From The Washington Times, June 26, 1913. By Eugene Geary. The good owld names are dyin’ out We called our children dear; No wonder that we’re talked about— It’s worser every year. We used to have the names iv saints An’ marthyrs at our call; To mention them now brings complaints— Och, that’s the worst iv all! There’s Pat an’ Bridget Finnegan, Who called their daughter Maude, An’ may I never sin again, Their youngest b’y is Claude. An’ when me next-dure neighbor’s wife Prisints a young gossoon, He’s doomed to travel all thro’ life As Percy George McCune. Besides, there’s Pether Rafferty, Who hates the owld green sod, Tho’ tisn’t many years since he Was carryin’ the hod. He an’ his wife—‘twould make ye wild— Announce, wid pride an’ glee, The marriage of their only child, Miss Genevieve Maree. The names iv grand owld Irish Kings We’ll never hear them more; Instead they have new-fangled things— Begob, it makes me sore. The hayroes, saints an’ marthyrs, too, No longer have the call. Our race will soon be lost to view— Sure, that’s the worst iv all.
Category: The Washington Times
-
The Owld Names
-
The Tender Passion
From The Washington Times, May 29, 1913. By Eugene Geary. Pat Clancy’s in love! He’s a sight to behold; An’ his life—he wants some wan to fill it. Instead o’ being crowded wid blessin’s untold, ’Tis as empty an’ dry as a skillet. A short while ago he was gay as a lark, An’ the boss was his wages advancin’; Till he strolled of a Sunday to see Celtic Park An’ join in the games an’ the dancin’. ’Twas when he took part in an eight-handed reel And danced, as they all tell me, so splendid, His head remained clear, not to mention his heel, But his heart was clean gone when ’twas ended. A pair o’ blue eyes was Pat Clancy’s downfall; ’Tis a sorrowful mortal they’ve made him. He’s cut all his friends an’ relations an’ all, An’ he won’t take a drink if you paid him. The boss of his gang, from the town o’ Kanturk Don’t know what to make out o’ Clancy; Says the divil himself couldn’t keep him to work Wid sighin’ for the girl of his fancy. An’ ’tis all for a purty young colleen from Clare— She hails from the border of Ennis. Well, if that’s what’s called love, for my part I declare Sure I’d rather have spinal magennis.
-
Back to the Hotel
From The Washington Times, May 22, 1913. By Helen Rowland. I know a little bachelor, with lots and lots of pelf And all the pennies that he gets he spends upon himself; But oh, how he can moralize! And oh, how he does pine For the “sweet old-fashioned woman,” and extol the “clinging vine!” And when, each night, he meets “the boys,” where golden beakers foam He cries in tones dramatic, “Woman’s place is in the home!” I know a lot of lovely maids, oh quite a score or more And each would make a charming wife for this same bachelor. But the “horrid things” insist on trotting downtown every day And slaving in an office—just to keep the wolf away. They should be darning someone’s socks or knitting baby-shoes. Their place is “in the home,” of course—somebody’s home—but whose? I know a girl of scarce sixteen, who rouses me to scorn She never stays at home at all, but trudges off each morn And pounds a little type-machine—oh, “just to pass the time”— And help her mother pay the rent. Such folly is sublime! Some one should really tell her to her pretty little face That girls were made for “ornaments.” The home is woman’s place! I live, myself, within a big luxurious hotel; And, when I want my dusting done, I simply ring a bell. I never do a single thing, but scribble all day long. I know, alas, this “idle” life is very, very wrong. I should be doing fancy work, or polishing my nails. But how I’d pay my bills that way—Well, there my fancy fails! What are the women coming to—to go at such a pace! The “sweet old-fashioned girl” sat ‘round and just massaged her face, Worked cushion-tops, and curled her hair, and gossiped by the hour; But lo, the modern woman goes at sixty-five horse-power! Ah, well, I trust that some of them will read this little “pome,” And realize, at last, that “Woman’s place is in the home!” Then Katy will not come back each day to put away my clothes, And who will write my quips for me—well, Heaven only knows! The typist and the laundry-maid, the waitress and the clerk Will stay at home, like ladies then, and do “a woman’s work.” And all the men will gather where the golden beakers foam— And wonder who on earth will do the work outside the home?
-
Reflections of a Bachelor Girl
From The Washington Times, April 5, 1913. To wed or not to wed, that is the question. Whether ’tis better, after all, to marry And be cajoled and bullied by a husband, Or to take up stenography or clerking, And slave, alas! for SOME ONE ELSE’S husband? To love—to wed—and by a wedding end The struggles and the thousand petty cares That “slaves” are heir to—’tis a rare vocation Devoutly to be wished for! To love—to wed— To wed—perchance DIVORCE! Aye, there’s the rub! For in that dream of bliss what jolts may come When we have cast aside our little jobs, Must make us wary. There’s the sorry thought That makes so many spinsters hesitate; For who would bear the long, eternal grind, Th’ employer’s jokes, the chief clerk’s contumely, The insolence of office boys, the smoke Of last week’s stogies clinging to the hair, When she herself might quickly end it all By GETTING MARRIED? Who would not exchange A dingy office for a kitchenette— A keyboard for a cook stove or a cradle— But that the dread of something worse to come After the honeymoon—that life of CHANCE From whose dark bourne so many have returned By way of Reno—fills us with dismay, And makes us rather bear the jobs we have Than fly to evils that we know not of? Thus cowardice makes spinsters of—so many!
-
Ballad of the Game’s Break
From The Washington Times, February 14, 1913. By Grantland Rice. The grey wind sings its song of hate— The white snow leads a spectral dance; We seek—but find no Open Gate Through which to make a last advance; Lost—on the Threshold of Romance— But not as heroes come to die— Just say for us—they took a chance And lost—without an alibi. The dusk grows deeper where we wait And homeward speed one final glance— ’Tis easy here to curse the Fate— The luck which broke us—lance by lance; Around us creep the endless trance Of silent heart and sightless eye— ’Tis but our score—we took a chance And lost—without an alibi. So, Scorer of the Final Slate— Last Marker of each circumstance— When at the Road’s end, soon or late, We stand before the mystic manse— Across the limitless expanse This is enough—from hell to sky— If you should write—“He took a chance And lost—without an alibi.”