Winifred M. Letts was born in Ireland in 1887, and her early work concerned itself almost entirely with the humor and pathos found in her immediate surroundings. Her Songs from Leinster (1913) is her most characteristic collection; a volume full of the poetry of simple people and humble souls. Although she has called herself "a back-door sort of bard," she is particularly effective in the old ballad measure and in her quaint portrayal of Irish peasants rather than of Gaelic kings and pagan heroes. She has also written three novels, five books for children, a later volume of Poems of the War and, during the conflict, served as a nurse at various base hospitals.
Poor Mary Byrne is dead,
An' all the world may see
Where she lies upon her bed
Just as fine as quality.
She lies there still and white,
With candles either hand
That'll guard her through the night:
Sure she never was so grand.
She holds her rosary,
Her hands clasped on her breast.
Just as dacint as can be
In the habit she's been dressed.
In life her hands were red
With every sort of toil,
But they're white now she is dead,
An' they've sorra mark of soil.
The neighbours come and go,
They kneel to say a prayer,
I wish herself could know
Of the way she's lyin' there.
It was work from morn till night,
And hard she earned her bread:
But I'm thinking she's a right
To be aisy now she's dead.
When other girls were gay,
At wedding or at fair,
She'd be toiling all the day,
Not a minyit could she spare.
An' no one missed her face,
Or sought her in a crowd,
But to-day they throng the place
Just to see her in her shroud.
The creature in her life
Drew trouble with each breath;
She was just "poor Jim Byrne's wife"—
But she's lovely in her death.
I wish the dead could see
The splendour of a wake,
For it's proud herself would be
Of the keening that they make.
Och! little Mary Byrne,
You welcome every guest,
Is it now you take your turn
To be merry with the rest?
I'm thinking you'd be glad,
Though the angels make your bed,
Could you see the care we've had
To respect you—now you're dead.
I saw the spires of Oxford
As I was passing by,
The grey spires of Oxford
Against the pearl-grey sky.
My heart was with the Oxford men
Who went abroad to die.
The years go fast in Oxford,
The golden years and gay,
The hoary Colleges look down
On careless boys at play.
But when the bugles sounded war
They put their games away.
They left the peaceful river,
The cricket-field, the quad,
The shaven lawns of Oxford,
To seek a bloody sod—
They gave their merry youth away
For country and for God.
God rest you, happy gentlemen,
Who laid your good lives down,
Who took the khaki and the gun
Instead of cap and gown.
God bring you to a fairer place
Than even Oxford town.
