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BAR-ROOM BALLADS
Welcome to PAGE TWO
This is the yarn he told me
Where Lenin lies the red flag flies, and the rat-grey workers wait
I was a Cheko terrorist - Oh I served the Soviets well,
Now do not think because I drink I love the flowing bowl;
A mighty nobleman was he; we took him by surprise;
The light within was weird and dim, and icy cold the air;
Without a sound we shuffled round> I sought to make a sign,
I need not tell how from my cell in Lubianka gaol,
Such was the yarn he handed me,
Three maids there were in meadow bright,
Wild flowers they wound with tender glee,
She gave me a columbine,
And as I went my sober way,
. . . . . . .
That's long ago; they're gone, all three,
For Columbine loved life too well,
And Daisy died while yet a child,
Ah me! How fate is dark and dour
Pat Casey had a billy-goat he gave the name of Shamus,
Now Missus Annie Rooney was a winsome widow woman,
For Shamus loved his master with a deep and dumb devotion,
Now Missis Rooney loved that shawl beyond all rhyme or reason,
"Begorrah! you're a daisy," said the doting Mister Casey
Fiercely flamed her Irish temper. "Look!" says she, "the tavin' divvle!
So blastin ggoats and petticoats, and feeling downright sinful,
And there he lay, serenely, and defied the powers to budge him,
Yet oh, that goat was troubled, for his efforst were redoubled;
Did Shamus faint and falter? No, he stood there stark and splendid,
Can you see that hirsute hero, standing there in tragic glory?
You're wondering what happened? Well you know that truth is stranger
Three men I saw beside a bar,
A Pasha frog it must have been,
And while the trio jeered and joked,
A ring of fire its lips were nigh,
It did not wink, it did not shrink,
It squatted there with calm sublime,
And somehow then it seemed to me
It seemed to say, despite their jokes:
Before its nose the smoke arouse;
They turned it on its warty back,
And then the fellows went away,
Life's like a lighted fag, thought I;
Said Hongray de la Glaciere unto his proud Papa:
What made the Marquis start and stare, and clutch his perfumed beard? So broken-hearted Hongray went and roamed the world around, The Marquis de la Glaciere collapsed upon the floor, Again, sore-stricken Hongray fled, and sought his grief to smother, And so his story Hongray told, in accents choked and muffled. When I have come with happy heart to sixty years and ten,
And there I'll build a swan-white house above the singing foam,
For I have come to think that Life's a lamentable tale,
For when I come with happy heart to sixty years and ten,
Within a pub that's off the Strand and handy to the bar, The very skies were black with shame,
But now I see how fair you are,
What care I who your father was:
What though you only bear my name
Because I' ve borne a human life,
I have fulfilled, I think with joy,
And maybe there will come a day
A day will dawn, divinely free,
When every woman, wed or no,
Please follow this link to Page 3
THE BALLAD OF LENIN'S TOMB
As we sat in Casey's Bar,
That Rooshun mug who scammed from the jug
In the Land of the Crimson Star;
That Soviet guy with the single eye,
And the face like a flaming scar.
To tread the gloom of Lenin's Tomb, where the Comrade lies in state.
With lagging pace they scan his face, so weary yet so firm;
For years a score they've laboured sore to save him from the worm.
The Kremlin walls are grimly grey, but Lenin's Tomb is red,
And pilgrims from the Sour Lands say: "He sleeps and is not dead."
Before their eyes in peace he lies, a symbol and a sign,
And as they pass that dome of glass they see - a God Divine.
So Doctors plug him full of dope, for if he drops to dust,
So will collapse their faith and hope, the whole combine will bust.
But say, Tovarich; hark to me . . . a secret I'll disclose,
For I did see what none did see; I know what no one knows.
Till they put me down on the bone-yard list, for the fear that I might tell;
That I might tell the thing I saw, and that only I did see,
They held me in quod with a firing squad to make a corpse of me.
But I got away, and here today I'm telling my tale to you;
Though it may sound weird, by Lenin's beard, so help me God it's true.
I slouched across that great Red Square, and watched the waiting line.
The mongrel sons of Marx were there, convened to Lenin's shrine;
Ten thousand men of Muscovy, Mongol and Turkoman,
Black-bonnets of the Aral Sea and Tatars of Kazan.
Kalmuck and Bashkir, Lett and Finn, Georgian, Jew and Lapp,
Kirghiz and Kazakh, crowding in to gaze at Lenin's map.
Aye, though a score of years had run I saw them pause and pray,
As mourners at the Tomb of one who died but yesterday.
I watched them in a bleary daze of bitterness and pain,
For oh, I missed the cheery blaze of vodka in my brain.
I stared, my eyes were hypnotized by that saturnine host,
When with a start that shook my heart I saw - I saw a ghost.
As in foggèd glass I saw him pass, and peer at me and grin -
A man I knew, a man I slew, Prince Boris Mazarin.
But liquor kills remorse and stills the anguish of the soul.
And there's so much I would forget, stark horrors I have seen,
Faces and forms that haunt me yet, like shadows on a screen.
And of these sights that mar my nights the ghastliest by far
Is the death of Boris Mazarin, that soldier of the Czar.
His mother, son and daughters three we slew before his eyes.
We tortured him, with jibes and threats; then mad for glut of gore,
Upon our reeking bayonets we nailed him to the door.
But he defied us to the last, crying: "O carrion crew!
I'd die with joy could I destroy a hundred dogs like you."
I thrust my sword into his throat; the blade was gay with blood;
We flung him to his castle moat, and stamped him in its mud.
That mighty Cossack of the Don was dead with all his race....
And now I saw him coming on, dire vengeance in his face.
(Or was it some fantastic dream of my besotted brain?)
He looked at me with eyes a-gleam, the man whom I had slain.
He looked and bade me follow him; I could not help but go;
I joined the throng that passed along, so sorrowful and slow.
I followed with a sense of doom that shadow gaunt and grim;
Into the bowels of the Tomb I followed, followed him.
My brow was wet with bitter sweat, I stumbled on the stair.
I tried to cry; my throat was dry; I sought to grip his arm;
For well I knew this man I slew was there to do us harm.
Lo! he was walking by my side, his fingers clutched my own,
This man I knew so well had died, his hand was naked bone.
His face was like a skull, his eyes were caverns of decay . . .
And so we came to the crystal frame where lonely Lenin lay.
But like a vice his hand of ice was biting into mine.
With leaden pace around the place where Lenin lies at rest,
We slouched, I saw his bony claw go fumbling to his breast.
With ghastly grin he groped within, and tore his robe apart,
And from the hollow of his ribs he drew his blackened heart. . . .
Ah no! Oh God! A bomb, a BOMB! And as I shrieked with dread,
With fiendish cry he raised it high, and . . . swung at Lenin's head.
Oh I was blinded by the flash and deafened by the roar,
And in a mess of bloody mash I wallowed on the floor.
Then Alps of darkness on me fell, and when I saw again
The leprous light 'twas in a cell, and I was racked with pain;
And ringèd around by shapes of gloom, who hoped that I would die;
For of the crowd that crammed the Tomb the sole to live was I.
They told me I had dreamed a dream that must not be revealed,
But by their eyes of evil gleam I knew my doom was sealed.
I broke away, but listen, here's the point of all my tale. . . .
Outside the "Gay Pay Oo" none knew of that grim scene of gore;
They closed the Tomb, and then they threw it open as before.
And there was Lenin, stiff and still, a symbol and a sign,
And rancid races come to thrill and wonder at his Shrine;
And hold the thought: if Lenin rot the Soviets will decay;
And there he sleeps and calm he keeps his watch and ward for aye.
Yet if you pass that frame of glass, peer closely at his phiz,
So stern and firm it mocks the worm, it looks like wax . . . and is.
They tell you he's a mummy - don't you make that bright mistake:
I tell you - he's a dummy; aye, a fiction and a fake.
This eye beheld the bloody bomb that bashed him on the bean.
I heard the crash, I saw the flash, yet . . . there he lies serene.
And by the roar that rocked the Tomb I ask: how could that be?
But if you doubt that deed of doom, just go yourself and see.
You think I'm mad, or drunk, or both . . . Well, I don't care a damn:
I tell you this: their Lenin is a waxen, show-case SHAM.
Down there in Casey's Bar,
That Rooshun bug with the scrambled mug
From the land of the Commissar.
It may be true, I leave it you
To figger out how far.
MAIDS IN MAY
The eldest less then seven;
Their eyes were dancing with delight,
And innocent as Heaven.
Their cheeks with rapture rosy;
All radiant they smiled at me,
When I besought a posy.
And one a poppy brought me;
The tiniest, with eyes ashine,
A simple daisy sought me.
I heard their careless laughter;
Their hearts too happy with to-day
To care for what comes after.
To walk amid the shadows;
Forgotten is their lyric glee
In still and sunny meadows.
And went adventure fairing;
And sank into the pit of hell,
And passed but little caring.
While Poppy was a poor man's wife,
And children had a-plenty;
And went, worn out with toil and strife
When she was five-and-twenty.
As fragile blossoms perish,
When Winter winds are harsh and wild,
With none to shield and cherish.
To little Children of the Poor.
THE BALLAD OF CASEY'S BILLY-GOAT
You've heard of "Casey At the Bat,"
And "Casey's Tabble Dote";"
But now it's time
To write the rhyme
Of "Casey's Billy-goat."
Because it was (his neighbors said) a national disgrace.
And sure enough that animal was eminently famous
For masticating every rag of laundry round the place.
From skirts to shirts prodicously it proved its powers of chewing,
The question of digestion seemed to matter not at all;
But you'll agree, I think, with me, its limit of misdoing
Was reached the day it swallowed Missus Rooney's ould red shawl.
And many a bouncing boy had sought to make her change her name;
And living just across the way 'twas surely only human
A lonesome man like Casey shoul dbe wishfully the same.
So every Sunday, shaved and shined, he'd make the fine occasion
To call upon the lady, and she'd take his hat and coat;
And supping tea it seemed that she might yield to his persuasion,
But alas! he hadn't counted on that devastating goat.
And everywhere that Casey went that goat would want to go;
And though I cannot analyse a quadruped's emotion,
The said the baste was jealous, and I reckon it was so.
For every time that Casey went to call on Missis Rooney,
Beside the gate the goat would wait with woefulness intense;
Until one day it chanced that they were fast becoming spooney,
When Shamus spied that ould red shawl a-flutter on the fence.
And maybe 'twas an heirloom or a cherished souvenir;
For judging by the way she wore it season after season,
It might have been as precisous as a product of Cashmere.
So Shamus strolled towards it, and no doubt the colour pleased him,
For he biffed it and he sniffed it, as most any goat might do;
Then his melancholy vanished as a sense of hunger seized him,
And he wagged his tail with rapture as he started in to chew.
To the blushing Widow Rooney as they parted at the door.
"Wid yer tinderness an'tazin'sure ye've set me heart a-blazin',
And I dread the day I'll nivver see me Anny anny more."
And then she went to pull his whiskers, when dismay her bosom smote...
Her ould red shawl! 'Twas missin' where she'd left it bravely drying--
Then she saw it disappearing--down the neck of Casey's goat.
Sure he's made me shawl his supper. Well, I hope it's to his taste
But excuse me Mister Casey, if I seem to be oncivil,
For I'll nivver wed a man wid such a misbegotten baste."
So she slammed the door and left him in a state of consternation,
And he couldn't understand it, till he saw that grinning goat;
Then with eloquence he cussed it, and his final fulmination
Was a poem of profanity impossible to quote.
Despairfully he wandered in to Shinnigan's shebeen;
And straightway he proceeded to absorb a might skinful
Of the deadliest variety of Shinnigan's potheen;
And when he started homeward it was in the early morning,
But Shamus followed faithfully, a yard behind his back
Then Casey slipped and stumbled, and without the slightest warning
Like a lump of lead he tumbled--right on the railway track.
Reposing like a baby, with his head on a rail;
But Shamus seemed unhappy, and from time to time would nudge him,
Though his prods of protestation were without the least avail.
Then to that goatish mind, maybe, a sense of fell disaster
Came stealing like a spectre in the dim and dreary dawn;
For his bleat of warning blended with the snoring of his master
In a chorus of calamity--but Casey slumbered on.
Now he tugged at Casey's whisker, now he nibbled at his ear;
Now he shook him by the shoulder, and with fear becoming bolder,
He bellowed like a fog-horn, but the sleeper did not hear.
Then up and down the railway line he scampered for assistance;
But anxiously he hurried back and sought with tug and strain
To pull his master off the track...when sudden! in the distance
He heard the roar and rumble of the fast approaching train.
True, his tummy was distended, but he gave his horns a toss.
By them his goathood's honour would be gallantly defended,
And if their valour failed him--he would perish with his boss.
So dauntlessly he lowered his head, and ever clearer, clearer,
He heard the throb and thunder of the Continental Mail.
He would face that mighty monster. It was coming nearer, nearer;
He would fight it, he would smite it, but he'd never show his tail.
Can you hear the Pullman porters shrieking horror to the sky?
No, you can't; because my story has no end so grim and gory,
For Shamus did not perish and his master did not die.
At this very present moment Casey swaggers hale and hearty,
And Shamus strolls beside him with a bright bell at his throat;
While the recent Missis Rooney is the gayest of the party,
For now she's Missis Casey and she's crazy for that goat.
Than the wildest brand of fiction, so I'll tell you without shame...
There was Shamus and his master in the face of awful danger,
And the giant locomotive dashing down in smoke and flame...
What power on earth could save them? Yet a golden inspiration
To gods and goats alike may come, so in that brutish brain
A thought was born--the ould red shawl...Then rearing with elation,
Like lightening Shamus threw it up--AND FLAGGED AND STOPPED THE TRAIN.
THE SMOKING FROG
Regarding o'er their bottle,
A frog who smoked a rank cigar
They'd jammed within his throttle.
So big it was and bloated,
And from its lips the nicotine
In graceful festoon floated.
As if it quite enjoyed it,
Impassively it smoked and smoked,
(It could not well avoid it).
Yet it seemed beyond all unwitting;
It could not spit, like you and I,
Who're learned the art of spitting.
As there serene it squatted;
Its eyes were clear, it did not fear
The fate the Gods allotted
Amid their cruel guying;
Grave as a god, and all the time
It knew that it was dying.
These men expectorating,
Were infinitely less than he,
The dumb thing they were baiting.
"This is my hour of glory.
It isn't every frog that smokes;
My name will live in story."
The flame grew nigher, nigher;
And then I saw its bright eyes close
Beside that ring of fire.
From off its bloated belly;
It legs jerked out, then dangled slack;
It quivered like a jelly.
Contented with their joking;
But even as in death it lay,
The frog continued smoke.
We smoke it stale, then after
Death turns our belly to the sky;
The Gods must have their laughter.
MADAME LA MARQUISE
"I want to take a wife, mon Pere." The Marquis laughed: "Ha! Ha!
And whose, my son?" he slyly said; but Hongray with a frown
Cried: "Fi! Papa, I mean -- to wed. I want to settle down."
The Marquis de la Glaciere responded with a smile:
"You're young, my boy; I much prefer that you should wait awhile."
But Hongray sighed; "I cannot wait, for I am twenty-four;
and I have met my blessed fate: I worship, I adore.
Such beauty, grace and charm has she, I'm sure you will approve,
For if I live a century none other can I love."
"I have no doubt," the Marquis shrugged, "that she's a proper pet;
But has she got a decent dot, and is she of our set?"
"Her dot," said Hongray, "will suffice; her family you know.
The girl with whom I fain would splice is Mirabelle de Veau."
Why did he stagger to a chair, and murmur: "As I feared"?
Dilated were his eyes with dread, and in a voice of woe
He wailed: "My son, you cannot wed with Mirabelle du Veau."
"Why not? my Parent," Hongray cried. "Her name's without a slur.
Why should you look so horrified that I should wed with her?"
The Marquis groaned: "Unhappy lad! Forget her if you can,
And see in your respected Dad a miserable man."
"What is the matter? I repeat," said Hongray growing hot.
"She's witty, pretty, rich and sweet. . .Then -- mille diables! -- what?"
The Marquis moaned: "Alas! that I your dreams of bliss should banish;
It happened in the days gone-by, when I was Don Juanish.
Her mother was your mother's friend, and we were much together.
Ah well! You know how such things end. (I blame it on the weather.)
We had a very sultry spell. One day, mon Dieu! I kissed her.
My son, you can't wed Mirabelle. She is . . . she is your sister."
Till hunting in the Occident forgetfulness he found.
Then quite recovered, he returned to the paternal nest,
Until one day, with brow that burned, the Marquis he addressed:
"Felicitate me, Father mine; my brain is in a whirl;
For I have found the mate divine, the one, the perfect girl.
She's healthy, wealthy, witching, wise, with loveliness serene.
Ah! Proud am I to win a prize, half angel and half queen."
" 'Tis time to wed," the Marquis said. "You must be twenty-seven.
But who is she whose lot may be to make your life a heaven?"
"A friend of childhood," Hongray cried. "For whom regard you feel.
The maid I fain would make my bride is Raymonde de la Veal."
And all the words he uttered were: "Forgive me, I implore.
My sins are heavy on my head. Profound remorse I feel.
My son, you simply cannot wed with Raymonde de la Veal."
The Hongray spoke with voice that broke, and corrugated brow:
"Inform me, Sir, why you demur. What is the matter now?"
The Marquis wailed: "My wicked youth! Ah! how it gives me pain.
But let me tell the awful truth, my agony explain . . .
A cursed Casanova I; a finished flirt her mother;
And so alas! it came to pass we fell for one another.
Our live were blent in bliss and joy. The sequel you may gather:
You cannot wed Raymonde, my boy, because I am . . . her father."
And as he writhed upon his bed to him there came his Mother.
The Marquise de la Glaciere was snowy-haired and frigid.
Her wintry features chiselled were, her manner stiff and rigid.
The pride of race was in her face, her bearing high and stately,
And sinking down by Hongray's side she spoke to him sedately:
"What ails you so, my precious child? What thongs of sorrow smite you?
Why are your eyes so wet and wild? Come, tell me, I invite you."
"Ah! if I told you, Mother dear," said Hongray with a shiver,
"another's honour would, I fear, be in the soup forever."
"Nay, trust," she begged, "my only boy, the fond Mama who bore you.
Perhaps I may your grief alloy. Please tell me, I implore you."
The Marquise listened, calm and cold, her visage quite unruffled.
He told of Mirabelle du Veau, his agony revealing.
For Raymonde de la Veal his woe was quite beyond concealing.
And still she sat without a word, her look so high and haughty,
You'd ne'er have thought it was her lord who had behaved so naughty.
Then Hongray finished up: "For life my hopes are doomed to slaughter;
For if I choose another wife, she's sure to be his daughter.
The Marquise rose. "Cheer up," said she, "the last word is not spoken.
A Mother cannot sit and see her boy's heart rudely broken.
So dry your tears and calm your fears; no longer need you tarry;
To-day your bride you may decide, to-morrow you may marry.
Yes, you may wed with Mirabelle, or Raymonde if you'd rather . . .
For I as well the truth may tell . . . Papa is not your father."
BEACHCOMBER
I'll buy a boat and sail away upon a summer sea;
And in a little lonely isle that's far and far from men,
In peace and praise I'll spend the days the Gods allow to me.
For I am weary of a strife so pitiless and vain;
And in a far and fairy isle, bewilderingly bright,
I'll learn to know the leap and glow of rapture once again,
And welcome every living dawn with wonder and delight.
With brooding eaves, where joyously rich roses climb and cling;
With crotons in a double row, like wine and honeycomb,
And flame trees dripping golden rain, and palms pavilioning.
And there I'll let the wind and wave do what they will with me;
And I will dwell unto the end with loveliness and joy;
And drink from out the crystal spring, and eat from off the tree,
As simple as a savage is, as careless as a boy.
And all we break our hearts to win is little worth our while;
For fame and fortune in the end are comfortless and stale,
And it is best to dream and rest upon a radiant isle.
So I'll blot out the bitter years of sufferance and scorn,
And I'll forget the fear and fret, the poverty and pain;
And in a shy and secret isle I'll be a man newborn,
And fashion life to heart's desire, and seek my soul again.
I fondly hope the best of life will yet remain to me;
And so I'll burn my foolish books and break my futile pen,
And seek a tranced and tranquil isle, that dreams eternally.
I'll turn my back on all the world, I'll bid my friends adieu;
Unto the blink I'll leave behind what gold I have to give;
And in a jewelled solitude I'll mould my life anew,
And nestling close to Nature's heart, I'll learn at last . . . to live.
JOBSON OF THE STAR
With pipe in mouth and mug in hand sat Jobson of the Star.
"Come, sit ye down, ye wond'ring wight, and have a yarn," says he.
"I can't," says I, "because to-night I'm off to Tripoli;
To Tripoli and Trebizond and Timbuctoo mayhap,
Or any magic name beyond I find upon the map.
I go errant trail to try, to clutch the skirts of Chance,
To make once more before I die the gesture of Romance."
The Jobson yawned above his jug, and rumbled: "Is that so?
Well, anyway, sit down, you mug, and have a drink before you go."
Now Jobson is a chum of mine, and in a dusty den,
Within the street that's known as Fleet, he wields a wicked pen.
And every night it's his delight, above the fleeting show,
To castigate the living Great, and keep the lowly low.
And all there is to know he knows, for unto him is spurred
The knowledge of the knowledge of the Thing That Has Occurred.
And all that is to hear he hears, for to his ear is whirled
The echo of the echo of the Sound That Shocks The World.
Let Revolutions rage and rend, and Kingdoms rise and fall,
There Jobson sits and smokes and spits, and writes about it all.
And so we jawed a little while on matters small and great;
He told me his cynic smile of graves affairs of state.
Of princes, peers and presidents, and folks beyond my ken,
He spoke as you and I might speak of ordinary men.
For Jobson is a scribe of worth, and has respect for none,
And all the mighty ones of earth are targets for his fun.
So when I said good-bye, says he, with his satyric leer:
"Too bad to go, when life is so damned interesting here.
The Government rides for a fall, and things are getting hot.
You'd better stick around, old pal; you'll miss an awful lot."
Yet still I went and wandered far, by secret ways and wide.
Adventure was the shining star I took to be my guide.
For fifty moons I followed on, and every moon was sweet,
And lit as if for me alone the trail before my feet.
From cities desolate with doom my moons swam up and set,
On tower and temple, tent and tomb, on mosque and minaret.
To heights that hailed the dawn I scaled, by cliff and chasm sheer;
To far Cathy I found my way, and fabolous Kashmir.
From camel-back I traced the track that bars the barren bled,
And leads to hell-and-blazes, and I followed where it led.
Like emeralds in sapphire set, and ripe for human rape,
I passed with passionate regret the Islands of Escape.
With death I clinched a time or two, and gave the brute a fall.
Hunger and cold and thirst I knew, yet...how I loved it all!
Then suddenly I seemed to tire of trecking up and town,
And longed for some domestic fire, and sailed for London Town.
And in a pub that's off the Strand, and handy to the bar,
With pipe in mouth and mug in hand sat Jobson of the Star.
"Hullo!" says he, "come, take a pew, and tell me where you've been.
It seems to me that lately you have vanished from the scene."
"I've been," says I, "to Kordovan and Kong and Calabar,
To Sarawak and Samarkand, to Ghat and Bolivar;
To Caracas and Guayaquil, to Lhasa and Pekin,
To Brahmapurta and Brazil, to Bagdad and Benin.
I've sailed the Black Sea and the White, The Yellow and the Red,
The Sula and the Celebes, the Bering and the Dead.
I've climbed on Chimborazo, and I've wandered in Peru;
I've camped on Kinchinjunga, and I've crossed the Great Karoo.
I've drifted on the Hoang-ho, the Nile and Amazon;
I've swam the Tiber and the Po.." thus I was going on,
When Jobson yawned above his beer, and rumbled: "Is that so?...
It's been so damned exciting here, too bad you had to go.
We've had the devil of a slump; the market's gone to pot;
You should have stuck around, you chump, you've missed an awful lot."
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In haggard lands where ages brood, on plains burnt out and dim,
I broke the bread of brotherhood with ruthless men and grim.
By ways untrod I walked with God, by parched and bitter path;
In deserts dim I talked with Him, and learned to know His Wrath.
But in a pub that's off the Strand, sits Jobson every night,
And tells me what a fool I am, and maybe he is right.
For Jobson is a man of stamp, and proud of him am I;
And I am just a bloody tramp, and will be till I die.
BASTARD
As near my moment drew;
The very hour before you came
I felt I hated you.
How divine your eyes,
It seems I step upon a star
And leap to Paradise.
('Twere better not to know);
You're mine and mine alone because
I love and love you so.
I hold my head on high;
For none shall have a right to claim
A right to you but I.
I'mworthier I know,
Than those who flaunt the name of wife,
And have no seed to show.
My woman's destiny;
And glad am I you are a boy,
For you will fight for me.
You'll bear a famous name,
And men will be ashamed to say:
"He was a child of shame."
With love in every breast,
When every child will welcome be,
And every mother blest.
Will deem her highest good
On grateful mankind to bestow
The Gift of Motherhood.