Main menu:
Louie Stockdale; Poems in other Northern Newspapers 1905-
Ulster Herald 2 September 1905.
IN THE TWILIGHT
Dusky twilight gathers round us,
Dusky twilight, calm and sweet;
And I watch it as it deepens
Eagerly, the night to greet.
Dusky twilights come and go, love,
As each night succeeds the day,
And the stars that shine above us
Each night shine upon my way.
I am waiting in the twilight,
And the hours are slipping by;
Don’t you know my heart is longing?
Don’t you hear my lonely sigh?
I have waited—O, so long, love!
How I feel it none can know;
But the stars are whispering hope love,
As you whispered long ago.
In the twilight I am happy,
For I feel your presence near,
I forget the lonely present
As I dwell on memories dear.
And I see the bright days coming
Over which I fondly dream,
As I listen to the music
Of the gliding silver stream.
Thus my heart gets peace and comfort
And my life grows light again—
Bright with hope and bright with gladness
Easing sorrow, easing pain.
For our hearts are bound together
By the golden chain of Love—
The sweetest gift of all below,
And sent by heaven above.
So, when the shadows gather round
Your home across the sea,
And of bygone days you’re thinking
Think of brighter days to be.
And you’ll remember, dearest,
When the sun is sinking low;
I am waiting in the twilight,
As I promised long ago!
LOUIE STOCKDALE.
Manorhamilton.
Ulster Herald 9 April 1910.
Derry People 9 April 1910.
THE DREAM WORLD.
Oh! come you into my dream world
And a wonderful place you’ll see,
The beautiful land of make-
Then away to this fair dream world we’ll go
On a silvery wave of light,
Just put your tiny hand into mine,
I will pilot you through the night.
Oh! come you into my dream world,
When friends are stern and cold,
There’s special care for the lonely,
Its shelter shall you enfold.
For every hour a dream we’ll weave,
As we float on a crystal sea,
No need to sigh when skies are grey
If you will come with me.
Oh! come you into my dream world,
If you are hurt and sad,
And bide awhile till the tears are dry
In my dream world bright and glad.
There is help for every sorrow,
There is ease for every pain,
Away in the land of make believe
You shall laugh and sing again.
Oh! come you into my dream world’
Let us enter side by side
On a wave of silvery moonbeams
To the land of dreams we’ll ride.
The beautiful thoughts are waiting
About on a crystal sea,
So put your tiny hand in mine
And say you will come with me.
LOUIE STOCKDALE
Manorhamilton.
Ulster Herald 29 May 1909.
Fermanagh Herald 14 August 1909
PARADISE.
What is it like your paradise?
Is it wide and bright and fair?
Is it a place of endless joy,
And how might one enter there?
I’ve heard, tis true, of a heavenly land
Far, far beyond the skies,
But I’ve never dreamt that this life held—
An earthly Paradise.
You speak of its glories, what are they?
Of its peace, and joy, and flowers.
Oh, would I were there, to leave for aye,
All this world’s tempting powers.
The weary crowds, the endless strife,
The giddy pleasures and din
Oh, where, or where is this Paradise,
That I may enter in?
She was small and slender and sweet,
Her eyes of a golden brown;
She looked at me in a winsome way,
Then shyly she looked down.
On the glow of her rounded cheek I gazed
On the sweep of her curtained eyes,
But never a word of hope spoke she
Of an earthly paradise.
He was tall, brave and strong
And his eyes—as they looked at me
Were blue as the heart of a violet
With the gleam of a summer’s sea.
Love is the golden chain, he said,
And boundless are its charms;
Paradise—and he smiled at me—
Are these encircling arms.
LOUIE STOCKDALE.
Manorhamilton, May 19th, 1909
Ulster Herald 26 June 1909.
Derry People 26 June 1909.
AWAY FROM IRELAND.
Going away from Ireland, from the blue and gold of the sky,
From the green hills and the babbling rills;
Bidding a long good bye
To the old haunts, the dear haunts,
To friends and sweethearts true,
Oh foolish, foolish exiles, ’tis a sorry thing to do.
Leaving the mother country, leaving the old to die,
Leaving the land of your fathers, heedless of its cry;
The willing hands, the workers away across the foam,
Leaving the mother country and the dear delights of home.
Where, or where is the loyalty, the boasted pride of race,
The strong arm and the buoyant heart, the scanty times to face:
Is it only then in history are loyal men and true
Going away from Ireland, what a sorry thing to so.
Better a crust in Ireland, than gold in a foreign land;
Better a hut on a green hill with the grip of a friendly hand,
A warm heart and a true heart, a heart to do or die,
But to go away from Ireland heedless of her cry.
What of the times are changing and poor she stands alone,
Are there no faithful children that she may call her own?
To revel in her beauty, her earth, her air, and sky,
To starve with her if needs be until the clouds roll by.
Going away from Ireland, perchance for evermore,
Away from the homes of childhood, to toil on a far off shore;
Leaving the friends of years, mothers and sweethearts too,
Oh poor impatient exiles, ’tis a sorry thing to do.
LOUIE STOCKDALE
The Derry People, April 18, 1914.
HER PHOTO.
It stands in honour by itself
Upon the most conspicuous shelf,
A picture so supremely fair
It’s quite excusable to stare
More than mere beauty this—
Seems to breathe forth happiness.
Her frock is white and edged with lace,
A frock befitting such a face;
There’s roses in each rounded cheek
Where dimples coy play hide and seek
And the colour of her eyes
Match the blue of April skies.
Dainty hands hold back her skirts,
Showing frivolous lace, that flirts
With slim ankles, rosy feet,
(’fraid you’ll call this indiscreet).
Round her waist (size twenty two),
Is tied a coquettish sash of blue.
Yes not in face or rounded arm
Is the glory of her charm
Oh! she has something, something more,
To make us wonder and adore,
This: she can young and old beguile
With the glory of her smile.
It lights her face from chin to brow
(Ah! you can see its witchery now!)
There’s no mistaking its sway—
You must smile back in sympathy.
You leave those lips with laughter curled
In gay good humour with the world.
No! tho’ it were well worth while
She could not cultivate that smile,
Most likely its been handed down
From some ancestor of renown
And her children—(but, for sure
You’ll think this very premature.
Before we leave this picture note
(And o’er this fact she seems to gloat),
That her teeth (grown or bought)
Number just a great round O!
Is she so old then? Well, my dear
She’s just one month and one long year!
LOUIE STOCKDALE
Manorhamilton, Co. Leitrim,
April 14 th, 1914.