THE IRISH ON THE PRARIES
AND OTHER POEMS

By: REV. THOS. AMBROSE BUTLER
NEW YORK: D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET, 1874.

Below is the first poem, the poem which gives the book its title and the only really long poem in the book. I will post the rest of the book as I have time.

Dedicated




His Faithful, Loving Friends



In the “Old Land”



And



In the New



By



The Author

PREFACE

The Author sends forth this little book of Poems, on its precarious journey, with no small amount of diffidence. It contains the simple fruits of many pleasant hours of literary labor in the bright domain of Poetry-hours in the years of youth and early manhood, and in the noon of life.

Some of the following Poems have already appeared in the Dublin "Nation," above the nom de plume "Eblana;" others are to be found in recent numbers of the New York " Emerald," and some have lately been inserted in numbers of "Irish Penny Readings." Many, however, have never, until now, been brought forth to seek the favor of the reading public. Amongst the latter is the principal poem of the volume--" The Irish on the Prairies."

The Author cherishes a hope that “The Irish on the Prairies" will be a welcome guest to the exiles of Erin; will be deemed worthy of the place assigned to it as usher to the other Poems of the volume; will be found a faithful exponent of Irish feeling in the " Old Land" and the New; and a genuine index of the sentiments of a " Soggarth Aroon."

Many of the minor Poems have been composed in the Author's lonely, happy home, beside an Irish chapel, in the shadows of the hills of Wicklow, where, as a "Country-Curate," the early years of his missionary life glided calmly along.

Some lave been composed in the home of the exile, beside the rolling prairies of Kansas, in tranquil moments, after the busy priestly labors of the day.

Go forth, little book! into the wide world of Literature. May your simple pages bring brightness to the eyes of many exiles of Erin, and a gleam of sunshine to the hearts of loved ones far away.

CONTENTS.

POEMS

SONGS





page 11

The Irish on the Prairies

Part I

Introduction

Come, heap up the logs on the hearth-stone, and shut out the wintery blast;
To-night, in our snug little shanty, I'll tell you some tales of the Past.
And while the wind howls on the prairies, and drives the white snow to the door,
I'll visit in fancy the Old Land, and stand on her Emerald shore.
'Twill lift up a load from my old heart, and calm all my longings awhile,
To live o'er the Past, and to speak of the scenes of that beautiful isle.
'Twill cheer me to fill your young bosoms with love for the suffering land
To make you feel proud of Old Erin, and ever her foemen withstand.

page 12

II

The Old Land! -- the Old Land! I love her, though naught of her form can be seen
Though thousands of miles of the prairies and billowy seas intervene
Though want and affliction surround her, and tyranny tramples her down,
And leaves her oppressed and dejected, -- deprived of her sceptre and crown.
Not thine is the fault, weeping Mother! thy children are leaving thy breast,
To seek o'er the billowy ocean a home in this land of the West.
Poor Queen! there are hearts that still love thee, and hands that would strike for thy fame,
Though traitors still fawn to the tyrants, and sycophants blush at thy name.

page 13

III

Is Poverty hateful, degrading? Is Sorrow deserving of scorn ?
Can man make you hate the Old Island -- the land where your father was born?
Is false-hearted Britain so pow'rful, that far o'er the boisterous sea
The lies and the taunts that she utters re-echo midst homes of the free?
Is Freedom a phantom, delusion, to tempt the sad exile to roam
To climes where the sun-light of Justice shall never illumine his home?
Is man what his Maker intended, on mountain and prairie and plain
As free as the winds of the heavens that sweep o’er the wave, of the main?

IV

But Patrick, my son! if they taunt you, and smile as they utter your name,
Forget not the Saint of my Country -- rejoice in the light of his fame.
And tell to the scoffers the glories that shone on his banner of old,
When back from the skies of Old Ireland the darkness of Slavery roll'd.
When high on the green hills of Erin the ensign of Calvary rose,
An emblem of hope to the Christian, a sign of defeat to his foes,
A banner we planted wherever the foot of an Irishman trod --
We march'd in the steps of Our Master -- we fought the great battles of God!

page 14

V

And Brigid, my darling! midst many the Faith of your Mother avow,
Nor suffer a blush for a Virgin to mantle your cheeks or your brow;
But proudly acknowledge Saint Brigid -- "the Mary of Erin " -- whose name
Was honor'd in ages departed, and shines through the annals of fame.
The lamp of the convent whose splendor beamed forth like a beautiful star,
Illuming the path of the maidens who came to her shrine from afar,
Who came where the heart found a treasure that earth could not ever afford
A gift that is offered by Heaven to virgins who follow the Lord!

page 15

VI

Sweet love of our Faith and our Country! -- forever unfading they last,
Like ivy-leaves twining together round desolate wrecks of the Past,
Round abbeys whose gables have fallen, -- round castles whose turrets are gone,
Round towers that stand up majestic, in valleys deserted, alone,
Round ruins of churches whose steeples oft echoed the voice of the bell,
But totter'd and crumbl'd in tempests, and rang their own funeral-knell,
And mingled their dust with the valleys' -- an emblem of patriots brave,
Who fall on the breast of their country, and find in its bosom a grave!

page 16

VII

God’s blessing be ever upon thee, my beautiful isle far away!
May tempests ne'er shatter thy beauty, may time never bring thee decay!
But ever be noble, though fallen, and ever be lovely, though lone
If Mother of Sorrows yet smiling midst tears for her sons who are gone!
O! tyrants can never destroy thee! O! sorrows can never deface
The hope that has liv'd through the ages, and gladdened the suffering race;
Nor exile and happiness banish remembrance of days that have fled.
No! no! -- by the Past and its sorrows! Ah! no, by the graves of the dead!

VIII

My childre! we fled from the famine -- the evil that tyranny made,
And exiles o'er seas and the prairies in search of some happiness stray'd.
We found it afar from Old Ireland; -- but often I think, with a sigh,
Far better to live in "the Old Land," -- far better in Erin to die!
To live on a little contented, -- to manfully struggle awhile,
To go to the grave of my fathers, and sleep in the Sanctified Isle.
Far sweeter to follow old customs, and live like our fathers of old,
Than wander a stranger midst peoples, and die in the struggle for gold!

page 17

IX

But now let us heap up the fire-wood, and sit in the light of the blaze;
The snow is still falling and drifting, and daylight in heaven decays;
And everything seems to incite me to picture the Present and Past,
The scenes in the Old Isle of Beauty, and here where my fortune is cast
The contrast between home in Ireland and here in "the Land of Free," --
Between the New World with its greatness, and olden lands over the sea
To show you why often at even' my mind seems to wander astray
My heart, like a bird in its prison, is throbbing for Erin to-day!


page 18

PART II.

NEW AND OLD.

I

AMERICA! Parent of Freemen! who once as a giant arose,
And shook off the shackles of Britain, and scatter'd the merciless foes;
Who summon'd the nations in bondage to come to the home of the free
From crumbling old kingdoms of Europe, from suffering isles of the sea.
To come to the cities uprising on mountain and valley and plain,
Beside the great lakes and the rivers, beside the wild waves of the main.
To come to the prairies out-stretching for thousands of miles far away,
Where buffalo graze though the meadows, and timorous antelope stray.

page 19

II

They answer the call of Columbia -- gallant disciples of toil
And Commerce is thron'd in the cities, and Labor is lord of the soil.
And under "the Star-spangled Banner" the native and foreigner stand,
As noble Apostles of Freedom and props of the prosperous land.
And grand is the stride of the nation in all that exalts and redeems,
And joyous the face of her children, enliven'd by Liberty's beams.
And newness and freshness surround her, unlike the Old Country's decay.
The night of her bondage is over -- she woke to a happier day!

page 20

III

How youthful the nation appeareth, wherever the wanderer goes!
How strong while the stream of new people, like blood through her arteries flows!
How new to the eye of the Exile the face of the cities that rise
With magical force from the forests and lift their young heads to the skies!
No sign of antiquity near them; no ruins of castle or hall;
No palace of baron or tyrant; no ivy-clad tottering wall;
No mark to betray to the passer the dwelling of sorrow and care;
No sign of oppression, for Poverty stalks not the streets in despair!

IV

Away midst the flow'rs of the prairies, beside the green woods of the West,
"The Settler" is raising his cabin, -- the red-bird is building her nest,
Where naught of the noise of the cities, or breath of its tumult or strife,
Can reach to the ear of the peasant, or ripple the stream of his life.
E'en there, midst the oldest of forests, the newness of life can be seen,
E'en there is the foot-print of Freedom, where trail of the savage has been,
E'en there, far away from his kindred, the Exile from Erin appears,
With hopes, reawak'd in his bosom, that slumber'd in gloomier years.

page 21

V.

My children! -- the home of my fathers -- the spot where my being began
The scenes of my youthful affection -- how fair to the vision of man!
The cot on the hill, midst the hedges, whose walls were as white as the snow
The valleys, with vesture of verdure, where silvery rivulets flow
The meadows, where "butter-cups" mingle with "daisies" at birth of the May,
The woods, where the black-birds are piping their notes through the length of the day,
The mountains, in majesty standing, as sentinels guarding the vales,
With brows that are furrow'd by streamlets, and wrinkl'd by wintery gales!

page 22

VI

Out here on the beautiful prairies the scene is delightfully grand,
For signs of the richest fertility cover the face of the land,
And waves of the brightest of verdure are rolling forever amain,
When Winter releases the meadows, and lifts up his garb from the plain.
But sameness of scene is before us; for Nature, though lavish of stores,
Bestow'd not the gift of variety found on "the Emerald shores."
But far through the boundless dominions a prairie, or forest, appears,
As changeless in form as the ocean that roll'd through the thousands of years.

page 23

VII.

Around on "the Settlement" gazing, the Exile can never behold
A scene to remind him of Erin -- a home like his fathers of old
The hedges of hawthorn and sallow -- the furze, with its yellowish flow'r
The trees that are standing majestic, by hillock and cottage and bower.
Ah, no! We have left them forever, and rude are the dwellings we see
The huts of the logs of the forests, of branches of many a tree,
And rough are the fences surrounding the confines of many a home.
O! naught like the hedges of Ireland we find wheresoever we roam!

VIII

'Tis true in our home on the prairies we've plenty, we've riches in store,
'Tis true that the tyrannous "Agent" can threaten my people no more,
'Tis true that the land that we toil on is ours' and our children's alone,
And free on the soil of the freeman we're rich as a king on his throne.
But O! how I long for the laughter that rose round my home far away;
The music of mirth that was swelling by firesides at close of the day;
The jokes and the tales of the neighbors, whom sorrows could never o'erthrow.
Ah ! here the heart's music is wanting we heard in the years long ago!

page 24

IX

When Summer goes over the waters and smiles on our Emerald Queen,
How lovely the look of the valleys! how pleasant each sun-lighted scene!
How cheering at mid-day to wander adown by the meadows and streams,
Not dreading the sun in the heavens, but loving the glance of his beams.
For never, as here on the prairies, does sun-light oppress or destroy;
It smiles and it dances in Erin -- it lights up the spirits with joy.
And welcome, as flowers of the May-time, is Summer all over our isle;
For man, like the flowers of the valleys, revives in the light of its smile.

page 25

X

What sports we enjoy'd in the meadows, when labor had ceas'd for the day
What joy and excitement apparent, when "hurlers" prepared for their play!
What lively emotions, as onward the strugglers to victory sped!
Ah ! where are the friends of my boyhood? I sigh for the years that have fled.
I sigh! for my wealth cannot purchase such joy as I felt long ago
The peace of the poorest of peasants -- the calm that the rich never know.
I sigh on the breast of the prairies, and pray that kind Heaven may smile
On homes and the hearts of my people who dwell in the Emerald Isle.

page 26

XI

Alas! I can never recall them -- the scenes 'neath the shadowing trees
The light-hearted "Piper," whose music arose on the wings of the breeze;
The men and the maidens who joyously join'd in the dance on "the Green,"
And danc'd till the sun-light departed, and darkness came down on the scene.
But hold! I will sing you a ditty-a song of the Dance in the Glen!
To lilt a sweet air of my country will cheer up my spirits again.
So stir the red-logs and be silent, or join in the chorus with me;
We'll joyfully sing of the customs of father-land over the sea.

page 27

THE DANCE

Air -- Billy O'Rourke, ma bouchal.

The Summer-sun is laughing down,
And o'er the heather glancing;
We'll haste away ere close of day,
To join the peasants dancing
Beneath the ivy-clothed trees That guard the farmer's dwelling,
And softly shake their leafy bells,
While music's strains are swelling.
We'll haste away, we'll haste away,
Along the scented heather;
We'll join the merry peasant band,
And "trip the sod " together.

From silent glen, from mossy moor,
From cabin lone and dreary,
They come -- the friezed and hooded band,
With spirits never weary.
With hearts so light that sorrows ne'er
Can break their sense of pleasure –
The Irish heart that laughs at care
Is bless'd with brightest treasure.
We'll haste away, we'll haste away,
Along the scented heather;
We'll join the merry peasant band,
And "trip the sod" together.

The stars will peep amidst the trees,
Their light with moonbeams blended,
Before the music dies away,
Before the dance is ended.
And joke and laughter, wild and free,
Ring round the farmer's dwelling,
And lithesome limbs keep measur'd time
Where Irish airs are swelling.
We'll haste away, we'll haste away,
Along the scented heather;
We'll join the merry peasant band,
And "trip the sod" together.

page 28

As long as happy Irish hearts
Are throbbing through the Nation –
As long as Ireland's exiled sons
Are found on God's creation –
As long as Music's thrilling strains
Can wake a sweet emotion,
We'll save the customs of our sires,
At home and o'er the ocean.
We'll haste away, we'll haste away,
Along the scented heather;
We'll join the merry peasant band,
And "trip the sod" together.

page 29

XII

But ah! in our home on the prairies, when day has arrived at its close,
The toiler is worn with his labor- the weari'd is wanting repose.
Forever, forever so eager to gather the wealth that deprives
The heart of its lightness and brightness, and darkens the path of our lives.
O! brighter the hut of the poorest, wherever contentment is seen,
Than dwellings where trouble is brooding -- the palace of chieftain or queen.
And sweeter to live in the Present, than wander in thought far way,
Nor wish for a gleam of the Future, but live in the light of To-day.

XIII

No music is heard in our shanty, no music is heard on the plain,
No music amidst the wild forests, where and solitude reign.
No notes but the lays of the songsters - the birds in the Spring of the year,
In days when the Summer is reigning, and flow'rs in the valleys appear.
No piper e'er plays on the prairies, no peasants e'er dance in the glen,
No maidens of Erin e'er warble the songs of their childhood again,
But sit in the shade of their dwellings when Summer-sun sinks to his rest,
And sigh for the beautiful Summer that smiles on "the Land of the West !"

page 30

XIV

The Sunday! --how welcome in Erin!-how happy, how blest is the day!
The dawn of its morning seemed ever to drive the dark sorrows away.
And even in wildest of weather, when Winter was roughest of mien,
The Angel of Peace was beside us, and smiled on the gloomiest scene.
And like to the voice of the Seraphs, who sang to the shepherds of old,
The bell of the church in the village its musical melody roll'd,
A voice to awaken devotion-a summons to haste to the shrine,
And kneel at the foot of the altar, to worship the Master Divine!

page 31

XV

From many a home on the mountains, from many a but in the glen,
From many a cot in the valleys there came forth a streamlet of men
The young in their spring of existence, the old in their time of decay,
Went forth in the light of the Sunday to haste to the chapel to pray.
The aged, with tottering footsteps, with eagerness moved in the throng;
The young, in the flush of their vigor, proceeded with swiftness along.
And like to the rivulets spreading in streams o'er the breast of the land,
The maidens and boys of the parish out-spread into many a band.

page 32

XVI

The Chapel -- the old parish Chapel! -- ah fondly my fancy recalls
The form that it ever presented -- the hue of its mouldering walls;
The quaint-looking windows and arches, the tow'r where the cross was display'd;
The statue of Joseph the Patron, and Mary Immaculate Maid.
The font where the worshippers halted to sprinkle their brow, and to pray
A blessing on home and its people, and peace through the sanctified day.
The porch where we enter'd how sombre !-the altar how simple and bright!
It gladden'd the heart of the wearied, and fill'd the devout with delight.

XVII

Not far from the old parish Chapel, and nigh to a sheltering wood,
The mould'ring remains of an abbey in tottering majesty stood.
The ivy was over the ruins-the freshness of life with decay
The ivy will flourish for ages, the walls will soon moulder away!
Around are the graves of our fathers -- they sleep in the sanctified dust,
With the Saints and the Martyrs beside them the bones of beatified just.
They sleep where no sorrows can reach them, and under the Emerald sod;
They rest 'neath the grass of Old Ireland, and near to the temple of God.

page 33

XVIII.

Ah! oft, ere the bell of the chapel had summon'd the people to pray,
I've sat midst the tombs of the vanish'd, or join'd with the children in play;
Or listen'd with boyish emotion to patriot spirits who told
Of hopes in the future of Ireland-her struggles, her sorrows of old.
Or heard the fond parent relating the news from his sons o'er the sea,-
From homes on the breast of the prairies -- from lands where his children are free,
Till, stirr'd by the words of the speakers, my spirits in tumult arose,
With love for the land of my fathers, with hate for her merciless foes!

page 34

XIX.

Loud sounded the bell in the turret, -- "his Rev'rence " appeared on the way
The Speakers retir'd to the chapel-the little ones ceas'd from their play;
And hearts that had sorrow'd a lips that had spoken of pain,
Were moved by the voice of Religion, and labor'd for heaven again.
And earth and its cares were forgotten, and hope of a future above
Arose midst the lights of the altar that typify Catholic love
The love that no gloom can extinguish, tyrant of earth can destroy,
That cheers the fond heart of the mother, and follows her wandering boy.

page 35

XX

The mothers! the poor Irish mothers! -- ah I many have wept by the shore,
And sobb'd as they parted from children -- the lov'd who will see them no more.
And many have borne through the future a wound that no science could heal
A wound that is like to heart-breaking, that none but a mother can feel!
How many have found naught to comfort, no solace their trouble to calm,
No hope through the length of existence to pour o'er their spirits a balm,
But that which the faith of our Fathers and Christ in His temple afford
The faith and the hope of a meeting beside the great throne of the Lord?

XXI

There's solace when under "The Stations" the mothers in solitude pray,
And follow, in spirit, "The Mother and Son" on "the dolorous way;"
And mingle their sorrows with Mary's, and stand by Her under the Cross
, And fill'd with the thought of Her dolors, forget, for a moment, their loss.
Forget all the world, and the troubles that darken the pathway of years;
Remain in the gloom of the Passion, and give to the Saviour their tears;
Then offer the loss of their children a sacrifice up to the Son,
While praying the-will of the Father, not theirs', may for ever be done

page 36

XXII.

But here, in the wilds of the prairies, the Sunday no joyousness brings
No heart, like a lark in the morning, with feeling of happiness sings;
No dawning of hope with the daybreak to souls that are panting with love,
That thirst for a drop from the fountains that spring in the Kingdom above.
No music of bells from a distance-no crowds of "parishioners" pass,
And offer a glad salutation as onward they haste to "the Mass;
Or come with us back from the chapel, and sit for awhile in our cot,
Ah, friends still at home in Old Ireland! how sadly I envy your lot!

page 37

XXIII.

The Sunday arrives with its silence. No labor of sinewy hand
No sound of the axe in the forests -- no plough in the bountiful land;
But rest in the home of the exile -- a rest for the body alone!
The mind is as active as ever-it flieth to days that have flown.
A chapel -- "a church," as they call it -- is many a mile to the west,
Within it the birds of the prairies in Winter have shelter and rest.
No voice to disturb them at morning -- no bell-tones to scare them away;
For seldom the priest can attend us, and stand at the altar to pray.

page 38

XXIV.

The church on the breast of the prairies-how humble, how shatter'd, how lone!
Its frame-work is warping and rotting-the grass on its pathway has grown.
Its roof in the Winter is clothed with snow, that unmelting remains
As long as the drifts in the forests, or flakes on the face of the plains;
For seldom the breath of the fire-wood is through the cold of the year,
And seldom in Winter our footprints upon white pathway appear.
Alone! all alone on the prairies! alone on sanctified ground!
Ah no! for invi,zible angels are hovering ever around!

page 39

XXV.

The altar! Ah ! think of the manger-the cradle where Jesus was laid
That morning when angels of beauty stood round the Immaculate Maid.
Ah ! think of the crib and the stable, and starlight that fell on the floor!
Respect the low shrine on the prairies, and blush at its poorness no more.
Ah ! not a fond thought of Old Ireland the altarpiece ever recalls;
No church on the prairies presents us the hue of the mouldering walls
Of chapels that stand in the valleys, where streams through the fatherland flow
O God! for one hour in the chapel where oft I have prayed long ago!

XXVI.

On Sundays when Mass is expected, the settlers, at dawning of day,
Are seen in the woods on the prairies, that lie from the church far away.
They come in their lumbering wagons, their little ones seated a-near,
At times when the Summer is smiling, and often in "Fall" of the year;
But seldom, when Winter is howling, the wagons are seen on the plain;
At home by the stove in the shanty, the mother and children remain.
And seldom a worshipper walketh to Mass as they do in our land,
We miss the bright streamlets of peasants, we meet not a juvenile band.

page 40

XXVII

No crowds in the shades of the chapel-no little ones running around;
No tombs midst the trees in the valley to tell of the sanctified ground;
No "Soggarth" like him whom we honored as "father" in Erin of old,
Whose voice on the altar was pleasant as ring of the purest of gold!
'Tis true that we honor our Pastors, whatever the land of their birth,
'Tis true that we worship our Maker wherever His temple on earth;
But O! what a joy to the Irish-to exiles what heavenly boon!
To hear in the church on the prairies the voice of their "Soggarth aroon!"

page 41

XXVIII.

No fount with its water so holy is found in the Winter-time there,
For sprinkling the brow ere the worshipper enters the temple of prayer.
No "spring" on the hill-side is bubbling -- no "wells" that are blest can be seen,
Like those that are holy in Ireland, and sprinkle her garment of green
The "wells" where the pilgrims are halting and sad ones are seeking relief,
Where sick ones are freed from their troubles, and curd by the strength of belief
By faith such as faith is in Erin-the faith that no pow'r could destroy
That lives in the hearts of our people, and lights the lone cabin with joy!

XXIX

O! often in slumbers of midnight I dream of my isle o'er the sea,
And see her all radiant with beauty-the home of the happy and free.
And often I dream that the island is like to a barque far away
A green-painted ship that will reach us before the first dawn of the day.
O God! if the waves could upheave her and bear her in majesty o'er,
To rest in the sunlight of Freedom beside the American shore;
Or if this invincible nation would wrench her from tyranny's chain,
Then, then I would fly to Old Ireland, and rest on her bosom again.

page 42

XXX.

My children! mayhap in the future, beside this lone home in the West,
Some heart-broken exiles of Erin may seek for a shelter and rest,
Some other lone wanderers settle on prairies as rich as our own,
Till round on the wild a New Ireland of beauty and pow'r shall have grown.
Then down in the woods in the even' the voice of the village shall ring
Then out on the prairies the maidens the songs of Old Erin shall sing
Then sports that we lov'd in Old Ireland shall rise up again to the view,
And plant all the joys of "the Old Land" amidst the bright scenes of "the New."

page 43

XXXI.

O Patrick in heaven! smile ever adown on my isle far away
O follow the steps of the exiles wherever through life they may stray
O guard the bright treasure and freedom you gave to our fathers of yore,
Till steps of your soldiers shall echo in triumph on every shore!
O aid us to struggle forever for honors no tyrants can claim,
Till Erin shall rise from her sorrows, and nations shall honor her name.
Then, then will her children, uprising on mountain and prairie and plain,
With joy rush to Erin, their Mother, to make her a Nation again!

Above is the first poem, the only really long poem in the book. I will post the rest of the book as I have time.

Bob Corbett corbetre@webster.edu

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