Waes-hael for knight and dame; O merry be their dole; Drink-hael! In Jesu’s name We fill the tawny bowl; But cover down the curving crest, Mould of the Orient Lady’s breast. Waes-hael! yet lift no lid: Drain ye the reeds for wine. Drink-hael! the milk was hid That soothed that Babe divine; Hush’d, as this hollow channel flows, He drew the balsam from the rose. Waes-hael! thus glowed the breast Where a God yearned to cling; Drink-hael! so Jesu pressed Life from its mystic spring; Then hush and bend in reverend sign And breathe the thrilling reeds for wine. Waes-hael! in shadowy scene Lo! Christmas children we: Drink-hael! behold we lean At a far Mother’s knee; To dream that thus her bosom smiled, And learn the lip of Bethlehem’s Child. OLD NUNS BY JAMES M. HAYES Our Lady smiles on youthful nuns, She loves them well. Our Lady’s smile like sunshine floods Each convent cell, But fondest falls Our Lady’s smile Where old nuns dwell; Old nuns whose hearts are young with love For Mary’s Son, Old nuns whose prayers for faltering souls Have victory won, Old nuns whose lives are beautiful With service done. Their love a loveless world has saved From God’s dread rod, The paths where Sorrow walks with Sin Their feet have trod, Their knees have worn the flags that pave The house of God. Our Lady smiles on youthful nuns, She loves them well; Our Lady’s smile like sunshine floods Each convent cell; But fondest falls Our Lady’s smile Where old nuns dwell. THE MOTHER OF THE ROSE BY JAMES M. HAYES I kneel on Holy Thursday with the faithful worshipping Where Christ is throned in splendor as the sacramental King. I ever will remember it, that wondrous full-blown rose Among the burning tapers on the altar of repose. O blessed among roses all, to bloom in beauty there, To give your heart unto your God and in His glory share. * * * * * In quiet fields beyond the town, near where the river flows There is a humble garden where a gentle rose-tree grows. To-night Our Lord remembers on the altar of repose This rose-tree in the fields afar, the mother of the rose. THE TRANSFIGURATION BY JAMES M. HAYES He seeks the mountains where the olives grow, The Lord of Glory, veiled in humble guise; His soul is shadowed with a coming woe, The grief of all the world is in His eyes: His spirit struggles in the dark caress Of anguish, pain and utter loneliness.