The Waterbury Democrat. [volume] (Waterbury, Conn.) 1917-1946, 1943-08-25

Gets home tired somewhat gritty
The factory needs-me-you hear Dan say
CEITS Whenever Melancholla comes to sleep
with me her hair is the fragrance of peat-re burning
Her ewes have the warm bright glowing sheen OF sun
shine over Ireland And her lips as soft and sweet
as the dew in the Glen of the Downs in the silence OF
dawn Her clnging arms, and her voice is the
voice of Deirdre.
We're strange breed we Celts ready to leave
the land we loved for other ads SO ready to ght
other mems wars and ready to ask so little IN
return All we can saw to soft reproach Ernest Dow
sons lovely decadent words Il have been 1alth1ul 10
thee Cynara, in my fashion"
Erin understands, for Erin, like God forgives her
sons many things. Perhaps that is why through tne
misted memories of years, no matter where we nave
roaed or settled the thought of her. eyes cloud
and lump creeps into Threats And we would not
have it otherwise For we're like bride every man.
woman and child of us-who leaves her mothers house
to know husbands love- yet cngS always IN her heart
to the mother who bore her
Africa a great big strapping fellow, little embar-
raised at taking drink with me, for he was in uni
FORM and wore the three stars OF captain IN tne
inhibitions left him. and he spoke to me OF CORK ana
Kinsale Harbor and of the home he had left many
miles away.
There was woman the barren rock of Alden
who found solace for her sorrows in talking to young
lad from Ireland. There old man In Puerto
Orotavo, on the Island of Tenerfe in the Canary
Islands There was trader in the Belgian Congo.
There a bar tender out in Hollywood There was
a scrubwOman at the uppermOst tip of Maine And
when they spoke to me of Ireland soft glow IN thelr
eyes lent radiance to their eyes, and the words as
they spoke them sounded like wistful prayer, or
paean OF glory.
MY own childhood was Dublin, and Wicklow noun
ains and spells in London and winters in Brittany But
since then though I've roamed around little, Europe,
bit of ASIA lot of Africa, great deal of the United
States when Meancholia takes in her arms 1t is or
purple heather think, and whin golden in the sun
light, unsurpassably green fields laburnum trees and
lilac and cowsps and peoples dancing gay and SOFT t
day." and God bless the work." and "God bless YOU"
And think of horses, sleek trim hunters and red
setter dogs with eyes that would melt your heart and
grouseshootng the 18th of August and partridge,
and pheasant and still streams OF speckled trout ana
noisy little brooks rushing along through dark daeS
winding through sunny pastures. And think Ct blue
smoke curling from farmhouse chimneys, and the taste
of milk just taken from cow The smell OF bracken
hillside, and moss upon grey stone fill my nosrls
And think of Wicklow days. and Dublin days, and
Clongowes Wood College in Kildare
remember my years there, though have forgot
ten the of most of the Jesuits who taught me
if nothing else-that loyalty to God country, wife
and friend the greatest thing in the world l
the of playing fields, and can remember as
though it only yesterday, BenedictOn services in
e e wn S airy Frge oys
derfuIly than I've heard them sung since for all
of the Cathedras have been in And sometimes the
soft Spring sunlight would come creeping through the
windows in to join her voice to ours, and
small boys heart would break with the beauty of it ALL
These remember; and jaunting in Dublin,
where for bob your drive would any other driver
in town from ST. Stephens Green, where lived for a
while down Grafton Street. and little twisty
past Trinity College, and what then the Bank OF Ire
land and is now restored Fires Parliament and
over O'connell's Bridge to the winning lne-Nelsons
1nonument-in wide, cobble -stoned Sackvie Street.
These remember when Meanchoa's arms cling
about me- and she whispers to me that we Celts
strange breed. These remember with happiness and
sadness she presses her soft lips to mine and her hair
and the scent of her hair entwine me. And know
before she tells that the happiness of the Cet is
hurt and hurt is happiness and that from
the beginning of time have been our own worst
enemies
And know that my own thoughts are the thoughts
of almost every Gael who has Travelled away. For who,
better than !, knows the moods that move us? Our
tears the dark shadows of glen in lonely rain Our
laughter is the sunrise Irish mountain. And
we're all like the streams and brooks of dear, green
land rushing madly away from the cnging banks that
would hold back mady rushing away seeking elusive
happiness in the arms of a distant, far-off sea-
EDMUND LEAMY.
Good Night
N ~