He sheever an' he ask eef here Eet ees so always cold. Den een hees eye ees com' a tear -- He ees no vera old -- An', oh, hees voice ees soun' so queer I have no heart for scold. He look up een da sky so gray, But oh, hees eye ees be So far away, so far away, An' w'at he see I see. Da sky eet ees no gray to-day At home een Eetaly. He see da glada peopla seet Where warma shine da sky -- Oh, while he eesa look at eet He ees baygeen to cry. Eef I no growl an' swear a beet So, too, my frand, would I. Oh, why he stop an' speak weeth me, Dees boy dat leeve een Rome, An' com' to-day from Eetaly? I weesh he stay at home. The Fugitives. [Florence Wilkinson] We are they that go, that go, Plunging before the hidden blow. We run the byways of the earth, For we are fugitive from birth, Blindfolded, with wide hands abroad That sow, that sow the sullen sod. We cannot wait, we cannot stop For flushing field or quickened crop; The orange bow of dusky dawn Glimmers our smoking swath upon; Blindfolded still we hurry on. How we do know the ways we run That are blindfolded from the sun? We stagger swiftly to the call, Our wide hands feeling for the wall. Oh, ye who climb to some clear heaven, By grace of day and leisure given, Pity us, fugitive and driven -- The lithe whip curling on our track, The headlong haste that looks not back! The Song of the Unsuccessful. [Richard Burton] We are the toilers from whom God barred The gifts that are good to hold. We meant full well and we tried full hard, And our failures were manifold. And we are the clan of those whose kin Were a millstone dragging them down. Yea, we had to sweat for our brother's sin, And lose the victor's crown. The seeming-able, who all but scored, From their teeming tribe we come: What was there wrong with us, O Lord, That our lives were dark and dumb? The men ten-talented, who still Strangely missed of the goal, Of them we are: it seems Thy will To harrow some in soul. We are the sinners, too, whose lust Conquered the higher claims, We sat us prone in the common dust, And played at the devil's games. We are the hard-luck folk, who strove Zealously, but in vain; We lost and lost, while our comrades throve, And still we lost again. We are the doubles of those whose way Was festal with fruits and flowers; Body and brain we were sound as they, But the prizes were not ours. A mighty army our full ranks make, We shake the graves as we go; The sudden stroke and the slow heartbreak, They both have brought us low. And while we are laying life's sword aside, Spent and dishonored and sad, Our epitaph this, when once we have died: "The weak lie here, and the bad." We wonder if this can be really the close, Life's fever cooled by death's trance; And we cry, though it seem to our dearest of foes, "God, give us another chance!" They went forth to Battle, but they always fell. [Shaemas O Sheel]