The Irish standard., 1902-07-19
The Old curate.

He was the curate bent and old,
OF our poor little mountain parish,
n shepherd Of the Masters fold
AS true as e'er did Landings cherish,
His hair was white as Alphead's hoar,
His smile the pictured peace Of
heaven,
His years might ninety be or more,
While all allowed them eighty-seven.
\ lowly servant of the Lord,
His heart was with the poor and
needy;
But for his work, Or for his hoard
OF praise OF pence he neer was
greedy.
He said his primal Sunday Mass
In summer and in winter weather,
While yet the dew was on the grass,
And morning mists hung in the
heather.
His garb beseemed his reverend air,
Il VI SilhSlI llOSC anu Slltcl DuChltS
Cleaned meath his priestly loquelaure.
Fair trimmed with mechlin to the
knuckles;
His golden snuffbox carved and quaint,
He'd grandly offer when he'd meet
you,
And lawyer, farmer, sinner, saint.
11,,,;. lo.
you.
His little patch of garden ground,
Fenced here by hedgerow, there by
pailing,
Held snug within it's circling bound
a long. low house with bright green
An orchard. too. whose luscious fruit
Was once the heaven of all my
wishes
A mimic cascade-ard at foot,
He had pond for golden fishes.
Oh! well l knew the latticed porch
That, woodbinc clad. stood DER the
entry;
The cupid with his plaster torch
That guarded we'll old Nolly's pam
try;
And. looking back through years afar,
see the dovecot o'cr the gable,
The shed above the iaunting car,
And Jack the pony in the stable.
Or stealing tiptoe by the path
Where Pincher lay-that bitter
snarler-
l lift once more the latching lath,
And kneel within the old priests
parlor;
And while he dons his silken stole,
10 hear my murmured child confess
sion,
My thoughts spin round from pole to
pole,
And forgot my one transgression.
And, in kind of whiring haze,
see the clock where chained was
IXion,
Some china vase with gold ablaze
A painting Of the CrucifiXion-
The bookcase quaint with diamond
pane,
a dim old thrush whose days were
closing,
The fathers hat and walking cane,
And pussy on the hearth-rug dozing
Though soft his voice as summer gale
When skies are bright ard bees ar.
humming,
Yet would the grouping gossips pale
At news that Father james was
coming;
When farmers round the chapel-yart
flushed rude debate and fcignet
anger,
And loungcrs left the drowsy sward
AS ceased the bell it's Sunda.
clangor.
How oft with happy heart I've trod
Before the priest in fair procession
And heard him murmur prayers tt
God.
And crave sweet Mary's interces
sion:
Then, while with trembling tones ant
slow
The Introib," he would falter,
The painted window seemed to throw
A glory round him at the altar.
And when the holy rites were done,
The Sunday sermon duly ended,
He had a smile for everyone
With words Of love and blessing
blended;
He'd softly touch a bnby's cheek,
And ask was that the last he christ
ened;
He'd meet beggar Worn and weak
Lo! something in her hand has
glistened.
At noontide up the gravelled walk
On sunny days. within the garden
Good Father James loved we'll to talk
With surly Dan, the orchard warden
He'd read for him the dial plate,
Explain how earth rolled on its axis
Or. turning to affairs of state,
| Grow irate over tithes and toyes