On a boat going down the canal from Lynchburg to Lexington, where he
was a fellow-passenger with us, he met his old friend, John Wise, and
entered into conversation with him, in the course of which he made the
statement that he came from Missouri. "All the way from Pike?" quoted
Mr. Wise. "No," replied Father Ryan, "my name is _not_ Joe Bowers, I
have _no_ brother Ike," whereupon he sang the old song, "Joe Bowers,"
in a voice that would have lifted any song into the highest realms of
music.

He recited his poem, "In Memoriam," written for his brother David, who
was killed in battle, one stanza of which impressed me deeply because
of the longing love in his voice when he spoke the lines:

Thou art sleeping, brother, sleeping
In thy lonely battle grave;
Shadows o'er the past are creeping,
Death, the reaper, still is reaping,
Years have swept and years are sweeping
Many a memory from my keeping,
But I'm waiting still and weeping
For my beautiful and brave.

The readers of his poetry are touched by its pathetic beauty, but only
they who have heard his verses in the tones of his deep, musical voice
can know of the wondrous melody of his lines.

When I said to him that I wished he would write a poem on Pickett's
charge at Gettysburg, he replied: