Song Of The Zeppelin

    I cleave the air through the murky night,
        High o'er the forests and sleeping towns;
    Below me drifts the shimmering light -
        A glorious fresco on vale and downs;
    My sea hath no billows nor rocky shores,
        And only the winds disturb my soul;
    I care not for those who slumber in death,
        For my bomb is bloody and death my goal -
                And all for the Vaterland!

    Where the currents cross and the cruisers speed
        I sail towards the North in a piteous sky;
    I hear the night wind's surging note
        As it mingles its requiem with the widow's cry.
    Above me there streams a light from heaven,
        But I bow my head and veil my eyes
    As I plough the fields with my fateful keel
        And sow the highways with tears and sighs -
                And all for the Vaterland!

    And hate is the banner I unfurl so wide
        That its blood-dripp'd folds may catch the breeze;
    That e'en from the balcony of heaven on high
        May be seen this banner on all the seas.
    No triumph of arms is my flight by night,
        It is only a part of a murderous raid:
    Dropping a bomb on an innocent child
        Or a crowing babe in its cradle laid -
                And all for the Vaterland!

    For Thomas Walsh.

Thomas O'Hagan

Thomas O'Hagan was a Canadian poet and essayist born on March 6, 1855, in Toronto, Ontario. He was noted for his contributions to Canadian literature and his involvement in educational initiatives. His works often reflected themes of Irish heritage and identity. O'Hagan's dedication to literature and education earned him a distinguished place in Canada's cultural history. He passed away on March 1, 1939.

Thomas O'Hagan

Bobs" Of Kandahar

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

The Bugle Call

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

The Christ-Child

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

Louvain

Thomas O'Hagan, Simple Poetry

English

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In The Trenches

    All day the guns belched fire and death
        And filled the hours with gloom;
    The fateful music smote the sky
        In tremulous bars of doom;
    But as the evening stars came forth
        A truce to death and strife,
    There rose from hearts of patriot love
        A tender song of life.

    A song of home and fireside
        Swelled on the evening air,
    And men forgot their battle line,
        Its carnage and dark care;
    The soldier dropp'd his rifle
        And joined the choral song,
    As high above the tide of war
        It swept and pulsed along.

    That night while sleeping where the stars
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San Sebastian

(August 1813)
WITH THOUGHTS OF SERGEANT M- (PENSIONER), WHO DIED 185-.



"Why, Sergeant, stray on the Ivel Way,
As though at home there were spectres rife?
From first to last 'twas a proud career!
And your sunny years with a gracious wife
Have brought you a daughter dear.

"I watched her to-day; a more comely maid,
As she danced in her muslin bowed with blue,
Round a Hintock maypole never gayed."
- "Aye, aye; I watched her this day, too,
As it happens," the Sergeant said.

"My daughter is now," he again began,
"Of just such an age as one I knew
When we of the Line and Forlorn-hope van,
On an August morning a chosen few -
Stormed San Sebastian.

"She's a score less three; so about was SHE -
The maiden I wronged in Penins...

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Lusitanian War-Song.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
    Till not one hateful link remains
    Of slavery's lingering chains;
    Till not one tyrant tread our plains,
Nor traitor lip pollute our fountains.
    No! never till that glorious day
    Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
    Or hear, oh Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains,
    Till Victory's self shall, smiling, say,
    "Your cloud of foes hath past away,
    "And Freedom comes with new-born ray
"To gild your vines and light your fountains."
    Oh, never till that glorious day
    Shall Lusitania's sons be gay,
    Or hear, sweet Peace, thy welcome lay
Resounding thro' her sunny mountains.

Thomas Moore

Song Of The Battle Eve.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.


To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
    There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,--
But there's wine still in the cup,
    And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
    We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
    When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
    With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
    With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;--
The last that o'er us shone
    Saw our children around us play;
The next--ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
    But--no matter--grasp thy sword and a...

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The Song Of O'Ruark, Prince Of Breffni.[1]

The valley lay smiling before me,
    Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
    That saddened the joy of my mind.
I looked for the lamp which, she told me,
    Should shine, when her Pilgrim returned;
But, tho' darkness began to infold me,
    No lamp from the battlements burned!

I flew to her chamber--'twas lonely,
    As if the loved tenant lay dead;--
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
    But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
    My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand, that had waked it so often,
    Now throbbed to a proud rival's kiss.

There was a time, falsest of women,
    When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, thro'...

Thomas Moore

Over the Parapet

All day long when the shells sail over
I stand at the sandbags and take my chance;
But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover,
And over the parapet gleams Romance.
Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing
Dreary old records of money and mart,
Me with my head chuckful of fighting
And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart.

But little I thought that my time was coming,
Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon;
And here I am with the bullets humming
As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon.
Out alone, for adventure thirsting,
Out in mysterious No Man's Land;
Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting,
Flares on the horrors on every hand.
There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle;
And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red;
There ...

Robert William Service