The Giveaway
Saint Brigid was
A problem child.
Although a lass
Demure and mild,
And one who strove
To please her dad,
Saint Brigid drove
The family mad.
For here’s the fault in Brigid lay:
She would give everything away.
To any soul
Whose luck was out
She’d give her bowl
Of stirabout;
She’d give her shawl,
Divide her purse
With one or all.
And what was worse,
When she ran out of things to give
She’d borrow from a relative.
Her father’s gold,
Her grandsire’s dinner,
She’d hand to cold
And hungry sinner;
Give wine, give meat,
No matter whose;
Take from her feet
The very shoes,
And when her shoes had gone to others,
Fetch forth her sister’s and her mother’s.
She could not quit.
She had to share;
Gave bit by bit
The silverware,
The barnyard geese,
The parlor rug,
Her little
Niece’s christening mug,
Even her bed to those in want,
And then the mattress of her aunt.
An easy touch
For poor and lowly,
She gave so much
And grew so holy
That when she died
Of years and fame,
The countryside
Put on her name,
And still the Isles of Erin fidget
With generous girls named Bride or Brigid.
Well, one must love her.
Nonetheless,
In thinking of her
Givingness,
There’s no denial
She must have been
A sort of trial
Unto her kin.
The moral, too, seems rather quaint.
Who had the patience of a saint,
From evidence presented here?
Saint Brigid? Or her near and dear?
by Phyllis McGinley: “The Love Letters of Phyllis McGinley” (1954)
Note: The subject of the poem is Bridget of Kildare (C.E. 450 - C.E. 523), a Christian lass doing the Lord’s work among the Druids in Ireland.
Phyllis McGinley was born on 21 March 1905 in Ontario, Oregon, United States of America. She became writer of children’s books and a poet. Her works include “Glass Houses” (1946), “A Short Walk from the Station (1951), and “The Love Letters of Phyllis McGinley” (1954). Phyllis McGinley passed on at 72 years of age on 22 February 1978 in New York City, New York, United States of America.
Saint Brigid was
A problem child.
Although a lass
Demure and mild,
And one who strove
To please her dad,
Saint Brigid drove
The family mad.
For here’s the fault in Brigid lay:
She would give everything away.
To any soul
Whose luck was out
She’d give her bowl
Of stirabout;
She’d give her shawl,
Divide her purse
With one or all.
And what was worse,
When she ran out of things to give
She’d borrow from a relative.
Her father’s gold,
Her grandsire’s dinner,
She’d hand to cold
And hungry sinner;
Give wine, give meat,
No matter whose;
Take from her feet
The very shoes,
And when her shoes had gone to others,
Fetch forth her sister’s and her mother’s.
She could not quit.
She had to share;
Gave bit by bit
The silverware,
The barnyard geese,
The parlor rug,
Her little
Niece’s christening mug,
Even her bed to those in want,
And then the mattress of her aunt.
An easy touch
For poor and lowly,
She gave so much
And grew so holy
That when she died
Of years and fame,
The countryside
Put on her name,
And still the Isles of Erin fidget
With generous girls named Bride or Brigid.
Well, one must love her.
Nonetheless,
In thinking of her
Givingness,
There’s no denial
She must have been
A sort of trial
Unto her kin.
The moral, too, seems rather quaint.
Who had the patience of a saint,
From evidence presented here?
Saint Brigid? Or her near and dear?
by Phyllis McGinley: “The Love Letters of Phyllis McGinley” (1954)
Note: The subject of the poem is Bridget of Kildare (C.E. 450 - C.E. 523), a Christian lass doing the Lord’s work among the Druids in Ireland.
Phyllis McGinley was born on 21 March 1905 in Ontario, Oregon, United States of America. She became writer of children’s books and a poet. Her works include “Glass Houses” (1946), “A Short Walk from the Station (1951), and “The Love Letters of Phyllis McGinley” (1954). Phyllis McGinley passed on at 72 years of age on 22 February 1978 in New York City, New York, United States of America.
