Impartial Reporter 15 January 1914.
JANUARY.
Guess, I was no worse than most folk till this brand new year began,
With its beastly resolutions spoiling everything you plan;
There’s no fun in the fellows hangin’ sulky roun’ the school,
’Cos they promised good behaviour an’ must stick each silly rule.
There’s Smith, minor, our best ‘footer’ an’ a sportin’ chap all roun’,
Game for every big adventure, sort of hero in the town;
Now he goes straight home to ‘prep’ just like any sickly kid;
Tho’ he hates his aunt like like poison, he must earn her half a quid.
Then there’s Harry Brown, a fellow I used to think a regular brick,
Playin’ chess with Uncle Henry (It fairly makes me sick).
And the captain of our team’s given up his cigarette,
’Cos his Cousin Ida’s promised him—’xactly what I now forget.
Nor is our home the kind of home it always used to be,
The Pater keeps lurkin’ round talkin’ politics to me;
As if I cared a hang for Asquith or all his bally show,
It’s showin’ off ’fore Gran’pa; you bet your hat I know.
And the girls no longer Tango, ’stead they look as black as sin,
O, don’t I wish this sneaking, beastly month of January was in;
Tell you what, before ’tis over I will make and keep one vow,
Just to be as downright wicked as I jolly well know how!
LOUIE STOCKDALE.
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Impartial Reporter 12 February 1914.
THE LITTLE MAID FORLORN.
(Her pinafore was decidedly dirty, her hair unkept, and her frock was torn in at least half a dozen places: obviously the forlorn little maid had no mother.—From a magazine story.)
Poor little maid forlorn,
With pinafore spoiled and torn
No mother’s hand to tend or care
For the torn frock and tumbled hair,
No wonder your world is bleak and bare
Poor little maid forlorn.
Never mind, little maid forlorn,
Nor heed the pinafore torn,
There’s daddy to tuck you up at night,
Sing you to sleep and put out the light,
Then the angel to lead you to dreamland bright,
Poor little maid forlorn.
And in the bright dreamland you’ll see
Mother again as she used to be.
Mother to clothe you in silk and lace,
Mother’s lips on your hands and face,
Mother’s arms in a close embrace,
Poor little maid forlorn.
Don’t cry, little maid forlorn,
There are many like you who mourne.
So, because we are precious in his sight
God sends us dreams in the starry night.
Some day, I hope, little maid for you
The beautiful dreams shall all come true.
LOUIE STOCKDALE.
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Impartial Reporter 5 March 1914.
DREAM FACES.
Many a pleasant fancy thrills me
Gazing thus upon the sea,
All my old romantic longings,
All my dreams come back to me.
Dreams forgotten in the turmoil
Of a world that knows no rest,
Hidden in the memory’s garden
Where we keep our loved and best.
In the ocean’s chant alluring,
Voices from the long ago,
Rise above the lulling music
Calling to me clear and low,
Till I answer all a-tremble,
As the green waves wash the shore,
‘Stay with me, o gentle voices,
Stay with me for evermore.’
As the waves creep back repentant
To their home, the ocean free,
So my thoughts with eager longing
Follow o’er the beauteous sea.
Till they reach a plain all golden,
With the hue of eventide,
Where the hills are green and olden
And the spaces fair and wide.
Till around meal the splendour
Of each rosy dream appears,
And the sweet elusions thrill me
As the music of the spheres,
Till the present’s lost for ever
In the future realized,
And each fancy finds a home
In the dream world that I prized.
There I see the sweet dream-faces
In a newer brighter sphere,
There I weave romantic legends
As they come and disappear,
There I set to work in earnest,
All my new ambitions cast,
On a higher purer level
Till the dream be overpast.
. . . . .
Were they always thus beside me,
These sweet fancies of the sea.
Better than the world’s approval
Their companionship to me.
Ever pointing to the haven,
Higher than earth’s golden store,
Till the actual faces greet me,
On a fairer wilder shore.
Louie Stockdale.
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Impartial Reporter 16 April 1914.
QUITS.
( . . . So she smiled universally upon them all, and thought it quite as exciting as a game of ‘consequences’ and he smiled, too—and bided his time.—Recent novel.)
I like the way she walks you know, so free an’ light and easy,
As if this world was a stage, and she its reignin’ queen,
I like the way she smiles, you know, tho’ times I grow uneasy,
For her smile is universal—(If you catch on what I mean).
I like the way she looks at me—tho’ every look’s a riddle,
That I get no help in guessin’ from her lips of ruby red;
I like the way she wears her hair, just parted down the middle
An’ fallin’ flat, an’ smooth an’ fair each side her dainty head.
I like the way she talks to me so gay, an’ bright an’ witty
With her blue eyes all asparkle an’ her soft cheeks in a glow.
I like the way she wears her clothes, so chic an’ smart and pretty,
But most of all I like her for her inner self you know.
The self that lies all hidden from the casual outside world
Behin’ her careless laughter and the witchery of her eyes,
The self that calls to myself that speaks from depths unfurl’d
An’ paints before my hungry gaze—a glimpse of paradise.
So I’m workin’ for my laurels, O I’m workin’ awful hard,
Her smile is universal still, but I’ll surely win her yet
An’ when the mask is lifted an’ I claim my just reward,
I will know how much she owes and I’ll make her pay, you bet!
LOUIE STOCKDALE.
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The Impartial Reporter 1 April 1915.
DON’T CRY.
(Let him take away a cheerful mental picture of you, and when he is gone be up and doing too,… Daily paper.)
There, little girl, don’t cry!
He is your all, I know,
But his duty’s there
In the battle’s blare,
So smile as you watch him go.
Be proud of your man
And help all you can.
There, little girl, don’t cry!
There, little girl, don’t cry!
You would not ask him stay
While his comrades fall,
And their voices call,
‘Replace our lifeless clay,’
His to do or die,
Not to question why, −
There, little girl, don’t cry!
There, little girl, don’t cry!
He went as a man should go−
In his glad, bright way,
He’ll come home some day,
If the good Lord will it so.
There are others, too,
Who are sad like you,
There, little girl, don’t cry!
There, little girl, don’t cry!
Tho’ you weep for a hero bold
With his comrades brave
In a nameless grave
Your share of the world lies cold!
. . .
In a happier land
You will clasp his hand.
There, little girl, don’t cry!
LOUIE STOCKDALE.
Manorhamilton, Co. Leitrim.
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The Impartial Reporter 3 June 1915.
THE SECOND LIEUTENANT.
It’s the blood we spill in Flanders that leaves the sun for you. –H.C.F. in the Daily Mail.
Somewhere in Flanders he lies,
His face upturned to the skies
Mid the shriek of shot and shell
In the battle where he fell,
Death on his icy brow,
His blue eyes glazed and bright,
He recks no more of the fight;
Calm, majestic, aloof—
The starry Heavens his roof,
Nothing can hurt him now.
In the pride of his youth and strength
He measures his long clean length,
The plucky smile of his race
Still on his smooth pale face.
Now up from the blood-stained sod,
Up to the joy of a task well done
Up to the peace of a victory won
He wends his way, in his armour brave,
Beyond the tumult and the grave
To the great white Throne of God.
LOUIE STOCKDALE.
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