The granite learned to glisten and the rocks that held the rain Awoke to truer technique, tempting visions back again. Thus from a bickering were born the painter’s art and lore That beauty might be glorified by love forever more. THE ROAD TO ROSLYN Upon the road to Roslyn Town, The road that skirts the bay; Upon the road to Roslyn Town, Upon a summer’s day; I met a dark-haired Gypsy girl, ’Twas afternoon, and late; With haunting eyes she halted me By Thomas Clapham’s gate. She was bent upon the business of A very ancient race; But no mercenary motive marred That sombre Gypsy face. “Oh, maiden beautiful,” she said, “Let’s tarry on the green-- What luck upon the Roslyn Road To meet a Gypsy queen.” With amber eyes she read my palm, Then raised them to a stare, “You wed for love, for wealth, for power, And thrice three sons will bear.” She asked me for a silver piece, The amber eyeballs glowed; I gave her all the change I had, Upon the Roslyn Road. She begged from me my hosiery, My gloves, and named my beau; She slipped the Solway sandals from The infantry below; She got from me my garnet ring, She cozened off my gown; She left me like Godiva on The Road to Roslyn Town. Oh, I went home across the lots In the gloaming and in tears, But she didn’t get my earrings, for The bobbed hair hid my ears. THE ARMY LAUNDRESS Beside a somber sally port upon a bastioned isle There dwells a bare-armed laundry girl to serve the rank and file. Her name is Sheila Shanahan, she reigns in Soap Suds Row, The lane that won to luster in the army long ago. She bendeth o’er a wash tub while the sentries walk the walls, And pyramids are builded from the brooding cannon balls. She elevates an army post without the least design, The belle of all the barracks hanging clothes upon a line. Fate ransacked ancient reveries to dower youth’s desire, Unrolled the scrolls of Sidon and the tapestries of Tyre; She pilfered from Parnassus till the gods ran to and fro, Then gave her golden gleanings to the girl in Soap Suds Row. Oh, there are many lovers of sweet Sheila Shanahan, The seagulls and the sundown breeze upon the barbican; The pigeons on the parapets, the disappearing guns, The sign-boards on the magazines, the Colonel’s rompered sons, And while the sunset tarrieth and while an army waits, The children from the post school storm the dusty barrack gates; They wander into Soap Suds Row with laughter in the van The bravest of the cavaliers of Sheila Shanahan. REGINA MENDOSENA I’m Regina Mendosena, queen of all of Shanty Town; Just behold me in me sport dress with me stockings hanging down; Just behold me with me sceptre, Mither Grady’s washing stick, A sunflower for a coronet--me foot upon a brick.