Classic Poem

A light heart had the Irish lad,
As light as any in the land,
And surely that was all he had,
Save the King's English, at command!
Nay, Greek had he, a goodly store,
Though not a penny came to mock it;
Well, well, and he had something more—
He had a whistle in his pocket!

Ay, Greek he had, pure root and stem;
And that they had not at Louvain,
And that they wanted not—for them
Nor Plato spoke nor Homer sang.
And he had dreamed of classes there,
And he had crossed the deep seas over,
Determined in a scholar's chair
With cap and gown to live in clover.

But dean nor don of that famed school
Cared for the lore the stranger brought,
Greek was not in their time-worn rule,
And all his silver speech was naught.
Strange land, strange ways, strange faces, too;
A land that flowed with milk and honey—
And no word of their tongue he knew,
And had no stiver of their money.

He supped that night beside the brook,
That night he slept beneath the hedge;
Dark was the great sky's dreary look,
Hope gave no promise, fate no pledge.
And when the morning came, despair
Hung over him, and hunger gnawed him—
He was so young, and life so fair,
And death confronted him, and awed him.

And then—he was an Irish lad—
The April in him had its way;
Sun shining, should not one be glad?
Birds singing, one not match their play?
Soft blew the breeze his tears to wipe,
And there, upon the grassy hummock,
He laughed at care, and took his pipe,
And played a tune to stay his stomach.

He played, nor knew of any nigh,
Lost for the hour in sweet employ,
Till through his dream there stole a cry,
A little chirping note of joy:
And beating time there, every one,
With lips that laughed and eyes that glistened,
Like roses burning in the sun
Some happy children sat and listened.

And scarce less innocent than they
He gave a nod of merry cheer,
Blew out his cheeks with fresher play,
And blew the strain out loud and clear.
Clear as the whistling nightingale
He blew the tuneful moment's fancies,
Sweet airs of ancient Innisfail,
Or graveside keene, or fleet-foot dances.

And when he ceased, and fain would leave
The spot, with slower step and slower,
One caught his hand, and one his sleeve,
And led him to their mother's door.
They brought him honey, brought him bread,
They swarmed about, a pretty rabble,
And still he heard, when farther sped,
The music of their unknown babble.

And going on, he knew not where,
Feet somewhat sore, eyes somewhat dim,
A shadow fell upon the air,
And suddenly one went with him—
The shadow of remembered song,
The memory of a mighty singing,
That made the way, late hard and long,
Light with the music round it ringing;

Carolan's singing, long removed,
The last of the great bards who blew
Life through old ballads, whom men loved,
By the same token, whom kings slew.
Still could our wanderer see again
The streaming beard, the tattered camlet,
The shouldered harp whose throbbing strain
Brought greeting glad in hall and hamlet.

Not as perchance in elder days,
When daised ladies bent to hear,
And the torch shed its fitful blaze
On bull-hide shield and restless spear,
While some old minstrel, gaunt and hoar,
With “Dathi's Doom” made broadswords rattle,
And the wild song of “Argan Mor”
Stirred all their hearts to sudden battle;

But as beside some cabin door
The harp was strung to gentler tune,
And hushed the babe the mother bore,
And hushed the grandam's hapless croon.
While “Usna's Children” called the tear,
And lovers, moved with tenderer feeling,
Felt all their pulses bound to hear
“Cushla-ma-chree” and soft “Lough Sheeling.”

What music blown on every gale
Old Carolan was playing then!
What hero's chant, what banshee's wail,
Our happy wanderer heard again!
The Desmond's love he heard once more
Sweet Catherine MacCormac gracing,
And saw upon Killarney's shore
O'Donohue's White Horses racing.

Far off the windy music crept
To silence; and the startled youth
Laughed at the sudden thought that leapt—
He was a minstrel, too, forsooth!
Like Carolan, he also went
To no one but his pipe a debtor,
The earth his bed, the sky his tent—
A minstrel he, for want of better!

From village green to green his way
He, too, should pay with pleasant tunes,
While quiet folk, at close of day,
Broke bread, or in the idle noons.
He, where he saw two lovers lean,
Could slyly play a “Mina-meala,”
And should a loiterer mischief mean
Could give the rousing “Fague a ballagh!”

And many a jolly catch complete
Ballymahon should lend him then;
The “Groves of Blarney,” heavenly sweet
And sad, should melt the hearts of men,
Unwritten song his thoughts o'er-ran,
From misty time, with stirring story,
Here came the “Humming of the Ban,”
And here came “Garryone in Glory!”

What bliss, what power, the soul to lead,
The tear, the smile, a hurrying slave!
Oh, Music, with your rudest reed,
This one to life and hope you gave!
No more the shady hedge and copse;
The lad forsook the sheltering byway,
Took out his whistle, tried its stops,
And bravely trudged along the highway.

As fabled beasts before the lyre
Fell prone, so want and hunger fled;
The way was free to his desire,
And he like one with manna fed.
The world, the world, for him was meant,
Cathedral towers, and Alpine torrents!
He trod a measure as he went,
And piped and sang his way to Florence!

Great wit and scholar though he be,
I love, of all his famous days,
This time of simple vagrancy
Ere youth and bliss had parted ways.
With what a careless heart he strayed,
Light as the down upon a thistle,
Made other hearts his own, and paid
His way through Europe with a whistle!