Douglas Leader Durkin
Give to the soul of a man of the north
Faith in the blood of an unwithered race,
Joy in the labour of infinite worth,
Vigour that grows to an exquisite grace;
Breathe on him tales of his grim-visaged sires,
Teach him the curse of a kingdom in thrall,
Fill him with hate for a nation of liars,
Quicken his heart with a clarion's call;
Then, with the odds ten to one, bid him stay,
Face the hell-horrors or welter in blood,
Holding the line with the legions at bay,
And he'll die in his night or he'll live in his day,
But they'll know that he stood!
THE RIP O' HADES
WOULD you hear a little story,
(Not a bang-up tale o' glory)
But a bit of good enough, sir, just the same—
How a poor soul, damned for fair,
Took his summons, made his prayer,
Cashed in sudden, closed his eyes and quit the game?
He was born in stormy weather when the stars were out of tune,
When the Lord of Heaven blundered in his ways,
Just a soulless rip o' Hades farrowed in a luckless moon
From a dame who loved the devil all her days.
There was never priest to bless him, there was never kiss of maid,
There was never virgin smile to wish him well;
There was just a throb of passion from a low-born drunken jade
Ere she signed her own eternal soul to Hell.
When he drank the milk of venom from a vampire's poisoned dugs,
When he lisped his first low curses to the skies,
58
