IRISH READINGS

New Zealand Tablet, Volume LII, Issue 49, 9 December 1925, Page 7

IRISH READINGS

(Edited by A. M. Sullivan, M.P., and T. D. Sullivan, M.P.)

•; Of the numerous bores that infest society, perhaps the most intolerable, if we except the prize hoars ’at the cattle shows, are those small sing-song writers who, whilst utterly •devoid of one single spark of real poetic fire, | imagine themselves geniuses, and are perpetually foisting their namby-pamby effusions on the public. “Why do the public purchase them?” asks some uncompromising individual. Alas! my friend, the public cannot help doing so; they are literally pestered land betrayed into it. Shortly after that j child of song, Mr. Twaddle, has published |his exquisitely wretched ditty, entitled “The iDying Wail of a Broken Heart,” you happen 7 to meet, in an evil hour, a good-natured acv , quaintance. “Tom,” says the person to you, 7' ' S;“ ‘Twaddle has published a new song —’tisn’t a bad one eitherand I have promised to get rid of a few copies for the poor fellow. I " expect you’ll take one. Now c don’t say no,’ as Mr. Bralligan says” — and you don’t say no, though you ought. Again, a kind editor, remarkable for his abilities in bestowing praise upon anything, from a bloated Aberdeen turnip—bad at heart, maybe, for all its splendid appearanceto the bloated exterminator affected — whose cottageless property the vegetable was grown, in a characteristically eulogistic paragraph thus speaks of what he is pleased to style ■‘the latest emanation of the genius of T walking Twaddle, Esq., our gifted fellow-towns-man”:—-“It has often before been our pleasing duty to call attention to, and speak in the language of, well-merited praise of, the gifted poet who is such an honor to our town, and whose latest effusion, ‘ The Dying Wail of a* Broken Heart,’ now lies before us. This charming ballad possesses all the beauties that characterised the talented author’s former productions, besides many more peculiar to itself. We can honestly say that its perusal yielded us those exquisitely pleasurable sensations, much more easily imagined than described, tending to elevate the heart and refine the sensibilities of the soul. In it Mr. Twaddle has transcendently displayed i, * his wondrous power of transforming converts into individuality.” After such a ' paragraph— the concluding portion of the last sentence;of which, wo deem it necessary to observe, Ms'"a genuine quotationwhat is , unsophisticated humanity to do but rush to

SONGS AND SONG WRITERS.

(By “Ateth” .in the Nation.)

the local bookseller’s with frantic haste, and invest in “The Dying Wail.” If the payment of a few shillings for a couple of sheets of aste paper were the only grievances we had to sustain at the hands of vain and foolish poetasters thirsting for fame, it were well, and we should have but little reason to complain ; but such is not the case-. In compliance with the request* of friends, or influenced by the laudations of the encomiastic editor, or, perchance, captivated by the attractions of the pink-cheeked damsel generally to be found depicted on the front sheet, young ladies —we say ladies, because we are not of those who much affect male warblers purchase the new song; and, alas! its purchase is but the prelude to its committal to memory, with ulterior views. How often have we listened with a “sad civility,” closely bordering on indignation ? whilst brilliant young creatures, in whose thrilling tones we should like to hear the noble songs of Moore and Davis sung, “made long the night,” as they poured forth, in nauseating succession, the mawkish maunder! of vitiated taste and nonsensical sentimentality. But why do we speak of singing? Positively we have heard horresco referens —sentimental songs, of the class we have indicated, recited. Goaded into desperation by the reiterated “pressings” of friends, (?) resolved to make a fool of himself and have done with it, some weakminded- young man, with watery eyes, a husky voice, and a pair of unmanageable legs, rises from his' chair, and — but we spare our readers the description of a scene under the accumulated horrors of which even the indomitable , “jollity” of Mark Tapley himself must succumb. THE SEASONS. ; (By D. F. McCarthy.) The different hues that deck the earth All in our bosoms have their birth — . ’Tis not in blue or sunny skies, ’Tis in the heart the Summer lies! The earth is bright if that be glad, Dark is the earth if that be sad; And thus I feel each weary day—’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away! In vain, upon her emerald car, l*i Copies Spring, “the maiden from afar,” And scatters o’er the woods and fields \

The liberal gifts that nature yields; In vain the buds begin to grow, T In vain the crocus gilds the snow ;||||%||: ; \ I feel no joy though j earth ;be gay— * ■; \ ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away! ■ \ il And when the Summer, like a bride, Comes down to earth in blushing pride,, '.7; [j And from that union sweet are born The fragrant flowers and waving corn, j; I hear the hum of birds and bees, ;■>'( | 1 view the hills and streams and trees, j-; Yet vain the thousand charms of May— •j| ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away! u ' And when the Autumn crowns the year, ‘i And ripened hangs the golden ear, . : ;j And luscious fruits of ruddy, hue 7 . The bending boughs are glancing through, When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks Come forth and try the mountain brooks—! Even then I feel, as there I stray, , ' 7 ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away! And when the Winter comes at length, \\ With swaggering gait and giant strength, ij And with his strong arms in a trice Binds up the streams in chains of ice, ij What need I sigh for pleasures gone— The twilight eve, the rosy dawn ? My heart is changed as much as they■ ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away! Even now, when Summer lends the scene Its brightest gold— its purest green ; i Whene’er I climb the mountain’s breast, ' 1 ij With softest moss and heath-flowers dressedWhen now I hear the breeze that stirs |i The golden hells that deck the furze j 7 j Alas! ye all are vain, I say—’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away! ' f But when thou comest back once more— Though dark clouds hang and loud wind* roar, , , j And’ mists obscure the nearest hills, And dark and turbid roll the rills Such pleasures then my breast shall know, ’ That Summer’s' sun shall round me glow; | Then ouick return, dear maid, I pray ’Tis Winter all when thou’rt away!