The Irish standard., 1904-12-03
"SLIAv-NA-M0N.'
Sketch of Rev, James B. Dollard,
the Poet.
Lives Close to the Heart of the
Irish Hills.

emotional school and is an Irishman.
Father Dollard's name is famous on
both sides of the Atlantic, and it is
as ballad singer that he eNcels. His
work has been accorded the highest
praise, and critics give him first place
among living Irish balladists, says the
Boston Pilot.
Father Dollard is still Il young man.
Thirty-two years ago he was born in
the parish of Aooncoin the late Arch
bishop Walsh's birthplace). His first
poem to attract attention was written
at sixteen, when as Il collegian, he
penned clever lines. In 1890, Father
Dollard went to Canada and studied
theology with the Sulpicians at Mon
treal. At present he is content, Il par
ish priest at Uptergrove, Ontario, and
finds time occasionally to pour forth
his soul in a stirring ballad or in a
tender lyric.
Father Dol!ard lives very close 20
the heart of the Irish hills. His songs
are the songs of the Emerald Isle. He
sings-always sweetly-of her joys,
her SORROWS, her despairs, her noble
history of the past, whether in fact or
misty lore, and the humble, striving
son of the motherland, whether at
home or in exile, is depicted honestly
in strong lines and is the inspira ton
of much music from this genuine,
throbbing harp of song. His men and
women fairly live and breathe in the
glowing pages, and at times one
listens for the sound of their foot
steps. One also seems to pause and
wait for the voice of his devoted
''Sogarth Aroon.'
Father Dollard's songs are the
songs of an exile; they voice the
strong love of the son for the mother.
Now they provoke smile, now tear,
always natural, simple and unaffected
as the people Of whom he sings so
sweetly. The children of his muse
further lead one back to the days of
Thomas Davis and James Clarence
Magyar.
1.-The subjects which draw me
most" the poct-prest writes me, "are
the romances of ancient Irish history,
the mystic heritage of the Gael, the
dim legends which still cling to
broken tower and misty valley in old
Banba of the streams
A short time ago, Father Dollard
published his first book of poems
Irish Mist and Sunshine"-which has
since been we'll received by the critics.
William O'Brien, NJ. p, writes an ap-
preciative foreword.
Among other things, he says: "Irish
priests with the gifts of Father Shce-
han and Father Dollard in their sew
eral kinds can do more to revive the
power of the poet in its ancient Greek
sense than the most misty minded
dilletanti. who arrogatc to themselves
the credit of what is called the Gaelic
Revival They are, indeed, makers
and teachers and their books leave us
with chccrfuller belief in our kind"
Irish Mist and Sunshine" is des-
tined to live; its poetry is sure to be
cnShrnel in Il nations heart. The
strongest poem in the green and gold
volume is "'The hanging of MyIcs Lc-
lmne.' 1t is Il charming ballad. filled
with the heart interest and love that
centres in that word-homr. AS long
as Father Dollard turns out such
work, his name will never die.
And now let us take Il look ut some
of his robust strong hearted, little
children of the muse. "On KcnmArc
Head" is Il fine type of the poet
priests productions. 1t is filled with
Il tone Of deep patlos; it is poetry
touching the deep wells of the human
heart, and unconsciously the signing
of the waves and the bitter sobs of
that lonely motlcr-hcart fall upon
ones ear:
Sweet Mother of the Crucilicd
BE nigh to aid me now.
My old eyes view the sad, gray sea
Beyond the cliffs high brow;
The wide gray sea that sullenly
Beats on the black rocks bare
The While moan, bercft and lone,
On the Head of Old Kenmare.
o bitter day l lost for aye
The dear ones of my soul!
And cruel sea!-'twixt them and me
How broad and bleak YOU roll!
Two graves are lying far away
With none to knccl in prayer
And 1, their mother, weeping here
On the Head of Old Kenmare.
My Owen left our cabin door
A dreary winter day,
Full quick I'll send you gold galore
The heavy rent to pay
Mo nuar!* twas the killing word
They wrote from over there
He's dying and his love he sends
To those in Old Kenmare.'
Then Mary, treasure of my life
How sweet her modest grace!
My timid lamb, she left me too,