Part 3

When that hour comes, and I am drifting slow To azure distance stretching on, and on, and on; When earth’s coast-lights are dim and blurred and burning low, And other stars rise other worlds upon;

I shall not fear to meet my Master’s gaze, Nor, like an idling child, His Searching Presence shun, E’en though no herald trumpet-voice pronounce my praise, And earth-won hero garlands wear I none.

E’en though the best the world shall know of me, When mouldering clay is laid with kindred clay again, Is but a stone on which the stars shine carelessly Smooth-polished by the fingers of the rain:

I shall not fear to stand before His Face And answer for the schemes I reared on shifting sand, Whereon the waves are trailing albs of pointed lace, If on my way I’ve lent the helping hand

To fellow-pilgrims toiling at my side, Who, worn and weary, faint and fall beside the road, If here betimes the blinding, scalding tear I’ve dried, Or soothed a heart, or eased a galling load,

For He shall say “Your name in dust is hid, No thought or word has earned you immortality; Immortal only are the kindly things you did— Amen I say, you did them unto me.”

VALE, FATHER PAT

Yes, that’s the hardest hand at all upon my frosted head— That telegram that brought the news that Father Pat is dead— I cannot grip its message yet; we were such cronies, that The world is not a world to-night without poor Father Pat.

Nigh eighty years I’ve known him now. Since ever we were boys Across the sea in Ireland, each other’s cares and joys We’ve shared as with their leaden step they strode across the mat; The kindest heart that ever beat is stilled in Father Pat.

They knew him round the country wide; from here to Carrathool The teamster toiling by his dray, the youngsters home from school, Would greet him with a curt “good day,” and shyly pull the hat Down farther on the forehead in respect for Father Pat.

I see him in my mind to-night, a diamond in the rough, A kindly soul that hid the gold, but showed the sterner stuff— The wise old eye, the homely face, the scant hairs pasted flat Across the wide wise baldness of the head of Father Pat;

The collar caught with honest tape when fleeting studs had gone; The suit that said good-bye to cut the day he put it on; The handsome stock the sisters built, the tassels on the hat, The stout umbrella in the hand of manly Father Pat.

I see the ordered sitting-room he’ll never enter more, The ivory bead-crowned crucifix, the font behind the door, The parish books, the registers and, handy where he sat, The well-thumbed breviary that warmed the heart of Father Pat.

A man of method all the time—the pigeon-holes a-line, A dozen keys upon a chain, his pockets filled with twine. His actions told the time of day, and rivalled e’en in that The sober clock that ticked away the life of Father Pat.

He used to run the curate on the lines he ran himself; A list of parish duties stood upon the mantel-shelf, As binding as the decalogue, so all-embracing that The bishop had to keep the step, when guest of Father Pat.

He’d argue till the cows came home, and never know a doubt; But when he “showed the p’liteness,” it was then, my boy, look out! He’d lay the shoneen[7] by the heels, and shake him like a rat; He wasn’t worth a straw, bedad, when trimmed by Father Pat.

His sermons were tremendous things, and thunder-bolts would drop; The trouble with poor Father Pat was when and how to stop. Theology? don’t mention it! he’d talk the bishop flat; One half was Father Gury, and the rest was Father Pat.

I’d quoted him so often to the young lads round about To show that we old fellows still were far from petered out, Could take a hand at ceremonies, could sing a Mass and that; So when we had a big day here I called on Father Pat.

He came—but didn’t conquer, faith, though every nerve was strained; He’d waved his hand to rubrics on the day he was ordained; He went along his old, old way in broken notes and flat— To tell the truth, I felt ashamed for once of Father Pat.

These young lads build their castles up, and fancy’s beacons glow. Ah well, poor Father Pat and I went through that years ago; And some of those ideals are dead, and some we’ve jested at, And some are where the failures wait for me and Father Pat.

Though brighter far the morning seems than does the setting sun, Still, they but carry on the work by such as us begun. We blazed the tracks they tread to-day—at least they’ll grant us that— The men who sailed in sixty-five along with Father Pat.

We left the friendly stars astern, the Irish lights agleam, We dared the seas in sailing-ships before the days of steam, We faced a weird wild waste of world that brave men trembled at: No shipside welcome met the men who came with Father Pat.

We turned our horses’ heads out west, beyond the farthest track, With nothing but an alien star to light the journey back. The echoes mocked us as we went, and silence startled sat When out beyond the rim of things we marched with Father Pat.

We said our Mass in canvas tents, and neath the gnarléd trees; Of red-gum slabs and sheets of bark we built our sanctuaries; Our axes rang on timbered slopes above the mining flat, And church and school and convent mark the path of Father Pat.

We made our bow to wild and waste, and hardships worse than those; We leave a gracious golden land that blossoms like the rose. Far defter hands may now adorn the work we laboured at, But granite base and buttressed wall were built by Father Pat.

Well may his arms drop idly down at eighty years of age; His story goes behind him with no stain upon its page. I’ll bet he played the innings through and carried out his bat, And none dare hint “retiring hurt” in front of Father Pat.

And with him goes the little band that sailed in sixty-five; A dreamer by his lamp to-night is all that’s left alive. Poor Father James, and Father Ned, and jovial Father Mat Are waiting out beyond the dark to welcome Father Pat.

I’ll not attend the obsequies: I feel I could not face The office that I know so well, and see his vacant place: We saw a generation pass while side by side we sat: Another starts its march to-day—without us, Father Pat.

They’ll wonder why I am not there—I, last of all the band— To take farewell of him that’s gone; but he will understand. We’ll have a little requiem my own loved altar at, And just ourselves—alive and dead—shall chant it, Father Pat.

[7] An over-smart would-be gentleman; a term of contempt.

JOSEPHINE

The presbytery has gone to pot since this house-keeper came; She’s up-to-date and stylish, but the place is not the same Since Death’s hard summons robbed me of the sterling old machine, That wore out in my service here—my faithful Josephine.

Poor Josephine, she knew me well—and, faith, she ought to know; For since the bishop sent me here, some thirty years ago, My one and only manager, my right-hand man she’d been; I never had a word against my trusted Josephine.

She pottered round the place herself for thirty years and more— This new one has a thuckeen now to sweep and mind the door And entertain with parish chat each gossiping voteen[8] She’d have no thuckeen near the place, would crabbéd Josephine.

They tell me this one’s up-to-date—too up-to-date for me; I tremble at her polished floors, and modern cookery, The old man finds the old ways best—old springs were twice as green— I’ve heard His Lordship praise the stews of clever Josephine.

My study was my sanctum once—a castle all my own— But this one with her natty ways can’t leave the place alone. Her fingers ache to tidy up; and, when she’s extra clean, I sit a stranger in my room and sigh for Josephine.

She says that table’s “awful” and it drives her to despair; Perhaps it does, but method’s in what seems confusion there— I know where every paper is, each book and magazine. That jumbled pile was sacred in the eyes of Josephine.

This new one hides my things away in pigeon-hole and drawer, And, faith, she does her job so well, they’re lost for evermore. She’ll have to learn to let things be as they have ever been— Just make the bed, and sweep the floor, the same as Josephine.

And yet no sthreel was Josephine, for quick was she to note My native country’s colour coming gently through my coat; I teased her—said she ought to like the wearing of the green; She couldn’t see a joke at all, poor, solemn Josephine.

She used to hide my battered hats; my old birettas, too, Just when I had them broken in, would disappear from view. I wondered where my wardrobe went, until by chance I’d seen A tramp in full pontificals subscribed by Josephine.

I mind the time the bishop came, one day in early spring. We brought him round to see the school, and hear the children sing; Bedad, I was a toff that day; you’d think I was a dean, Or some commercial traveller—my thanks to Josephine.

My coat was pressed, just like a swell’s; the breeches that I wore Had creases in them fore and aft like new ones from the store. I smelt like some old motor-car, exuding kerosene; I noted, too, the furtive glance of anxious Josephine.

She watched His Lordship’s portly form pass proudly o’er the mat, His Majesty the curate next, with gloves and shiny hat; I’d stuck an old biretta on, that better days had seen; She came and dragged it off my head—ah, wisha, Josephine!

It sometimes strikes me, now she’s gone, she’d no drawbacks at all: Her features just a shade severe, her age canonical, In fashions of her mother’s day she trod her way serene, And wasteful ways of worldly dames disgusted Josephine.

She knew the place from back to front, she knew the parish through, And those who never went to Mass, and those who did, she knew; The hours arranged for this and that—she had the whole routine— And oftentimes to ease a doubt I went to Josephine.

She thought I couldn’t make mistakes, not even if I tried; She felt the Holy Ghost would send a mitre ere I died; She lay in wait for wagging tongues—and, faith, her own was keen; God help the one who dared complain in front of Josephine!

The people called her “curate,” yes, and “bishop” too, I hear; They even called her “parish-priest”—in disrespect, I fear. They told me that she’d “roon” the church—too long with me she’d been; But only death could give the sack to faithful Josephine.

Ah, soft and sweet be sleep to her who friendless trod her track Along the beaten road of life that knows no turning back. I marked the splendid Irish faith that met the closing scene, And heard the beat of angels’ wings that came for Josephine.

She’s in her lonely grave to-night beneath the Murray pines, And haply in their breeze-swept song a requiem divines: The people raised a little stone to keep her memory green, And handed to the winds and rain the name of Josephine.

How quickly have the days gone by! she’s dead—now, let me see— She’s dead twelve months: to-morrow is her anniversary: Now who’s the Saint to-morrow? Ah, a semi—“Hedwig, Queen.” I’ll use the black—and may God rest the soul of Josephine!

[8] A person who exaggerates his or her religious devotion.

THE OLD MASS SHANDRYDAN

I can see it in my dreaming o’er a gap of thirty years, And the rattle of its boxes still is music in my ears: With a bow to family vanity it rises from the past As the pride of the selection where my humble youth was cast. It was fashioned in a nightmare by some wandering genius, And it wasn’t quite a waggon, and it wasn’t quite a ’bus; ’Twas an old four-wheeled gazabo that was something in between, And the wheels were painted yellow, and the rest was painted green (It would waken lively interest in the antiquarian) And ’twas known to all the country as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It did duty on a week-day in a dozen ways and more, And it seemed just made to order for whate’er ’twas wanted for; It would cart the chaff to market, carry wood and hay in turn, And the neighbours in rotation used to cadge the old concern. But the Sundays we were due for Mass would cancel every loan, For the Little Irish Mother then would claim it for her own. She inspected it the day before (and criticized it, too), And the ten of us were set to work to make it look like new. There was one to every yellow wheel—ay, one to every spoke; One to nail a piece of hardwood on the part “them Careys” broke: Another from the floor of it the chips and straw would rake, While the Dad went searching rubbish-heaps for old boots for the brake: So we rubbed and scrubbed and hammered up, and beat the rattertan Till it stood in all its glory as the Old Mass Shandrydan.

When at last, with velvet sandals shod, the Holy Morning crept Through the mists above The Sugarloaf, that silent vigil kept O’er a little old slab dwelling which the years have brushed away, You would hear the Little Mother stirring round before the day, Rousing sleepy heads from blankets, washing faces, doing hair, Scolding, coaxing, bustling, breathless in her hurry everywhere. Half the night before she laboured, and we’d hear her come and go With the Sunday suits of “reach-me-downs” to place them in a row. There was this to patch, and that to darn, and something else to mend; She would see to every single thing before her work would end, To the dresses and the pinnies—oh, the memory she had!— There were lace-up boots for Morgan, and a clean white shirt for Dad. And the hubbub and the murder that the household used to make, When she had us tumbled out of bed, and painfully awake. Here a voice in anguish lifted to announce a button gone; Someone calling from the back-room “Mum, what socks will I put on?” While “Himself” was like a Bolshevik athirst for human blood, Shouting “Mother,” as he wrastled with a fractious collar-stud. But she kept the tumult under till she had us spick and span, Packed like pickles in a bottle in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

We had ten good miles to drive to Mass—and Mass was sharp at eight; But we’d never hear the end of it if something kept us late; So we started ere the morning hung its bunting in the sky, And the kookaburras chortled as we rumbled slowly by. For the frost was on the barley, and the rime was on the trees, And our little faces smarted with the whip-lash of the breeze, Still we watched the branches redden to the first kiss of the sun And we counted all the cart-wheels that the busy spiders spun, Then the magpies sang to greet us, and our little hearts began To forget that we were shivering in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

So the old contraption lumbered, safely towed, as Dad knew how, By a pair of hefty elephants promoted from the plough, And it rattled like a saw-mill, and it thundered like a dray; Faith, you’d hear the circus coming a half-a-dozen miles away! All along the road the neighbours used to take the time from us, For they never made a start until they heard our omnibus; Then a shrill soprano shouted, “Put the horses in the van, “Them’s The Sugarloaf O’Briens in the Old Mass Shandrydan.”

We were first to Carey’s Crossing, first to reach Moloney’s Mill, But the opposition caught us as we laboured up the hill; Then the air became electric as they tried to pass us by, For “Himself” for family reasons (which I needn’t specify) Kept the road in deadly earnest, and would never seem to hear The abuse of the procession that was gathering in the rear. Oh, they whistled and they shouted till their feelings overflowed, But the old man in the Dreadnought was the master of the road. It was suicide to bump it, and the horses wouldn’t shy, So he trundled on before them with a bad look in his eye. Then, as suddenly the whistling and the bantering shouting ceased And a solemn hush denoted the arrival of the priest, Would a fine “good Catholic” thunder “Yerra, shame upon you, man! Pull one side there, Pat O’Brien, with your Old Mass Shandrydan.”

Pull! Bedad, he’d pull the town down when His Reverence hove in sight, Pulled his hat off with the left hand, and pipe out with the right; Pulled his family in the gutter, pulled the horses off their feet, And a shower of small O’Briens went skedaddling from the seat. Then they rattled loudly past us, and a wild stampede began, For they all had family reasons to outpace the other man. There were buggies, traps, and turnouts there of every shape and rig; There were Murphys in a spring-cart, and the Caseys in a gig; There were Barnes’ ponies pounding twixt a gallop and a trot, While the Careys with their pacing-mare went sailing past the lot. Faith, we had it in for Carey, and our disrespect increased At the cheek of “them there Careys who would try to beat the priest.” No, we wouldn’t stoop to things like that; we’d act the gentleman Half a mile behind the others in the Old Mass Shandrydan.

It’s a long way back I’m gazing, and the stage has changed since then; Just an echo finds me sometimes, bringing back the scene again. Oh, the heart beats slower measure than it used to beat, alas, When a Little Irish Mother dressed us all in time for Mass. I have lounged in fast expresses, I have travelled first saloon, I have heard the haunting music that the winds and waters croon, I have seen the road careering from a whirring motor-car, Where the Careys couldn’t pass us, or our sense of fitness jar; But the world is somehow smaller, somehow less enchanting than When I saw it o’er the tail-board of the Old Mass Shandrydan.

PITCHIN’ AT THE CHURCH

On the Sunday morning mustered, Yarning at our ease; Buggies, traps and jinkers clustered Underneath the trees, Horses tethered to the fences; Thus we hold our conferences Waiting till the priest commences— Pitchin’ at the Church.

Sheltering in the summer’s shining Where the shadows fall; When the winter’s sun is pining, Lined along the wall; Yarning, reckoning, ruminating, “Yeos” and lambs and wool debating, Squatting, smoking, idly waiting— Pitchin’ at the Church.

Young bloods gathered from the others Tell their dreamings o’er; Beaded-bonneted old mothers Grouped around the door: Dainty bush girls, trim and fairy, All that’s neat and sweet and airy— Nell, and Kate, and Laughing Mary— Pitchin’ at the Church.

Up comes someone briskly driving, “Cutting matters fine”: All his “fam’ly lot” arriving Wander in a line Off in some precise direction, Till they find their proper section, Greet it with an interjection— Pitchin’ at the Church.

“Mornun’, Jack.” “Good mornun’, Martin.” “Keepin’ pretty dry!” “When d’you think you’ll finish cartin’?” “Prices ain’t too high?” Round about the yarnin’ strayin’— Dances, sickness—frocks surveyin’— Wheat is “growed,” the “hens is layin’”— Pitchin’ at the Church.

SAID HANRAHAN

“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan, In accents most forlorn, Outside the church, ere Mass began, One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about, Coat-collars to the ears, And talked of stock, and crops, and drought, As it had done for years.

“It’s lookin’ crook,” said Daniel Croke; “Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad, For never since the banks went broke Has seasons been so bad.”

“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil, With which astute remark He squatted down upon his heel And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran “It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.” “We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan “Before the year is out.

“The crops are done; ye’ll have your work To save one bag of grain; From here way out to Back-o’-Bourke They’re singin’ out for rain.

“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said, “And all the tanks are dry.” The congregation scratched its head, And gazed around the sky.

“There won’t be grass, in any case, Enough to feed an ass; There’s not a blade on Casey’s place As I came down to Mass.”

“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan, And cleared his throat to speak— “We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan, “If rain don’t come this week.”

A heavy silence seemed to steal On all at this remark; And each man squatted on his heel, And chewed a piece of bark.

“We want a inch of rain, we do,” O’Neil observed at last; But Croke “maintained” we wanted two To put the danger past.

“If we don’t get three inches, man, Or four to break this drought, We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan, “Before the year is out.”

In God’s good time down came the rain; And all the afternoon On iron roof and window-pane It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still, And lightsome, gladsome elves On dripping spout and window-sill Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted all day long, A-singing at its work, Till every heart took up the song Way out to Back-o’-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran, And dams filled overtop; “We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan, “If this rain doesn’t stop.”

And stop it did, in God’s good time; And spring came in to fold A mantle o’er the hills sublime Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet, With harvest-hopes immense, And laughing eyes beheld the wheat Nid-nodding o’er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face, As happy lad and lass Through grass knee-deep on Casey’s place Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel Discoursed the men of mark, And each man squatted on his heel, And chewed his piece of bark.

“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man, There will, without a doubt; We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan, “Before the year is out.”

THE TIDY LITTLE BODY

Faith, and little Miss McCroddie was the tidy little body, Just as trim and prim and handy as you’d ever wish to see (She was well upon the weather-beaten side of thirty-three); And she’d chuckle and she’d titter when the people used to twit her On the most pronounced attentions of one Lanty Hallissey (Now this Lanty was a bachelor of some antiquity).

Well, he’d said good-bye to fifty; he was solemn, he was thrifty, And he’d come to Mass each Sunday decorated handsomely (With an eye upon the Tidy Little Body, don’t you see); And you’d see him titivated in a much abbreviated Kind o’ sort o’ style of swallow-tail that flogged him viciously (Which it needed the judicious use of treacle at the knee);