Wednesday, 30 May 2018

Evening Brings A’ Hame.


Just a simple Scottish saying,
   Yet it comes to the mind again;
So suggestive it is of rest —
   That evening brings a’ hame.

The thought to the weary toiler,
   Whether, with hand or with brain,
Comes like a whiff of caller air,
   That evening brings a’ hame.

To dwellers on heather-clad hills,
   Or in cities of world-wide fame,
The words have a pleasant echo —
   That evening brings a’ hame.

We stand in a busy street
   When the light begins to wane;
We see the crowd of folk who pass —
   For evening brings a’ hame.

The country children watch for dad,
   They hide in the shady lane
To give him a hearty welcome
   When evening brings a’ hame.

To the tired, but patient mother,
   Whose work seems sordid and plain,
Each duty is glorified
   Since evening brings a’ home.

Now many hearts throughout the world
   With quivering lips exclaim —
“Ah, not to us, O nevermore,
   Will evening bring a’ hame.

To the weary and tempest-tossed,
   Who trust in the Father’s Name,
The Home of Rest is safe and sure,
   Then — evening will bring a’ hame.

JANE THOMSON
Cullycapple, Aghadowey.



Poem: The Witness, 31st May 1918
Image: Fields of Wild Heather on the Highlands by Paul Wolber


Wednesday, 16 May 2018

Strange Facts in War


Only one in the family,
    One loved and only son;
He fell out there on the battle line
    Where noble deeds were done:
Now there is not one.

Six sons were in the home circle;
    Now all of them are gone;
They perished there on the battle line;
    The parents are alone.
Mourning every son.

Twelve sons were in the house at home;
    And there has died not one;
One has the scar of a little wound;
    Yet all have brave deeds done,
And have bright glory won.

How is it, Lord, that such can be?
    That the one loved son is gone,
That all six sons have perished there
    To help the triumph won,
And that twelve brave sons live on?

O, say the parents who have none,
    Amid the tears they shed,
Our sons are wearing crowns of bliss
    In the bright Home overhead;
They live; they are not dead.

R. W. R. RENTOUL.



From The Witness, 16th November 1917.
Image: The Cemetery, √Čtaples, 1919 by John Lavery