite flower,
I’d have liked this rose to keep.
From the rose I looked at Patricia,
At her hair with its golden sheen;
In the place where sometime I boasted a heart
I felt exceedingly mean.
After all, did it matter?
Patricia is good and true.
If she were his queen of the roses,
The roses were her due.
Yes, she has a thousand virtues,
And he is a lucky chap,
So "sweets to the sweet" I said gaily
And I dropped it into her lap.
Her eyes grew round with wonder;
She looked me up and down.
"Pray take it," I cried flippantly,
"It doesn’t suit my gown."
She took it with a pleasure
She vainly strove to hide,
She fastened it with the other
And they brightened side by side.
And tho’ her breath were the magic
Breath of the summer’s sea;
Alas! ’twas painfully evident
They were neither meant for me.
May, 1911. Louie Stockdale.