Poem – Rouge Bouquet

In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet 

There is a new-made grave to-day, 

Built by never a spade nor pick 

Yet covered with earth ten metres thick. 

There lie many fighting men, 

   Dead in their youthful prime, 

Never to laugh nor love again 

   Nor taste the Summertime. 

For Death came flying through the air 

And stopped his flight at the dugout stair, 

Touched his prey and left them there, 

   Clay to clay. 

He hid their bodies stealthily 

In the soil of the land they fought to free 

   And fled away. 

Now over the grave abrupt and clear 

   Three volleys ring; 

And perhaps their brave young spirits hear 

   The bugle sing: 

“Go to sleep! 

Go to sleep! 

Slumber well where the shell screamed and fell. 

Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor, 

You will not need them any more. 

Danger’s past; 

Now at last, 

Go to sleep!” 
There is on earth no worthier grave 

To hold the bodies of the brave 

Than this place of pain and pride 

Where they nobly fought and nobly died. 

Never fear but in the skies 

Saints and angels stand 

Smiling with their holy eyes 

On this new-come band. 

St. Michael’s sword darts through the air 

And touches the aureole on his hair 

As he sees them stand saluting there, 

   His stalwart sons; 

And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill 

Rejoice that in veins of warriors still 

   The Gael’s blood runs. 

And up to Heaven’s doorway floats, 

   From the wood called Rouge Bouquet, 

A delicate cloud of buglenotes 

   That softly say: 



Comrades true, born anew, peace to you! 

Your souls shall be where the heroes are 

And your memory shine like the morning-star. 

Brave and dear, 

Shield us here. 


Poem – Roses

I went to gather roses and twine them in a ring,

For I would make a posy, a posy for the King.

I got an hundred roses, the loveliest there be,

From the white rose vine and the pink rose bush and from the red 

rose tree.

But when I took my posy and laid it at His feet

I found He had His roses a million times more sweet.

There was a scarlet blossom upon each foot and hand,

And a great pink rose bloomed from His side for the healing of the 


Now of this fair and awful King there is this marvel told,

That He wears a crown of linked thorns instead of one of gold.

Where there are thorns are roses, and I saw a line of red,

A little wreath of roses around His radiant head.

A red rose is His Sacred Heart, a white rose is His face,

And His breath has turned the barren world to a rich and flowery 


He is the Rose of Sharon, His gardener am I,

And I shall drink His fragrance in Heaven when I die. 

Poem – Listen My Beautiful One

‘Listen, my beautiful one ‘, says Shri Hari, ‘I won’t ever leave your place!

There’s no girl like you at all with whose garland of flowers

Would I be tied!

‘Listen, my beautiful one!’ says Shri Hari, ‘I won’t ever leave your place!’

I am the lord with garland of creepers and you, a delicate flower vine,

I will water you with the nectar of my eyes,

With love will I enclose you and tend you

Holding you in my strong arms!

‘Listen, my beautiful one!’ says Shri Hari, ‘I won’t ever leave your place!

How lucky you are, my lovely one, and how fortunate! 

Is it because you have mastered some magic charm,

That I, who can untie the bonds of the fourteen worlds,

Am tied with your garland of flowers?

‘Listen my beautiful one,’ says Shri Hari, ‘I won’t ever leave your place!
I plead, proud one, please comply! 

Never ever will I leave your place, I swear!’ 

Narsaiyya’s Lord, brave and gallant

Passionately indulged in the battle of Love!

‘Listen my beautiful one, ‘ says Shri Hari, ‘I won’t ever leave your place!’