The Hermit
by George Albert Leddy
THIS IS THE TALE THE HERMIT TOLD
TO HIS DOG HIS GUN AND HIS KNIFE
OF A LOVE A HATE AND A BITTER WRONG
A DEATH AND A WASTED LIFE
The Hermit with a wrinkled brow, and weather-beaten face;
His unkempt beard, his knotted hair, his slow and weary pace.
Now, in his cabin, dark and cold, no loving voice to cheer;
He looks back o’er his wasted life, he knows the end is near.
He sees the many happy days, and loved-ones he has known;
He sees the many sorrows,
in the swift years that have flown.
His only pals: his faithful dog, his rifle, and his knife;
And there, alone, he tells them of a lonely, wasted life.
Ah, yes, I’ll tell to you a tale; a tale you’ve never heard.
I know you’ll understand me, for there’s truth in every word.
I’ll start back in my younger days; the days I knew but joy.
The Hermit, old and haggard now, was then a fair-haired boy.
And loved a winsome Little Miss, with eyes of heaven’s blue;
And then, one day, our Country called
for noble sons, and true.
With sword and musket by my side,
I marched away to war.
With kisses sweet, she vowed she’d wait
for me ‘till all was o’er.
Then came the day on battlefields,
‘mid deadly shot and shell;
Where comrades fought for victory,
till ‘neath their flag they fell.
I’ve seen them dying on the field;
I’ve listened to them pray
For glory and for liberty, while life’s blood ebbed away.
And there, my brother, whom I loved, was ever by my side;
Until one day I missed him,
and I thought that he had died.
With blinding tears and aching heart,
I sought him ‘mong the slain.
I thought of Mother, old and gray;
she’d wait for him in vain.
But when the cry of “Sacred Peace!” went ringing through the land;
And home again, our soldier boys, a gallant little band;
And ‘though our spirits seemed most gay,
much sorrow filled our mind;
The thoughts of struggles, hard and cruel, and dear-ones left behind.
But, lo, the brother once beloved, and whom I’d long thought dead;
Deserted from the rank-and-file,
and from Old Glory fled.
He told my sweetheart how I’d fell; my wish before I died:
That he would come back home again and claim her for his bride.
And for my sake, my sweetheart dear, my brother’s bride became.
And for a long and dreary year, she suffered pain and shame.
Starvation stared her in the face,
and wrecked her life as well.
Deserting coward, heartless cur; he made her life a hell.
His love for drink had made him blind; a bum, a low-down bum.
He lost his pride; he cursed his life; he sold his soul for rum.
He cursed and beat that faithful wife,
the girl he stole from me;
Until her soul, from living-hell,
by death, at last, was free.
And when I heard the story of the misery and shame,
My soul cried out for vengeance;
and a madness filled my brain.
To think that he, my brother whom
I’d loved since childhood play,
Would wreck the life of one I’d loved;
I swore that he must pay.
I sought him, and I found him, in a dismal den-of-sin.
He greeted me with malice;
a scoff, a sneer, a grin.
He taunted me, and told me, in a voice of drunken scorn;
How he had won my love from me; my heart, with grief, was torn.
And like the lion held for years
seeks freedom from the cage;
And like the jungle tiger tears
the small prey in his rage;
And like the hissing serpent
strikes the poison to his foe;
And like the damned that suffer all the tortures down below.
I lived it all, in one short space, from God and world apart.
He’d struck the poison from his soul into my very heart.
To turn my brain; to drive me mad; to fill my veins with fire;
To break the bars that bound me to a coward, thief, and liar.
I did not wait to hear his words but with a savage cry, I roared,
“You killed the girl I loved and for the crime you die!”
He drew a pistol from his breast;
the drunken, slinking cur.
I fought him then for life or death;
I fought him then for her.
I grasped the villain by the throat;
no knife or gun for me.
He struggled like a trapped coyote;
vain efforts to get free.
He held the pistol in his hand; a shot, a fiendish yell;
A moan, a groan, and then a curse;
he, by his own hand, fell.
I saw him lying at my feet;
I heard his dying prayer.
He seemed to me a savage beast; a lion in its lair.
I heard a gasp; his soul then fled; his worthless life was o’er.
I left him there, a lifeless heap,
in his blood upon the floor.
And then I fled, and since that day, the Law has pressed me hard.
I take the lead, they follow suit;
I hold the winning card.
I hid away, they lost the trail;
and that was years ago.
And though they search, they find me not; the truth they’ll never know.
For Father-time, the reaper sure, who always wins the race;
He comes, and yet I do not fear;
I’ll meet him face-to-face.
And should my soul departing from this wasted weary life,
Reach realms above, I there will meet, she, who’d have been my wife.
My mother, whom in sorrow died, is kneeling by her side;
My comrades from the battlefield,
I’ll meet again with pride;
My brother, whom my memory hates since at my feet he fell,
I’ll meet no more unless my soul sinks to that brimstone hell.
The Hermit now from memories past;
his heart is filled with pain.
His whole long-life, his wasted-life, he sees it all again.
He sees the happiness he knew in days that’s long gone-bye.
He sees the misery brought by hate;
he knows that he must die.
He bids his dog, his loyal friend,
good-bye for ever more.
He prays for God’s forgiveness, and then his life is o’er.
Next day, the Sheriff finds the door,
but justice has them barred;
The Hermit’s dead upon the floor;
the old dog standing guard.
***