The Banshee

As we came down the old boreen,
Rose and I – Rose and I,
At vesper time on Sunday e’en,
We heard a banshee cry!
Beyond the churchyard dim and dark,
‘Neath whispering elms, and yew-trees stark,
Where our star shone-a corpse-like spark-
Against the wintry sky.

We heard and shuddered sick with dread,
Rose and I- Rose and I,
As the shrill keening rang o’erhead
Where cloud-wrack floated high.
Our two young hearts long, sorely tried,
By poverty and love denied
Still waiting for some favouring tide,
And now! Death come so nigh.

‘Which of us two is called away
You or I-You or I?”

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The Water-Witch

The little creek went winding down
‘Twixt whispering reeds and small blue flowers,
Singing a pleasant summer song
Of holidays and playtime hours.

We reached it at the noonday hours,
Coming from the scrub-aisles dime and cool,
Laden with ferns and lilies white,
And rested by it’s deepest pool.

And while we watched with drowsy eyes
The shimmering sunlight on the plain,
The water-witch within the stream
Arose and stood between us twain.

She looked on me with scornful eye
And mocking smile that held no mirth;
She knew my simple soul was kin
To the brown, kindly, homely earth.

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The Old Days - And The New

‘Mid wattle scents and sounds of Spring,
The old man, dreaming in his chair,
Is back where skylarks soar and sing
In sunshine, o’er the hills of Clare.
And since all Irishmen have been,
True lovers, since the world began,
A flush still tints his withered cheek
At thoughts of Bessie Quinlevan.

‘Ah Danny, lad, she was the girl,
So fine and straight in all her ways,
The price of every dance and fair,
There’s no such women nowadays!”
Young Danny, plaiting stockwhip thongs,
Smiles o’er his grandsire’s lock of grey,
Rememb’ring with a lovers pride,
The wild-rise grace of Betty Shea.

The old man in his dreams pursues,
Through hurling fields the flying ball,

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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A Song Of Delight

Oh! Have you stolen out, one summer morning
To pick white crocus ‘neath the garden wall,
Or shaken softly the big scented roses
And watched the dew-drops fall?

Or slipt beneath the rail fence, grey with lichen,
And found the little brown path to the creek
In the deep hush of morn when all was silent
And soft airs fanned your cheek?

And caught he subtle scent of earth and mosses,
Of tender water-violets blue and white,
Or heard a little brown bird thrill with rapture,
Deep-hidden out of sight.

Or have you tracked a ‘coachman’s whip’ at noon-day
Through spicy scrub with tropic orchids gay,
Following its mocking ‘whish-h’ with eager footsteps
Until it dies away?

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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West Of Fanny O'Dea's

You’ll not find the name in geography books,
It isn’t marked on the map,
Nor mentioned in atlas or history,
Yet you’ve heard of the place mayhap.
The fairies lurk in the boreens there,
And the scent of the black-thorn haunts the air
Where Atlantic batters the coast of Clare
“West of Fanny O”Dea’s”

Now the old folk tell, in their cheerful chat
By the kitchen fire’s bright glow,
Of hurling matches, or dance or fair,
Of happenings of long ago.
How the heftiest fighters came from there,
Women and men who could do and dare,
From the very heart of the heart of Clare,
West of Fanny O’Dea’s.

From “West o’ Fanny’s” the folk went forth,
To the uttermost parts of the earth;

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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In Winter

Golden and white in the garden walk,
Chrysanthemums gather their bravest show,
‘Mid withered blossom and wilted stalk
Where never a rosebud dares to blow.

For winter is coming icy and stern
And the grasses rank in the paddocks hold
No plumy rushes or waving fern,
No buttercup treasures of fairy gold.

And on the bough of the peach-tree bare
‘Neath the curtained window open thrown,
All in the chill and frosty air
A little brown bird is singing alone.

Sing on little bird, for the sky grows red
And the night wind is rising cold and chill,
And Death is coming with footsteps dread
To the farmhouse under the lonely hill.

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Homesick

I’ve lit the Christmas candle,
As we used to long ago
When it shone through cabin windows
On Holly-hedge and snow.
In this fine new house they’ve built me
That is furnished rich and fair-
But I’m hearing now the breakers rolling round the cliffs of Moher,
And my heart is aching, aching for a breath of Irish air.

The wren boys on St. Stephen’s Day.
Went singin’ up and down
With their poor dead wren and thorn bush,
I heard them through the town.
But to-night down lighted city streets,
I hear the distant band,
And when’er they play ‘our own’ hymns or tune of dear old Ireland,
The poor old foolish heart of me is in another land.

‘Twas a lonely hillside chapel,
Where we tramped to midnight Mass,

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Himself

Last night, when I was listenin’
Alone, to wind and rain,
He took the chair beside me,
Himself - come home again.

His kind blue eyes were smilin’
Beneath his thatch of grey,
He laid his hand on my hand,
The ould sweetheartin’ way.

I pressed my cheek upon it,
Remembering bitterly
The times he faced his daily toil
Without one smile from me.

And yet, his meals were always good,
His clothes well kept and clean,
The neighbours, sure, will tell you,
The splendid wife I’ve been.

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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The Voyage

We planned a glorious voyage, my Captain bold and I,
To sail in bliss on summer seas while halcyon days went by;
And underneath a speckless sky in a little dancing breeze,
We decked our craft with roses, and launched it on the seas.

Yes - we would sail together, my Captain gay and I.
Past miles and miles of blossomed shore, with sheltering harbours nigh;
We would not tempt the trackless seas, nor roam the waters dark,
Les Love, the tricksy pilot, should e’er desert our bark.

Alas! For all our planning, my Captain brave and I,
We drove before a whistling gale beneath a lowering sky;
For the fierce storms came up on us scarce half a league from home,
And flung our crimson roses in the bitter blinding foam.

Silent our lilting love songs, untouched our gay guitar,
As side by side we toil and strive where raging tempests are;
But though in ceaseless labour our earnest days are spent,
A voiceless song is in our souls – a song of glad content.

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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Croquet

In a garden where the may made the straggling fences gay
And the roses cream and scarlet shed their petals on the breeze
Your maiden aunts and I, and you, demure and shy,
Played a sober game of croquet underneath the spreading trees.

Just beyond the garden wall we could hear the merry call
Of the tennis players yonder, flitting gaily in the sun,
But we recked not of their glee, for all too content were we,
And we weren’t flushed and heated when our quiet game was done.

What a picture sweet you made! As you rested in the shade,
Listening to my eager chatter with a glance of grave surprise;
Was it nectar, love, or tea that your white hands poured for me
In the dainty Wedgewood tea-cups that were bluer than your eyes?

Love I know not; this I know, that we parted years ago –
That our paths lie far asunder in the giddy whirl of life,
And the tender vows we made, underneath the spreading shade,
Are a memory half forgotten ‘mid the city’s toil and strife.

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poem by Alice Guerin Crist
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