The Poet of the Dago

Author(s): Katharine Tynan and T. A. Daly

Source: Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review, Vol. 2, No. 7 (Sep., 1913), pp. 234-246
Published by: Irish Province of the Society of Jesus
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/30082948
Accessed: 27/05/2010 14:06

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of JSTOR's Terms and Conditions of Use, available at
http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp. JSTOR's Terms and Conditions of Use provides, in part, that unless
you have obtained prior permission, you may not download an entire issue of a journal or multiple copies of articles, and you
may use content in the JSTOR archive only for your personal, non-commercial use.

Please contact the publisher regarding any further use of this work. Publisher contact information may be obtained at
http://www.jstor.org/action/showPublisher?publisherCode=ipsj.

Each copy of any part of a JSTOR transmission must contain the same copyright notice that appears on the screen or printed
page of such transmission.

JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of
content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms
of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org.

Irish Province of the Society of Jesus is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to
Studies: An Irish Quarterly Review.

http://www.jstor.org
20`. Studies. [SEPT.,

THE POET OF THE DAGO.

By KATHARINE TYNAN.
SoI1E three years ago I was lunching an American publisher at
the Lyceum Club when he asked me: "Do you know the
poetry of T. A. Daly ?" He asked it with the glint of the eye,
the half-laugh that accompany the remembrance of something
merry and tender. I confessed that, while I knew the work of
various Dalys, I did not know T. A. Daly's. " Oh, but you
"
shall," he said; you must." A few weeks after his return two
little green volumes labelled, respectively, Carmiva and
Canzoni reached me.
Well, life was somewhat unsettled with me at the time. I had
digged up my roots from where they had set but lightly: and I
was not yet aware that I was going to set them down firmly in
the soil where they had begun to grow. I was not greatly
tempted by the prospect of American dialect poetry. Humorous
poetry I find to miss fire, nearly always : and since I had been
young enough to delight in Bret Harte a good deal of water had
flowed under the bridges quite sufficient, indeed, to wash away
some early enthusiasms, and to make me more exacting about
what amuses nie.
At the time, all mybooks were " warehoused " with a good
many others of the unnecessary things by which we fetter our
selves who have no abiding city. Still, books and other things
accrued as we moved from place to place. Somehow or other,
Carmina and Canzoni were not shed on our pilgrimage: and
that is something for which I am for ever grateful. The books
came back to Ireland with us a600g a miscellaneous lot, were
huddled away somewhere or other, till one day a young
Columbus was navigating the attic in search of-a school book,
perhaps and discovered-The Fortunate Isles.
1913. The Poet of the Dago. 235
Down came that young person, shrieking as he ran, in an
ecstasy which was made up of delight and laughter:
"To-day ees come from Eetaly,
A boy ees leave een Rome,
An' he ees stop an' speak weeth me.
I weesh he stay at home.

He stop an' say "Hallo" to me,

An' w'en he standin' dere,
I smal da smal of Eetaly
Steel steeckin' een bees hair,
Dat corn weeth heem across da sea,
An' een da clo'es he wear."

That was our very first introduction to T. A. Daly. We read

him uninterruptedlyall that evening. The household soon knew
him from cover to cover. And now he occupies the position,
which any poet might envy, since a household is a people in
little, of being a poet of the com600 speech which is secret and
sacred to the household, for which the stranger has not the key.
Some considerable time later came Madrigali to the young
Columbus of T. A. Daly, and I have before me as I write the
photograph which accompanied the book, which represents a
face full of energy and gentleness, vividly merry, sympathetic:
a face to which the old adjective "jolly," in its true and
restricted sense might well be applied. The inscription
"
Good-morrow, Bunny. Have you used Pears' Soap," rings
like a joyous shout across the Atlantic.
Now, the energy in T. A. Daly's face does not belie him.
His book overflows with energy, with life, with youth, such
energy and life and youth as one does not find in America
to-day.
I think of two specimens of young America I met a while
ago. They were going out as Consul-General and Assistant
Consul-General, respectively, to the very last and newest out
post of civilization that is to say, civilization had only just
advanced her foot into the wilderness, and the wilderness was
swarming at her to push her back whence she came. One or two
missionaries, a trader or two, represented the white population.
The two lads, for they were but lads in years, were leaving most
things that men value behind them. It was a farewell party--
not to them. The two young Americans sang coon-songs to the
banjo, seated on the floor, and working themselves into an orgie
236 Studies. [SEPT.,
of merriment. But one had a queer sensation all the time that
the creature within the prison never laughed. There was somer
thing cold in the abandonment, in the wild gaiety. The climate
or the dollars or something had made the young Americans
old, as their tanned skin was the skin of an Englishman of
fifty with nothing of the dew or softness of youth about it. I
remembera story the Consul-General told of himself and a great
man, which is good enough to be told here.
The Consul-General had called on the great man in Downing
Street, or Whitehall. England and the States had met
over that first and last outpost of civilization. " Who
are you ?" asked the great man, barely looking up. "I'm the
American Consul-General for ." " Good snakes i" said the
great man-: or that is what the C.G. represented him as saying.
With those two young Americans in my mind-and, indeed,
I have met many young Americans without finding any morning
freshness about them-I am moved to think gratefully upon
T. A. Daly. His poetry overflows with romance, with tender
ness. One thinks of him as one thinks of the French
Canadians carrying their simplicity, their virtues and their
domesticities, to be assets of incalculable value to the land they
adopt. A poet like this must be worth quite a considerable
number of multi-millionaires.
Of course, the vital energy of the poet overflows in many
directions. He writes Irish poems, dialect and otherwise. He
writes serious English verse. The beauty of England moves
him as the Irish beauty calls to him, the son of an Irish father
and mother. But, when all is said and done, he is as his young
discoverer discovered him, the Poet of the Dago.
The Dago is American slang for the Italian immigrant, who
is organ-grinder, sells fruit in the street, shines your boots, cuts
your hair: even digs in your foundations and scavenges your
streets if the Western erergy lays hold on him. There is a
suspicion of a feeling that the Dago is "a mean white," much
as one has felt it one's self when the hurdy-gurdy man comes
along the London streets, or, worse, into quiet English country,
bringing his mechanical music into competition with the songs
of the birds.
Well, the thing T. A. Daly has done is that he has
humanized the Dago, or rather the estimate of the passer-by
concerning him. He has got within the skin of the child of
Italy, and has revealed him to us as a man and a brother. There
is all the love of the South for flowers and the sun and children
1913. The Poet of the Dago. 237

in these tender and touching things, and most skilfully are they
wrought in with a modern humour which is American. Here
is an Italian courtship, smacking more of Naples than of New
York

PADRE ANGELO.
Padre Angelo he say:
why you no gat married, eh
You are maka playnta 600'
For gon' taka wife, my son."
"No; I am too beeza man,
'Tandin' dees peanutta stare'.
I no gatta time for play
Fooleeshnees weeth girls," I say.
"My you don'ta tal me so?"
Ees say Padre Angelo.

Bimeby, mebbe two, t'ree day,

she corn'an' say:
" Padre girl
Younga
Angelo ees here
No Eet essa vera queer
Heesa housakeepa say
I gon' find heem deesa way."
While she eesa speaka so,
Ees corn Padre Angelo.
"Rosa you are look for me?"
He ees"say to her, an' she
Say: Oh, pleass, go homa, queeck,
You are want' for som' wan seeck.
I am for find you here."
" Ah sand
da seecka-call, my dear.
Corn',"say Padre Angelo,
"Deesa younga man ees Joe;
Shaka han's bayfore we go."
So I am shak' han's weeth her
Leetla han' so sof' like fur
Den she bow to me anygo
Weetha Padre Angelo.

Bimeby, s'pose two, t'ree day more,

She ees corn'jus' like bayfore,
An' she aska me: "You know
Where ees Padre Angelo
Housakeep' she tal me wait
Eef he don't be vera late."
So I tal her taka seat
An' to hay' som' fruit for eat.
Den I talk to her an' she
Smila sweet an' talk to me.
238 Studies. [SEPT.,
How long time I donta know.
Den com' Padre Angelo.
"
Oh," she say, "go homa queeck.
You are want' for
"
som' wan seeck."
"My!" he say, dese seecka-callt
I am gat no peace at all."
"Oh, wal, com', my dear," he say,
An' he takin' her away.
I am sad for see her go
Weetha Padre Angelo.

Many times ees lika dat.

Peopla always seem for gat
Seecka when he ees away.
Rosa com' mos' evra day.
An' som' time she gatta stay
Pretta longa time, you know,
Teell com' Padre Angelo.
Steel I no gat any keeck
How mooch peopla gatta seeck;
I am feela glad dey do--
Rosa, she no keeckin',too.

Lasta night my Rosa she

Go to Padre weetha me,
An' I tal heem: " Pretta soon
Mebbe so da firsta June
Rosa gona be my wife !"
He ees s'prise,
" he youan'bat my life
" Dees ees soocha rub hees eyes,
"w'at say,
glada s'prise
My you don'ta tal me so?"
Ees say Padre Angelo.

There is bitter home-sickness in the heart of the Dagoman

as there is in the hearts of Paddy and Biddy. A friend of mine
in America, who suffers perpetually from home-sickness that
has become an intolerable physical ache, has told me that she
looked into every Irish face she met in the streets of New York,
looking to find her own symptoms. She had been talking with
tears about the rush and hurry of life in New York, which
makes a virtue of rudeness where elsewhere courtesy is a virtue.
She spoke especially of the rudeness of the conductors of the
street cars. "Only," she said, "when I looked into their
Irish faces I used to forget everything, and say: 'My poor
fellow, how long are you out from Ireland And do you feel
very home-sick?'" Then she added that the rough and
1913. The Poet of the Dago. 239

bullying official would disappear, and the other poor exile would
take his place. "I had to give up talking about Ireland," she
"
added, because they used to refuse to take my fare."
Here is the Dago homesick

EEN NAPOLI.
Here een Noo Yorka, where am I
Seence I am landa las' July,
All gray an' ogly ees da sky,
An' cold as eet can be.
But steell so long I maka 600',
So long ees worka to be done,
I can forgat how shines da sun
Een Napoli.
But oh, w'en pass da boy dat sal
Da violets, an' I can smal
How sweet dey are, I no can tal
How seeck my heart ees be.
I no can work, how mooch I try,
But only seet an' wondra why
I could not justa leeve an' die
Een Napoli.

Here is the Dago in a tender mood, and he is very often tender.

Like the Irish, who are seldom rich enough to do without God,
he keeps his simple faith in God and in the ministers of God

PADRE DOMINEEC.
Padre Domineer M'Cann
He ees great beeg Irish man.
He ecs growla w'en he speak.
Like he gona go for you
Jus' for busta you in two.
My he talk so rough, so queeck,
You weell weesha you could be
Som'whereelsa w'en you see
Padre Domineec.
Padre Domineec M'Cann
Stop at dees peanutta-stan'
Wen my leetla boy ees seeck;
Talk so rough he mak' me cry,
Say ees besta boy should die
So o to Heaven ueeck
s ak so cold to me
He heees
speak
Nevvvamore I wanta see
Padre Domineer.
240 Studies. LSEPT.Y
Den gran' doctor com'. Ees queer
W'en I ask who sand heem here,
He jus' smile an' weell no speak,
Only justa for to say:
"You no gotta cent. to pay,
I gon' feex Bees boy dat's seeck."

O beeg-hearta man, an' true

I am gattin' on to you,
Padre Domineec

The Dago is sunny-natured. He takes what sweetness home

sickness and the bitter cold of an American winter will. allow.
He makes a little Italy with his wife and children, out of the
fruit on his stand, or when he takes his hurdy-gurdy into the
country, and, for lack of people to play to, plays to the sun and
the wind and the tree. But he has his tragedies: and here is
one

DA LEETLA BOY.
Da spreeng ees corn'; but oh, -da joy
Eet ees too late
He was so cold, my leetla boy,
He no could wait.

I no can count how manny week,

How manny day, dat he ees seeck;
How manny night I seet an' hold
Da leetla hand dat was so cold.
He was so patient, oh, so sweet
Eet hurts my throat for theenk of eet,
An' all he evra ask ees w'en
Ees Bona com' da spreeng agen.
Wan day, wan brighta sunny day,
He see, across da alleyway,
Da leetla girl dat's livin' dere,
Ees raise her window for da air,
An' put outside a leetla pot
Of---w'at-you-call forgat-me-not.
So smalla flower, so leetla theeng
But steell eet mak' bees hearta seeng:
" Oh,
now, at las', ees com' da spreeng
Da , leetla plant ees glad for know
Da sun ees com' for mak' eet grow.
So, too, I am grow warm and strong."
So lika dat he seeng hees song.
But, ah da night com' down an' den
Da weenter ees sneak back agen,
1913.1 The Poet of the Dago. 241
An' een da alley all da night
Ees fall da snow, so cold, so white,
An' cover up da leetla pot
Of-w'at-you-call ?-forgat-me-not.
All night da leetla hand I hold,
Ees grow so cold, so cold, so cold
Da spreeng ees corn';but oh, da joy
Eet ees too late
He was so cold, my leetla boy,
He no could wait.

T. A. Daly has a most fresh and winning humour. His gal

lery of portraits, Italian and Irish, are charming, and some
where in the background we catch glimpses of the American.
Such a poem as this brings the South with it.

THE BLOSSOMY BARROW.

Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall,
But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all.
Eet sure won'ta be
Teell flower an' tree
An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.
You see, deesa 'Tonio always ees want'
To leeve on a farm, so he buy wan las' 600t'.
I s'posa som' day eet be verra nice place,
But shape dat he find eet een sure ees " deesgrace";
Eet's busta so bad he must feexin' eet all,
An' firs' theeng he starta for build ees da wall.
Mysal' I go outa for see heem wan day,
An' dere I am catcha heem sWeatin'away;
He's li f tin' big stones from all parts of hees land
An' takin' dem up to da wall een hces hand
I say to heem: " Tony, why don'ta you gat
Som' leetla wheel-barrowfor halp you weeth dat?"
0 corn' an' I show you w'at's matter,"he said,
An' so we go look at hees tools een da shed.
Dere's fins beeg wheel-barrowdere on da floor,
But w'at do you s'pose From een under da door
Som' mornin'-glor'vines have creep eento da shed,
An' beautiful flower, all purpla an' red,
Smile out from da vina so pretty an' green.
Dat tweest round da wheel an' da sides "da machine.
I look at dees Tony -an' say to heem: Wal ?"
An' Tony he look back at me an' say: "Hal
I no can bust up soocha beautiful theeng
I work weeth my han's eef eet tak' me teell spreeng!"
242 Studies. [SEPT.,
Antonio Sarto ees buildin' a wall,
But maybe he nevva gon' feenish at all.
Eet sure won'ta be
Teell flower an' tree
An' all kinda growin' theengs sleep een da Fall.

Does not that make one feel good, as though the flowers sprang
under one's feet from the city pavements Antonio Sarto's
barrow is legitimate subject for poetry : but our poet can be a
caustic satirist, too : and he does not pretend to think that to
become Americanized is to be on the way to all desirable
things.
The Dago is wise in his simplicity. From his fruit stall, or
from beside his organ, he observes human nature, and he makes
us smile. He is delightful as the philosopher and student of
men. We love him best when he is a600g his domesticities:
and it must be rememberedthat amiable domesticities, the love
for the home and the wife and the children, flourish exceedingly
a600g the Italians of all classes. Here is one of those
tendernesses

DA SPREENG-CHARMER.
"Oh ees eel true you tal me so
Da spreeng would corn'eef you would go
An' play for eet ?" say leetla Joe.
Den bigga Joe, da music-man,
He pat da leetla skeeny han'
An' " sure !" he say; "I go nex' week.
You see, my street-pian'ees seeck,
So lika you. All weentra long
Eet was too cold for maka song;
But now I theenk a leetla beet
Your mediceene gon' f eexin' eet ?"
Joe smile, an' so da leetla boy
Smile, too, an' clap hees han's for joy;
An' all dat week he count da day
Teell time hees Pop shall go an' play.
So corn da day at las', an' dough
Steel een -da streets ees ice an' snow,
Beeg Joe mus' do dees theeng for pleass
Dat leetla boy, although he freeze.
Den home agen dat night he say:
"I ain't quite do da treeck to-day;
You see, da spreeng mus' hear me play,
An' here een ogly ceety street
I no gat verra close to eet;
1913. The Poet of the Dago. 243
I musta go more far away."
So passa mebbe two, three day
An' notheeng com'. Wan night, bimeby,
Da leetla boy baygeen to cry,
So Joe say: "Wait a leetla beet
An' sure I weell be catchin' eet."
Nex' night he com' an' cry: "Hallo
Here's granda news for leetla Joe.
To-day-O verra, verra close
I see da spreeng An' w'at you s'pose
Eet's justa leetla laughin' breeze
Dat jomp about a600g da trees
An', 0 eet dance so bright an' gay
So soon as eet ees hear me play;
I sure I catch eet soon som' day."

Bimeby, wan night, w'en Joe gat home,

He wheespra: " Sh da spreeng ees corn'
Don't maka noise or you weell scare;
Eet's een da alley downa-stair
You see, to-day w'en I am play
Out een da countra, far away,
Agen ees com' dat leetla breeze.
Eet keess da buds upon da trees,
An' tease da brook an' hop around
An' coax da flowers from da ground.
An' pretta soon so close I gat
I see eet keess a violat.
Den presto eet ees een my hat i
So here, 0 leetla Joe, I breeng
For you,-for you, da gladda spreeng
'Sh keepa steell, or you weel scare;
Eet's een da alley downa-stair."
"0 please," ees say da leetla boy,
An' he ees clap hees han's for joy,
"0 lat eet com' an' play weeth me."
Beeg Joe say: "No, not yat. You see,
To breeng eenside would nevva do;
Dat mak' eet seeck, more seeck dan you.
But, leetla Joe, you geeve eet time
An' pretta soon dat breeze weell climb
Outside upon your weendow-seell,
Eef you be good an' keepa steell."

Wan morna soon w'en Joe gat up

Da wort'ees lika wina-cup,
So reech an' sweet da air. An' so
He run an' cry to leetla Joe:
"Da spreeng See now da leetla breeze
Ees at your weendow Here eet ees !"
So den he leeft da window wide
244 Studies. LSEPT.,
An' lat da warma breeze eenside.
Da leetla boy he ope' bees mout'
An' breathe eet een an' breathe eet out,
An' laugh to feel eet een bees hair,
On han's an' face an' evrawhere.
"0
" my, how sweet !" say bigga Joe.
Com', sneeff eet een your nosa-so
Dat smal ees steeckin' to eet yat
From where eet keess da violat.
Ah leetla Joe, w'at weell you do
For me dat catch da spreeng for you ?"

Oh, my sooch keesses warm an' long

Sooch huggin', too, so glad, so strong
You nevva see a leetla boy
Dat
" Ahaees deed
so crazy-wild weeth joy.
I no tal you se,
Dat spreeng would corn'so soon you go
An' play for eet ?"say leetla Joe.

Now, there is just one more poem I would quote from this
delightful Italian who sees the crowd passing by, and gives us
the policeman who eats apples and pea-nuts off the stand while
he talks to the Dago, and mentions that he is above graft; the
rich American, who is dyspeptic from too good fare, and
despises the Dagoman, who lives on fruit; the American small
boy; the Irishman;
"Irishman, he make me seeck,
He do get excite' so queeck,"

the priests, the base-ball players, the political boss, the fine
lady. The philosopher at the fruit stall pictures them all. It
may be a dreadful day "of summer, or an. inhuman winter cold
in New York, but by the pea-nutta stand " the little winds
whisper and the birds sing, and the crickets talk of Italy, and
the flowers spring up; and the Italian faith bedecks the arid
materialism with little flowers of joy and hope. Behind
the worries and disappointments and rudenesses of the day,
there is always the thought of Rosa and the children and the
little door behind which the Dago is king. Of course, the
picture would not be true to life if we did not hear now and
again the swaggering note of the American: and the Dago's
boy, when he to
goes school, somewhat frightens his father with
the fear of his contempt. But the whole atmosphere is so
1913. The Poet of the Dago. 245

charged with a sunny sweetness that there is, no place for any
thing but delight. Mr. Daly's priests are always delightful.
Here is our Padre Angelo again

PADRE'S PEENCHA SNUFF.

Where ees troubla-som' wan dead,
Som' wan verra seeck een bed
Leetla Padre Angelo,
He ees dere bayfore you "know.
Beatsa-how you c ill da deuce"
How he eesa gat da news.
He mus' smal eet een da air;
Annyway, you find heem dere.
An' da firsta theeng he do,
W'en he hear da story through,
" Povero !" he say you know
Dat'sa mean " eet's tough "
Den da Padre Angelo
Taka peencha snuff.

Leetla Padre's boxa snuff

Mus' be funny kind a stuff,
Som'theeng dat he ainta use
Only w'en dere's badda news.
Mosta time dat we are meet
He ain't nevva theenk of eet,
But so soon he's comin' where
Eesa troubla een da air,
An' he hear da tale of woe
He ees grab da --boxa-so--
Like he eesa feel he no
jus' can gat enough,
Wen da Padre Angelo
Taka peencha snuff.

Den
" he gona cough like dees:
Hock-pachoo!" an' den he sneeze.
Den he blow bees nose a while,
Shak' hees olda head an' smile,
Rub da water from hees eye,
Looka queer an' say: "0, my
Nevva find dees snuff so strong;
Mus' be there ees som'theeng wrong."

So he shak' ees head an' den

He ees rub hees eye agen.
Som' time I am theenk, you know,
Eet 'sa justa bluff,
Wen da Padre Angelo
Taka peencha snuff.
246 Studies. [SEPT.,

Oddly enough, I had the other day a word of the Dago at

first hand. We had been talking of the cult of ill-manners
which prevails in America in the streets and public places where
the American comes in touch with his fellow-man-ill-manners
founded on hustle, and getting through, and making good and
all the rest of it the gospel of getting along in life which pre
vails in America. Surely, under the hustle, hearts may be kind
and gracious enough. An Irishwoman who believed this, of
her own countrymen at all events, was in charge of an Irish in
dustries stall at one of the big American exhibitions, and talked
to "the boys " who crowded about her stall. "Now, why are
you so pushing and hustling and brusque ?" she said. "You
would not be like that in Ireland, where we think so much of
manners." " What " they asked, in stupefaction, " would
you have us like the Dago, bowing and scraping and smiling,
hat in hand?"
" Manners
makyth man," says the splendid old Winchester
motto, and manners if they are the manners of the heart,
without which no true manners are, though there may be some
thing that pretends to be them are not far removed from the
Kingdom of Heaven. There was an old poet who called Our
Lord " the first true gentleman that ever breathed." One would
grieve that the Kingdom should pass from the Irish over the
seas, and should be the inheritance of the despised Dago.
KATHARINE
TYNAN.