"Come Child of Misfortune, Come Hither"

As far back as I can remember there was a small green songbook of Thomas Moore's Irish favorites in the various piano benches of my childhood. I don't know if my parents bought it when they lived in Belfast or if it was a gift, perhaps from Cassie Main, my mother's best friend. At any rate, it was another instance of predestination as far as I was concerned. My brother and I took piano lessons from Joy Cutler whose house was across a stone bridge over the road to Mt. Vernon when my dad was assigned to Washington, D.C. For my brother, the lesson outing was the best part. He didn't really take to music notes telling him what to do. I, on the other hand, practiced Teaching Little Fingers to Play for hours. This delighted my tone-deaf mother who envisioned my triumphal acceptance to the Julliard School of Music. She was also fond of sentimental pieces so the day I started in on "The Last Rose of Summer" was a day of transformation for us both. As the songbook aged, patches of brighter green appeared. I began to treat it in a ritualistic way as a form of preservation. Each March, out it would come for a daily singing, one song a day. On St. Patrick's, I would play the entire table of contents. The illustrations were graceful glimpses into an era that suited my fanciful nature. Sometimes I read the lyrics as the poetry they were, impassioned lines of loss and exile. There were a couple of snappy ditties such as "The Rakes of Mallow" which had the strength of Irish humor conquering the many troubles of Irish history to soften the mixture. Here is a sample of the kind the mother/daughter relished.

Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear? --
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine --
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory --
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest, and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself look'd bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear --
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Thomas Moore

It was a natural progression to investigate Yeats and his epic tales of yore and the fascinating "automatic writing." For my first March post, I'd like to conclude with what I think is the best of all Irish poems, Thomas Moore notwithstanding.

When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

--W. B. Yeats

...may the traditional road-rising Irish blessing accompany your March days... Poems courtesy of PoemHunter.com and POETS.org