 | A Sonnet Chronicle |  |
16
The Harvest of Love
Men wondered at her courage and her will;
Weighed down with years and sorrow she would go
To thank the land that helped against the foe,
And bless the boys who, liege and loyal still
For all the long-drawn centuries of ill,
Held it no shame, wherever Shamrocks grow,
Her Rose should bloom with honour. She went to sow
Love, and Love's harvest doth her dream fulfil.
Weighed down with years and sorrow she would go
To thank the land that helped against the foe,
And bless the boys who, liege and loyal still
For all the long-drawn centuries of ill,
Held it no shame, wherever Shamrocks grow,
Her Rose should bloom with honour. She went to sow
Love, and Love's harvest doth her dream fulfil.
For lo! on Dublin's pavement, plain was laid
The darkest news that e'er to Ireland came;
Barefoot, in rags, a city arab read
“The Queen is dead! Great Britain's Queen is dead!”
Heart-full the lad his only penny paid,
And left his violets on Victoria's name.
The darkest news that e'er to Ireland came;
Barefoot, in rags, a city arab read
“The Queen is dead! Great Britain's Queen is dead!”
Heart-full the lad his only penny paid,
And left his violets on Victoria's name.
On the day when the news of the death of the Queen reached Ireland, a little street arab in Dublin stopped and read the announcement of the Queen's death in the poster that was laid upon the pavement. He was seen to fumble in his pocket for a coin, to cross over to a flower-seller close by, and having spent his last penny on a bunch of violets he went and pinned it above the Queen's name on the poster, and so passed on, in sorrowful loyalty.
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