 | Pleasant Odes |  |
39
Mr. Timothy M. Healy.
41
I.
My dear Timothy,—
To you, greeting!
Behold, I approach you with an ode!
Odes are not always the choicest of reading, acushla,
But I can guarantee this one,
Because 'tis myself that wrote it.
42
II.
Dear Timothy,What a man you are to be sure!
That hawk's eye,
That irate nostril,
That implacable sneering lip,
Those sarcastic teeth,
That hiss,
That look of tired bitterness!—
Who, becoming acquainted with these things, could forget them?
Who, understanding them, will not be moved?
(Sing, Muse, sing! if ever you sang in your life!)
The words in parentheses, Mr. Healy,
Are not addressed to yourself, but to my Muse,
Who, I am sorry to say,
Has to be continually prodded
To prevent her from stopping.
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III.
I sometimes think, O Timothy,That Erin must love you better than she loves, anybody else in the House of Commons,
Unless, mayhap, it be the Balfours;
For you have loved Erin
With a love passing the love of woman,
And you have hated—
Jove, how you have hated!
I will back you to hate
Against any man who fancies himself in the hating way
On this sublunary planet:
You hate, indeed, almost as hard as a woman.
(Sing up, Muse, for Heaven's sake!)
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IV.
Singularly enough, O Timothy Michael mine,I have little to say to you:
I might as well talk to the Hyrcanian lion,
Or the crocodile of the Nile,
Or a mad dog,
Or Paulus Kruger, Rex. . . .
There you are, with your love and your hate—
More power to both of 'em, say I;
May your shadow never grow less,
And may you live to a green and contentious old age!
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V.
All of which goes to show, Mr. Healy,That I am in the mood of the man who met with Napper Tandy
And took him by the hand,
Thereby setting a beautiful example
For all Irish statesmen,
Not to mention some English ones:
For is it not kinder, pleasanter,
And in every way more satisfactory
To take a person by the hand
Than by the throat?
I trow that it is, Timothy,
And you trow, too, Timothy,
In fact, we both trow, so to speak.
(O, jade Muse, why this stumbling?)
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VI.
In conclusion, Mr. Healy,The Lady of whom we wot
Has still a smile on her lip and a tear in her eye:
Be it yours to consolidate that smile
And to wipe away as much of that tear as possible:
The nasty things you say at times
Don't appear, to me, to help much;
But—well, every man to his trade, you know!
(Muse, old girl, we are through!)
| Pleasant Odes | |