The Cornflower, and Other Poems

AT THE SICK CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL

A little crippled figure, two big pathetic eyes,A face that looked unchildish, so wan it was and wise;I watched her as the homesick tears came chasing down each cheek."I had to come," she whispered low, "I was so tired and weak.My spine, you know! I used to be so strong, and tall, and straight!I went to school and learned to read and write upon a slate,And add up figures – such a lot, and play with all my might,Until I hurt my back – since then I just ache day and night.'Tis most a year since I could stand, or walk around at all;All I am good for now, you see, is just to cry and crawl."Poor, pale-faced thing! there came to us the laughter gay and sweetOf little ones let out from school, the sound of flying feet.She listened for a moment, then turned her to the wallTo hide the tears. "Oh, me!" she cried, "I'm tired of it all.I feel so hurt and useless, why can't I run aboutAs others do?" "Some day, please God, you will," I said, but doubtWas in the eyes she turned on mine, and doubt was in her tone."Perhaps," she faltered, then the pain grew harsh; the plaintive moanSmote sharply on my heart. I knew she had but lately comeFrom mother's care and father's love, and all the joys of home."I wished I'd lived on earth," she sobbed, "a long, long time ago,When Jesus came at eventide, because He loved folks so,And just by stretching out His hand made all the sick folks well.If it were now, oh, wouldn't I creep close to Him, and tellAll that I wanted Him to do. I'd kneel down low and say:'It is my back, dear Jesus, please cure it right away.I'm tired of being weak and sick, I want to jump and run,And play at games, and laugh out loud, and have such heaps of fun!Be good to your poor crippled girl,' and He would touch me – so —And every atom of the pain and crookedness would go."I held her close, and kissed her, and soothed her off to rest,So frail she was, so homesick for the ones she loved the best!But yesterday I saw her, and would have passed her byHad I not caught the greeting smile, the glance so bright and shy."Can this be you?" I questioned. She laughed, "O yes, I thoughtYou'd hardly know me when you came, I've changed, oh, such a lot!For see how tall and straight I am! My back don't hurt at all,And I can stand and I can walk – I never have to crawl.I'll tell you, it's a secret, I raced with nurse last night.Just think of it! I raced and won," and then, in sheer delight,She laughed so loudly and so long the nurse looked in to say,"Is not this little girl of ours quite boisterous to-day?""They are so good to me," she said, "I know I'll want to cryWhen I start off for home next week, and have to say good-bye.What if I hadn't come at all?" – the sweet blue eyes grew wet —"My back would ache and throb and hurt – I'd be a cripple yet.For folks as poor as my folks are, they haven't much to spareFor nurse's bills, and doctor's bills, and all – but won't they stareWhen I go home, red-cheeked and straight, and fat as I can be?My daddy, he will never take his dear eyes off of me;My mamma, she will cry some tears, and bend her head and pray,While all the others kiss and hug; then I can hear her say:'Give me my girlie, she's been gone so many long months – five,'And hold me close – oh, I will be the gladdest thing alive!"

CHRISTY AND THE PIPERS

'Twas a score of years since I'd heard the pipes,But the other night I heard them;There are sweet old memories in my heart,And the music woke and stirred them.In the armories, at the big paradeThe highland regiment was giving,A half-dozen pipers piping away —Ah! 'twas music, as sure as your living.Donald's lowland, he shook his head at me,And glowered with every feature,And a pretty young lassie just behindSaid: "Oh, what a funny old creature!"But the skirl o' the pipes got in my ears,In my eyes, and made them misty;I laughed and I cried, and Donald said low:"Dinna act so daft, noo, Christy!""Do ye no see the elder sitting there?Dinna act sae daft, my wooman.Can ye no hear the airs o' auld lang syneWi'oot fashin' yersel' sae, wooman?"But the skirl o' the pipes got in my heart,It got in my throat and choked me,It got in my feet, and tapped my toes,And my shame-faced Donald poked me."But isn't it grand? O, isn't it grand?""Ay, a fine auld player is Mylands,But the pipes' wild sound disna stir my bluid" —He was not born in the highlands.Do you know what I saw as I sat there?I saw the hills and the heather,The green, and the lads and the lassies thereAll dancing the reels together.I saw our glen, half hid, and the rocksStanding guard like grim old watchmen.Oh, the land o' heather and hill and lochMust e'en be dear to a Scotchman.And I saw, too, the soldiers blithe and braveTheir flag to the breeze unfurling,As they marched away on a morning fairTo the bagpipes' merry skirling.My brother was one. As he kissed my cheek,I could hear him proudly saying:"Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,For you'll hear our pipers playing."Oh, the bonniest lads in kilt and hose —Braver men, you cannot find them —And few, so few, came marching homeTo the loved ones left behind them.'Twas a loyal heart, and a strong right arm,With a stubborn foe before them;A soldier's grave in a far off land,And God's blue sky bending o'er them.As I hearkened to sweet old martial airsI could hear my brother saying:"Ho! you'll know when we come marching home,For you'll hear our pipers playing."There are only harps in heaven, I'm told,And maybe I shouldn't say it,For a harp of gold's a wondrous thingIn a hand that's skilled to play it.But those highland lads, 'twas the pibroch's callThey heard morning, noon, and even,And the pibroch's call, I believe in my heart,They will hear in the streets of heaven.They marched to the old belovèd airs'Mid the bullets' hail and rattle;'Twas the last sweet sound that fell on their ears'Mid the clamor and clang of battle.O a harp when an angel strikes the stringsIs softer and sweeter, but tryAs I will, I cannot fancy a harpIn the hands of, say, Peter MacKay.And were an angel to proffer him one,Methinks I can hear him saying:"'Twas not on an instrument like the sameThat Pete MacKay will be playing,"For she neffer set eyes on it before,Isn't quick to learn, or cleffer;She'd break the strings if she took it in hand,She couldn't do it, whateffer."So please be excusing old Pete MacKay —But hark! bring the chanter to me,I'll play the 'March o' the Cameron Men,'And afterward 'Bonnie Dundee.'"I told this to Donald late that night;He said, as he sipped his toddy,"Do ye ken ye shocked the elder the night?Yersel' is the doited body."And are ye speaking o' bagpipes in Heaven?Ah, Christy, I'm that astoondedI'll hae the guid meenister speak tae ye,For, Christy, ye're no weel groonded."Well, if it is heresy to believeIn the promise of the Father,"Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,"I am heretical, rather.I believe when the last loud trump shall sound,The old flag again unfurling,My highland lads will come marching homeTo the bagpipes grandly skirling.

THE STABLE-BOY'S GUEST

The Wise Men came to the inn that night,"Now open to us," they cried,"We have journeyed far that we might kneelTo One who doth here abide."The door was opened with eager haste."Of whom do ye come in quest?Can it be that a lord of high degreeIs with us this night as guest?"The Wise Men answered: "The eastern skyIs luminous still, and clear,With the radiance of a golden starThat hath led our footsteps here."Blessed, O keeper, this inn of thine,Both thatch and foundation stone,For the open door and hearth-fire warmWhen the King came to His own!""The King! the King!" loud the keeper's cry,"The King in this house of mine!Lights ho! lights ho! set the place aglow,Bring forth the meat and the wine!"The King! let the guest-room be prepared —Honor and homage we payTo royal son of a royal lineWho tarries with us to-day!"From room to room of the inn they went,The Wise Men and keeper proud,But not a trace of the One they soughtFound they in that motley crowd."You have other guests?" the Wise Men asked,And the keeper's face flamed red;"But a straggling pair who came so lateThey found neither room nor bed.""My masters," a lad said timidly,"As I gave the cattle feed,Came creeping down to the stable doorA woman in sorest need."I made her a bed in the manger low,At head of the oxen mild,And, masters, I heard a moan of pain,Then the cry of a new-born child.""A prince shalt thou be!" the Wise Men cried,"For hearkening to that moan,A prince shalt thou be for succor givenWhen the King came to His own!""Nay, I'm but a stable-boy," he smiled,With his eager eyes aglow;"No King, but a little naked child,Sleeps out in my manger low."Hast come to these homes of ours, O Christ,In quest of a meal or bed,And found no welcoming cheer set forth,Nor place to pillow thine head?Give us a heart aflame with love,Filled with a pity divine,Then come Thou as beggar, or babe, or king,The best that we have is Thine.

SOLDIERS ALL

They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town;Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gownConfiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair."We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful careOf all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's callWent sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!""Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord,A host is praying for the men, I want to say a wordFor those who stay at home and wait – the mothers and the wives.Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!"The Bishop prayed: "Our cause is good, our quarrel right and just;The God of battles is our God, and in His arm we trust."He never got that prayer of his in any printed book,It came straight from the heart of him, his deep voice, how it shook!And something glistened in his eye and down his flushed cheek ran.I like a Bishop best of all when he is just a man."Amen!" they cried out louder still, but I bent low my head;"Dear Christ, be kind to hearts that break for loved ones dying – dead;Keep close to women folk who wait beset with anxious fears,The wan-faced watchers whose dim eyes are filled with bitter tears!I know, dear Christ, how hard it is," I whispered as I kneeled,"For long ago my bonnie boy fell on the battlefield.Find comfort for the broken hearts of those weighed down to-dayWith love and longing for the ones in danger far away.""They will not shrink," the Bishop prayed, "nor fear a soldier's grave;Nay, each man will acquit himself like Briton true and brave.God of battles, march with them, keep guard by day and night,And arm them with a trust in Thee when they go up to fight!""Amen!" a sound of muffled sobs. The deep voice trembled some,But I, with hot tears on my face, prayed hard for those at home:"Keep watch and ward of all that wait in fever of unrest,Who said good-bye and let them go, the ones they loved the best!O comfort, Christ! Above the din of martial clamor, hark!The saddest sound in all God's world – a crying in the dark."

AS GOOD AS A GIRL

Oh, a big broad-shouldered fellow was Ben,And homely as you would see,Such an awkward walker and stammering talker,And as bashful as he could be.The son of a lone, widowed mother was he,And right well did he act his part,A giant at sowing and reaping and mowing —His farm was the pride of his heart.His mother depended on his strong arm;In the cottage so neat and trimHe kept the fires burning, did sweeping and churning —Oh, the odd jobs saved up for him!"My Ben's a comfort," she said every day,With pride that made his head whirl,"As handy at sweeping as he is at reaping —Ben is just as good as a girl!""A six-foot fellow to work round the house!We'll call him 'Miss Ben,'" said the girls;But Ben, heaven bless him, never let this distress himTill there came a day when the curlsAnd blue eyes of Gladys, the prettiest girl,And the proudest in all the place,His young heart set beating at every chance meeting —Though she only laughed in his face."I'll have none but a gay and a gallant man" —Her lips took a scornful curl —"Your pride is in hearing your mother declaring,'Ben is just as good as a girl!'"But sweet little Marjory laughed not at Ben;He was homely, awkward, shy,But she liked the fellow whose voice was so mellow,And she smiled as she passed him by.He went to the front when the war broke out,And filled his post like a man;The good-natured giant was bold and defiantAs soon as the battle began.You'd never have thought of the broom and the churn,Nor of the nickname "Miss Ben,"Had you heard his voice cheering, seen his arm clearingA path for his own gallant men.Capt. Benjamin Brooks he came riding homeWhen the war was over and done,As homely and backward, as shy and as awkward,As tender and loyal a son.Now Gladys gave him her sunniest smile —On heroes she ever did dote —And the proud little beauty felt it her dutyTo be kind to this young man of note.But Ben, wise fellow, liked Marjory best;He knew her lips did not curlWhen mother said sweetly, "Ben does work so neatly —He is just as good as a girl!"So he wooed and won this Marjory true,And made her his loving bride,While Gladys she fretted, bemoaned and regrettedThe goal she had missed by her pride.To-day Ben is filling a prominent place,A statesman, honest and bold;He frees the opprest, and he helps the distrest,Wins love, which is better than gold.For the very grandest men you can findIn this great world's busy whirlAre men like my farmer – no praise need be warmerThan "he's just as good as a girl."

FOOL'S LUCK

The Allans o' Airlie they set muckle storeOn ancestry, acres, and siller,Nor cared to remember the good days of yore,Nor grandfather Allan, the miller —The honest old miller."We're wealthy fowk now, tak' oor place wi' the best,"Said the heid o' the Allans, one Dougal,A man whom Dame Fortune had royally blest,Of sensible habits, and frugal —Uncommonly frugal."We're honored by great fowk and wise fowk, now min',O' the kirk each Allan's a pillar —What more could we spier o' a providence kin',Unless 'twere a little more siller —A little more siller."For it's get what ye can, and keep what ye get;Ye'll fin' this an unco' guid motto,We chose it lang syne, and we stick to it yet,Altho' not sae close as we ought to —Not nearly sae close as we ought to."There is ane o' the name is a spendthrift, an ass;The reason tae ye I'll discover:Oor gran'faither marrit an Inverness lass,Juist because he happened to luve her —Foolish mon, he happened to luve her!"And the wild Highland strain is still i' the bluid —'Tis i' Colin, as sure's you're leeving;Ye ken how it is wi' the whole Highland brood —'Tis a' for spending and geeving."Gin ye're freen' o' the clan, why, ask what ye may,Ye'll get o' the best, ay, get double;Gin ye're foe o' the clan, weel, juist gang your wayIf so be ye're no hunting trouble."Brither Colin was daft when a lad at the school,Wi' ways and wi' morals improper,Had high flowing notions – poor family fool,His notions ha' made him a pauper."What owns he? Bare acres a few, and a house,Yet when we, last year, were expectingTwa relatives, ane puir as ony church mouse,Ane freighted wi' wealth, unreflecting,"He spat oot graun' like, 'Sin' ye're ower fond o' pelf'Ye can hae,' said he, 'the rich pairty,But I'll tak' the mon that is puir as mysel'And gie him a welcome right hearty' —A welcome right hearty."Gosh! I had tae lauch at the feckless auld monAs he stood there, his bonnet-strings twirling;Ye'd think he was chief o' a whole Highland clanThat marched to the pibroch's mad skirling."Ah! hot-headed, high-handed, go as you please,

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