James Jeffrey Roche

James Jeffrey Roche was an Irish-American poet and journalist born on May 31, 1847, in Mountmellick, Ireland. He immigrated to the United States and became a notable literary figure, editing the literary magazine 'The Pilot' and writing for various publications. His poetry often featured themes of Irish nationalism and American patriotism. Roche passed away on April 3, 1908, leaving behind a legacy of contributions to both poetry and journalism.

May 31, 1847

April 3, 1908

English, Irish

James Jeffrey Roche

Boston Lullaby

Baby's brain is tired of thinking
    On the Wherefore and the Whence;
Baby's precious eyes are blinking
    With incipient somnolence.

Little hands are weary turning
    Heavy leaves of lexicon;
Little nose is fretted learning
    How to keep its glasses on.

Baby knows the laws of nature
    Are beneficent and wise;
His medulla oblongata
    Bids my darling close his eyes.

And his pneumogastrics tell him
    Quietude is always best
When his little cerebellum
    Needs recuperative rest.

Baby must have relaxation,
    Let the world go wrong or right.
Sleep, my darling, leave Creation
    To its chances for the night.

James Jeffrey Roche

Lament Of The Scotch-Irish Exile

Oh, I want to win me hame
    To my ain countrie,
The land frae whence I came
    Far away across the sea;
Bit I canna find it there, on the atlas anywhere,
And I greet and wonder sair
    Where the deil it can be?

I hae never met a man,
    In a' the warld wide,
Who has trod my native lan'
    Or its distant shores espied;
But they tell me there's a place where my hypothetic race
Its dim origin can trace,
    Tipperary-on-the-Clyde.

But anither answers: "Nae,
    Ye are varra far frae richt;
Glasgow town in Dublin Bay
    Is the spot we saw the licht."
But I dinna find the maps bearing out these pawkie chaps,
And I sometimes think perhaps
    It has vanished out o' sight.

Oh, I fain wad win me hame
    To that u...

James Jeffrey Roche

Sailor's Yarn, A

This is the tale that was told to me,
By a battered and shattered son of the sea,
To me and my messmate, Silas Green,
When I was a guileless young marine.

"'Twas the good ship Gyascutus,
    All in the China seas,
With the wind a-lee and the capstan free
    To catch the summer breeze.

"'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck,
    To his mate in the mizzen hatch,
While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold,
    Was winding the larboard watch.

"'Oh, how does our good ship head to-night!
    How heads our gallant craft?'
'Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N.,
    And the binnacle lies abaft!'

"'Oh, what does the quadrant indicate,
    And how does the sextant stand?'
'Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing point,
  ...

James Jeffrey Roche

V-A-S-E, The

From the madding crowd they stand apart,
The maidens four and the Work of Art;

And none might tell from sight alone
In which had culture ripest grown,

The Gotham Million fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,

For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

    *    *    *    *    *

Long they worshiped; but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke

The Western one from the nameless place,
Who blushing said, "What a lovely vace!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word.

Deftly hidi...

James Jeffrey Roche