Selected Poetry

New Zealand Tablet, 6 October 1921, Page 24

Selected Poetry

The “Trimmin’s” of the Rosary Ah, the memories that find me, now my hair is turning gniy, ' Drifting in like painted butterflies from somewhere far .away. Flitting idly through my fancy, and the pictures fading fast, Pass again in rose and purple o’er the broad screen of the pas;. There’s the old selection dreaming ’neath the wistful, watchful stars, ■ And the breeze is telling stories to the list’ning “coolabahs”; And the old home, looking welcomes from its big, bright, friendly eyes, With the “Sugar-loaf” . behind it, blackened in against the skies ; . There’s the same dear, happy circle round the box-log’s cheery blaze, With a little Irish mother telling tales of other days, While the fountain keeps a-singing on the hook besooted o'er, And the youngsters on their hands and knees play “horses” round the’ floor. She had one sweet little custom that I never can forget, And a gentle benediction crowns her memory for it yet; I can see that little mother still, and hear her as she pleads: “Now it’s getting on to bedtime; all you children get your beadi.” There were no steel-bound conventions in that old selection free ; •Only this —each night she lined us u<p to say the Rosary; E’en the traveller ho stayed the night upon his journey knew lie must join the little circle, aye, and take his decade, toe. And I believe she darkly plotted, when .a sinner hove in sight, Who was known to say no prayer at all, to make him stay tho night. Then we’d softly gather round her, and we’d speak in accents low, As we prayed as sainted Dominic prayed so many years agd. And the little Irish mother’s face was radiant, for she knew That where “two or three are gathered,” He is gathered with them too. O’er the Paters and the Avcs how her reverend head would bend, How she’d kiss the cross devoutly when she’d counted to tho end; And the visitor would rise at once — and brush Ijis knees, ' and then— '• ■ He’d look very, very foolish as he took the floor again; For she’d other prayers to keep him, they were long, long prayers in truth; • And we used to call them “trimmin’s” in my disrespectful youth. • She would pray for all our little needs, and every cloud of care . That would darken o’er the “Sugar-loaf!’ she’d meet with a prayer. She would pray for this one’s “sore - complaintj” or that one’s “hurted hand,” Or that someone else ‘.‘might make a deal,” or “get that bit of land.” • # Yes, and then again to “make it rain,” or else to “make it dry,” ’ v And a help for Mary Jane McShane, “who’s going to wed Matthj”; And that “dad might sell the cattle well” and seasons • good should rule So thatjittle John the clever, boy, might go away* to school'. There were “trimmin’s” too, that came and went, but . ne’er she closed without , v -

Adding on© for something special, none of you mtist know about. ’’ Gentle was that .little mother, and her wit would sparkle ■ free, But she’d ruin you if you looked about when at the Rosary. If, perchance you couldn’t find your beads, disaster waited , you, For the only one she’d pardon was the Dad —because she knew He was hopeless, and ’twas sinful what excuses he’d invent, So she let him use his fingers, and he “cracked” them as ho went. And he wasn’t always certain if he counted five or ten, So he’d face the crisis bravely, and would start around again, ’ . But she tallied all the decades, and she’d stop him on the spot With a “Glory! Dadda, Glory!” and he’d “Glory” like a shot. a She would portion out the decades to the company at large ; Ah, but when we reached the “trimmin’s,” she would put herself in charge. . And it oft was cause for wonder, how she never once forgot, But could keep them in their order till she went right \through the lot. For that little Irish mother’s prayers embraced the country wide; • . If a neighbor met with trouble, or was taken ill or died, We could count upon a “trimmin’,” till in fact it got that way That the Rosary was but “trimmin’s” to the “Trimmin’s,” we would say. Then her spouse would enter protest (in the public good, wo thought), “Sure, you’ll have us there till mornin’yerra, cut them ‘ trimmin’s ’ short.” But she always could outrange him in a decent argument; And he’d sit in silence sulking, like Achilles in his tent; Then she’d take him very gently and he’d soften by degrees, “Well, then, let us get it over; come, now, all hands to their knees.” 1 - So the little Irish mother kept her “trimmin’s” to the last, Ever growing, as the shadows o’er the old selection passed, And she lit our drab existence with her simple faith and love, And I know the angels lingered near, to bear her prayers above; For her children trod the paths she trod, nor did .they later spurn To impress her wholesome precepts on their children in their turn. ’ \ Aye! and every “sore complaint” got right and every , “hurted hand,” ; And we “made a deal” from time to time', and got that “bit of* land.” And we never failed to get the rain, and as the years went by ’ We could see that Mary Jane McShane was fit for our Matthi; Yes, and Dad did “sell the cattle well,” and little John, her pride— , It was he who said the Mass in black the morning that she died. And her gentle spirit triumphed, for ’twas this beyond a doubt, That the “something very special” was, she kept so dark about. But the years have crowded past us, and the fledglings all have flown, And the nest beneath the “Sugar-loaf,” no longer is their f - own; ; \. ' ... For a hand has written fiMs, and the book is closed for good, There’s a stately red-tiled mansion where the old slab dwelling stood; N There the stranger has her “evenings,” and the formal I supper’s spread, „ But I wonder has she “trimmings,” now? or is the Rosary said ? • , ‘ ; > ■ '- ' ' Ah, those little Irish mothers, passing from us one by one! Who will write the noble story of the good that they have done? All their children may be scattered, and their fortunes windwards hurled, . V But the “trimmin’s” on the* Rosary shall bless them round .the world. : ' ' r. ~y :■ i...:--- . -.v- - -JOHN O’BRIEN.-