BESSIE IRELAN

BESSIE IRELAN was a queen,
Regal brow and dusky hair,
Deep blue eyes and queenly air,
Good and kind as she was fair—
Sweeter maid was never seen.

Bessie Irelan was a queen
All who knew her freely owned;
But the crown was only loaned.
Bessie Irelan was dethroned
On the turn of seventeen.

I am older now than when
To her crown I bent the knee,
And it drove me wild to see
How she queened it over me,
How she ruled the hearts of men.

It is twenty years to-day
Since she gave her crown in trust
To a sordid soul of rust,
One who trailed it in the dust
Ere the year had passed away.

’Twere a better fate by half
That the village bell had tolled
For the maiden pale and cold,
Than to be with links of gold
Chained to such a golden calf.

Soul of poesy and fire,
Dreeing weary years of pain,
Galled and wounded by the chain—
Have they dragged her all in vain
Through their sordid lanes of mire?

Yesterday, the village bell
By the ancient sexton rung,
Counted with its iron tongue
Thirty-seven, as it swung,
Slowly creaking to her knell.

And to-day they take her where
She will never see the sun.
Now her earthly race is done
Has a better life begun?
Shall I ever know her there?