The Inner Room · The Irish Colonel · The Blind Archer

The Inner Room

It is mine—the little chamber,
  Mine alone.
I had it from my forbears
  Years agone.
Yet within its walls I see
A most motley company,
And they one and all claim me
  As their own.

There’s one who is a soldier
  Bluff and keen;
Single-minded, heavy-fisted,
  Rude of mien.
He would gain a purse or stake it,
He would win a heart or break it,
He would give a life or take it,
  Conscience-clean.

And near him is a priest
  Still schism-whole;
He loves the censer-reek
  And organ-roll.
He has leanings to the mystic,
Sacramental, eucharistic;
And dim yearnings altruistic
  Thrill his soul.

There’s another who with doubts
  Is overcast;
I think him younger brother
  To the last.
Walking wary stride by stride,
Peering forwards anxious-eyed,
Since he learned to doubt his guide
  In the past.

And ’mid them all, alert,
  But somewhat cowed,
There sits a stark-faced fellow,
  Beetle-browed,
Whose black soul shrinks away
From a lawyer-ridden day,
And has thoughts he dare not say
  Half avowed.

There are others who are sitting,
  Grim as doom,
In the dim ill-boding shadow
  Of my room.
Darkling figures, stern or quaint,
Now a savage, now a saint,
Showing fitfully and faint
  Through the gloom.

And those shadows are so dense,
  There may be
Many—very many—more
  Than I see.
They are sitting day and night
Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;
And they wrangle and they fight
  Over me.

If the stark-faced fellow win,
  All is o’er!
If the priest should gain his will
  I doubt no more!
But if each shall have his day,
I shall swing and I shall sway
In the same old weary way
  As before.

The Irish Colonel

Said the king to the colonel,
‘The complaints are eternal,
  That you Irish give more trouble
     Than any other corps.’

Said the colonel to the king,
‘This complaint is no new thing,
  For your foemen, sire, have made it
     A hundred times before.’

The Blind Archer

Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,
  Shooting down at the ballroom floor;
He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,
  And oh! but he wounded her sore.
     ‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that!
     Hi, Love, what would you be at?’
        No word would he say,
        But he flew on his way,
For the little boy’s busy, and how could he stay?

Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport
  At the soberest club in Pall Mall;
He winged an old veteran drinking his port,
  And down that old veteran fell.
     ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!
     Hi, Love, what would you be at?
        This cannot be right!
        It’s ludicrous quite!’
But it’s no use to argue, for Love’s out of sight.

A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart
  Was planning a celibate vow;
But the boy’s random arrow has sunk in his heart,
  And the cell is an empty one now.
     ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!
     Hi, Love, what would you be at?
        He is not for you,
        He has duties to do.’
‘But I am his duty,’ quoth Love as he flew.

The king sought a bride, and the nation had hoped
  For a queen without rival or peer.
But the little boy shot, and the king has eloped
  With Miss No-one on Nothing a year.
     ‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that!
     Hi, Love, what would you be at?
        What an impudent thing
        To make game of a king!’
‘But I’m a king also,’ cried Love on the wing.

Little boy Love grew pettish one day;
  ‘If you keep on complaining,’ he swore,
‘I’ll pack both my bow and my quiver away,
  And so I shall plague you no more.’
     ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that!
     Hi, Love, what would you be at?
        You may ruin our ease,
        You may do what you please,
But we can’t do without you, you dear little tease!’