MARKSTOWN

MARKSTOWN

Markstown, the ancient, of monastic fame,
As Kilmakevit, where in other days,
From Druid lips arose the hymn of praise
To gods that bore not great Jehovah’s name;
Who shall dispute thy true and rightful claim,
Thou quiet hamlet, to the song I raise,
Weak though, contrasted to the native lays
Of thine own poet, in his village “hame,”
Thou speakest to us by thy Souterrain
Of those old times when manners were but rude,
And in thy churchyard, now a garden, fain
We’d name the dust, and bowed in thoughtful mood
The past up conjure, with its lowly train
Of joys and griefs and simple fortitude.

Thou old world spot, where once the laird enjoyed
The fortune won through Scotia’s kindred dames,
And left his Mark deep in succeeding names,
A mark a hundred years have not destroyed,
From out thy walls some spirit of the void,
Some great “Auld Nummer” rises and exclaims,
“Bend what is in thee to the noblest aims,
Sing long, sing truth, to pleased world or annoyed.”
No unbelieving Thomas was the man,
To whom was Given the poet’s vision fair,
Who men as well as lines could ably scan,
Could strike the harp, and lilt the tuneful air.
Oh, Markstown! Old, secluded, in God’s plan,
Liked with the past, what doth the future bear?

James Loughridge August 1917

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