When I was but thirteen or so
I went into a golden land,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Took me by the hand.
My father died, my brother too,
They passed like fleeting dreams,
I stood where Popocatapetl
In the sunlight gleams.
I dimly heard the master's voice
And boys far-off at play,--
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had stolen me away.
I walked in a great golden dream
To and fro from school--
Shining Popocatapetl
The dusty streets did rule.
I walked home with a gold dark boy
And never a word I'd say,
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi
Had taken my speech away.
I gazed entranced upon his face
Fairer than any flower--
O shining Popocatapetl
It was thy magic hour:
The houses, people, traffic seemed
Thin fading dreams by day;
Chimborazo, Cotopaxi,
They had stolen my soul away!
_Patrick MacGill_
Patrick MacGill was born in Donegal in 1890. He was the son of
poverty-stricken peasants and, between the ages of 12 and 19, he
worked as farm-servant, drainer, potato-digger, and navvy, becoming
one of the thousands of stray "tramp-laborers" who cross each summer
from Ireland to Scotland to help gather in the crops. Out of his
bitter experiences and the evils of modern industrial life, he wrote
several vivid novels (_The Rat Pit_ is an unforgettable document) and
the tragedy-crammed _Songs of the Dead End_. He joined the editorial
staff of _The Daily Express_ in 1911; was in the British army during
the war; was wounded at Loos in 1915; and wrote his _Soldier Songs_
during the conflict.