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                               THE FLAG

                            AND OTHER POEMS

                                 1918

                                  BY

                          AMY REDPATH RODDICK

                        (_All rights reserved_)

                               Montreal

                          JOHN DOUGALL & SON




CONTENTS.



                                  PAGE

THE BRITISH LANDS                    5

THE FLAG                             7

ENGLAND’S OLDEST COLONY              9

IN FORT-BOUND METZ                  11

THE CALM THAT COMES WITH YEARS      13

GOING WEST                          15

PERFECT IN THY PROMISE              18

ARMAGEDDON                          19

THE FAIRIES                         20

THE SOLDIERS                        21

NO TEARS                            22

“MON REPOS”                         22

“AS WE FORGIVE”                     23

THE CREW                            24

IN A TRAIN                          25

THE BALLAD OF A BUGABOO             26

OUR ART                             31

ON READING SOME IMAGIST VERSES      33

THE MIND OF THE MYSTIC              34

A MONTREAL LULLABY                  35

L’ESPERANCE                         36

MY LAKE                             37

A SCIENTIFIC PUZZLE                 38

THE GOOD OLD DAYS                   40

AT LENNOX                           41

THE FLOWER OF TRUE HAPPINESS        42

THE MOUNTAIN TOP                                                      44

CHARITY                                                               46




THE BRITISH LANDS.


    The tie that binds the British lands
      Is never spun of tyrant’s might;
    Of fair replies to just demands,
      Of compromise whenever right
    Is spun the fibre of its strands,
      A mighty Empire to unite.

    A symbol is our gracious King
      Of British unity of heart,
    A simple man to whom we cling,
      Of all good men the counterpart.
    We sing to God to “Save the King,”
      And mean thereby ourselves in part.

    The people of the British lands
      Are masters of their future fate,
    By effort of their mind and hands
      They glorify their Empire State,
    And, as the bud of thought expands,
      Can make new laws by calm debate.

    The British Empire, may it be
      The nucleus of that larger league,
    Uniting every land and sea,
      Eschewing wars and false intrigue,
    May common sense and kindness be
      The crowning glory of that league!




THE FLAG.


    Canada! where is thy flag,
      Welding race and race together?
    Union Jack, that wondrous rag,
      Dear to those who’ve trod the heather,
    Dear to those who love the rose,
      Blending Irish cross and nation
    With the crosses of old foes
      In a just and fair relation,
    Bears no emblem of the men,
      First to cross the stormy ocean,
    Bringing faith and plough and pen,
      First to know with deep emotion,
    Canada! thy name, as home.
      True, provincial arms commingle
    On thy flag o’er ships that roam;
      In their stead an emblem single,
    Maple leaf of golden hue,
      Would announce to all more proudly
    Whence thy ships their anchors drew;
      Would announce to all more loudly,
    Canada! thy nation’s life;
      And on land, when bells are ringing
    To acclaim the end of strife,
      When with joy each heart is singing;
    Canada! is this thy flag?
      Welding race and race together,
    Waving from each roof and crag,
      East and West, one nation ever!




ENGLAND’S OLDEST COLONY.


    [A]Newfoundland is proud to be
    England’s oldest colony!
    Loving her dear motherland,
    By her side she takes her stand,
    Devon, Scotch and Irish stock,
    Sturdy as their seagirt rock,
    Leave their homes and leave their boats,
    Don the khaki- coats.
    Newfoundland has fought and bled,
    Far and wide her fame has spread,
    Newfoundland is proud to be
    England’s oldest colony!

    Nine fair sisters in one home,
    With the North Pole on its dome,
    Facing both the East and West,
    And a friendly State abreast,
    Smile upon the lonely one.
    They have done as she has done,
    Fought and bled in freedom’s cause,
    Won like her the world’s applause.
    Will she join her home to theirs?
    No, her head in scorn she rears,
    Newfoundland is proud to be
    England’s oldest colony!

    But the offer’s most sincere;
    And the offer’s always there;
    Newfoundland may change her mind,
    And in time she too may find,
    Burdens shared are light to bear,
    Triumphs shared are doubly dear,
    She may gladly join the sheaf
    Bound around by maple leaf,
    Knowing well she still may boast,
    Answering her sisters’ toast:
    “Newfoundland is proud to be
    England’s oldest colony!”

 [A] The name of “Newfoundland” is never pronounced by its inhabitants
 or their neighbors of the Maritime Provinces with the accent on the
 middle syllable, as is the usage elsewhere. It is pronounced as though
 written “Newf’n’land,” with the principal stress on the last syllable.




IN FORT-BOUND METZ.

July 26th, 1914.


    Neat uniformed, with close cropped head and fierce moustache,
    Near us they dined one July day in fort-bound Metz.
    We could not catch their words; but we could see and feel
    Their strong excitement, breaking forth, then held in check,
    Then breaking forth afresh as some new health was drunk.
    The joy, imprinted on their faces, spread to ours.
    We laughed in turn as they; but knew not why we laughed.
    It was indeed a merry meal in which we shared,
    That July day, in fort-bound Metz.
    Next day, in France, we were to know at what we laughed
    With those large built, full blooded German men of rank,
    For when we asked a grieving woman why she wept,
    She sobbed: “Because the Germans will make war on France!”




THE CALM THAT COMES WITH YEARS.


    I cannot write of turmoil, I cannot write of strife,
    Long since has gone the passion, I used to think was life.
    A calmness rests upon me, a calm I cannot break,
    Though worlds are trembling round me and freedom is at stake.

    Because I have no sorrows, because my heart’s at rest,
    I cannot weep with others, whose hearts are not so blest;
    I tremble for no hero upon the fields of France,
    I cannot curse the Nero who planned this gory dance.

    Though woman fast is winning her place in Council Halls,
    By work where talent leads her, by work where mercy calls,
    I feel no keen elation to know her triumph’s near,
    A triumph most unselfish, a heavier weight to bear.

    The calm that rests upon me, the calm that comes with years,
    Suggests that man’s impatience is the cause of most he fears,
    Suggests that war’s upheaval is but the anvil clink,
    The welding by the Forger of yet another link
    In that great chain of progress that binds successive time,
    From chaos on to order, and then to heights sublime!




GOING WEST.


        A pulsing silence shrouds me round
        Like waves one feels, but hears no sound,
        Then slowly, as from realms above,
        There come soft whispered words of love.

        And something presses on my heart,
        Of my own self it seems a part,
        So very close I feel--her head--
        And now I know she is not dead!

        I try to break the secret charm
        That weighs upon my nerveless arm,
        I want to hold my love so close
        She will not wander whilst I doze.

        I think I fell asleep,
        The silence seemed more deep,
        I could not catch the beat
        The noiseless waves repeat.

        Again there comes that soundless sound,
        The heavy, ceaseless, rythmic pound.
        Is it the throb of worlds alive