Results for ‘POEMS’
[Welland Telegraph December 20, 1941]
He fights his battles o’er again
Recalls the days of anxious strain,
When news to him is brought.
His spirit still is on the deep
Where some old chums had found their sleep,
And memories still o’er him creep
Of vivid battles fought.
He blesses Churchill for the time
He kept the navy in its prime
And ready for the day,
And Jutland’s battle, dark and grim
Provides great moments still for him,
And though his sight is getting dim,
His spirit still is gay.
His heart is always on the sea
Where Britain’s flag of liberty
Is always to be found.
He’s weather-bronzed and battle-scarred
For seas were rough and fighting hard
But enemies could not retard
Their vigilance profound.
His humorous and cheery talk,
Old reefer coat, and rolling walk
Bespeak the tar of old.
He still is proud of Britain’s fame
Because she always played the game;
And to a navy man her name
Shines out like flames of gold.
William McClure.
[Welland Telegraph April 3, 1903]
I own a dog who is a gentleman
By birth, most surely since the creature can
Boast of a pedigree the like of which
Holds not a Howard or a Matternich
By breeding. Since the walks of life he trod
He never wagged an unkind tale abroad
He never snubbed a nameless cur because
Without a friend or credit card he was
By pride. He looks you squarely in the face
Unshrinking and without a single trace
Of either diffidence or arrogant
Assertions such as upstarts often flaunt
By Tenderness. The littlest girl may tear
With absolute impunity his hair
And pinch his silken, flowing ears the while
He smiles upon her-yes, I’ve seen him smile.
By loyalty. No truer friend than he
Has come to prove his friendship’s worth to me.
He does not fear the master-knows no fear-
But loves the man who is his master here.
By countenance. If there be nobler eyes.
More full of honor and of honesties,
In finer head, or broader shoulders found-
Then have I never met the man or hound.
Here is the motto on my lifeboat’s log:
‘God grant I may be worthy of my dog!’
[Welland Telegraph December 10, 1903]
Why not stop to think and reason,
When we call our blessings few,
That they would be great and many
If we only knew.
All we have seems Cevanescent,
Transient as the early dew,
Yet it might not all be seeming,
If we only knew.
How these trifles fret and vex us,
That we live, perhaps, we rue-
Yet to live would be our glory,
If we only knew.
Still we doubt and fear and tremble,
Search in vain for hint or clue-
And our reaching would be folly,
If we only knew.
When we utter our complainings,
Hate the old and curse the new,
We should have a better feeling,
If we only knew.
If, beyond what’s false and fading,
We could see the pure and true,
All our way would glow with beauty,
If we only knew.
Life we feel is sometimes gloomy,
Short our vision, dim our view,
But there might be never dimness,
If we only knew.
Clouds illumed with day’s bright dawning,
Rising splendors striking through,
These would shine along our pathway
If we only knew.
[Welland Telegraph December 1903]
If I had thoughts that were mean and base,
And practised cheating and lying,
I’d soon get rid of the deep disgrace,
By trying- trying-trying.
If I had a heart that was full of greed
As the love of self will make it,
I’d do some gen’rous noble deed.
And break it, break it, break it.
If I had a wife whose wordy fights
Made home like hell below it,
I’d turn her loose on women’s rights
To go it, go it, go it.
If I had a son who roamed the streets
And spent his time in shirking
I’d soon convert him to the sweets
Of working, working, working.
If I had a girl like some you see,
In flirting growing ranker,
I’d take her ‘cross my paternal knee,
And spank ‘er, spank ‘er, spank ‘er.
If I had plenty of money to burn,
I’m sure I wouldn’t spend it,
But to give the world a brand new turn,
I’d lend it, lend it, lend it.
If I had a power that wouldn’t fail
And evil couldn’t resist it,
I’d take the devil by the tail
And twist it, twist it, twist it.
If I had-well, whats the need of more?
I feel my wings a.springing;
Give me a harp on the shining shore
And singing, singing, singing.
-B.M. Browne
[Welland Telegraph December 11, 1941]
Scarred by fires of jealous hate,
Drunk with mad ambitions flame,
Sprawled all o’er the world’s face
Braggart races steep in shame.
In that bubbling cauldron’s brew
Scum of evil rides on top;
While degenerary’s hordes
Bid the world of progress stop.
Note the tyrants’ lust for power,
As they grasp each conquered land,
With gigantic fists closed tight
Holding piles of human sand.
When those fingers, tired, relax,
Then the sand will trickle through;
And each nation crushed to earth
Shall its moral strength renew.
Bold as ancient Viking lords
Britain stands in brave array
With her moral fibre firm,
Tough, unshaken, day by day.
And her young gods of the skies
Forge immortal deeds of fame
For their Motherland, so dear,
And the honor of her name.
-William McClure.
[Welland Telegraph October 22, 1941]
I wonder what those toiling masses think
Who now are scourged to make the tools of war
For monstrous fiends, brutes in human shape,
Who brand them with repression’s deadly scar?
Unlimited in arrogance and power
Are those who neither care for shame or right;
But rush along the paths of conquering fools
And see not self-destruction is in sight
The germination of their hidden seeds
Shall surely bring disaster in their train;
For mechanized and deadly are the wheels
On which they shall be caught and cry in vain.
Clear is the clarion call to decent men
No matter what their race or creed may be
To rid the world of monsters, vile and cruel
Who wallow in their bestiality
Predominant the god of right must be
Else chaos now engulf the world at last;
For Christianity must stand supreme
Or in the outer darkness now be cast
This is no struggle where spectators stand
Aloof, and watch the progress of a fight;
But all are called upon to do their part
To help preserve true justice, faith and right
The powers of evil challenge every man
Who would preserve the freedom of the mind;
For loathsome are the doctrines of the brutes
Who to all sense and reason now are blind
Let us our indignation never quench
Nor let complacence penetrate our soul
Till all the might of right repair the wrongs,
For victory must be our only goal.
-William McClure.
[Welland Telegraph October 2, 1941]
Want to see your home town grow?
Then your interest in it show.
Praise its parks, its swimming pools,
Factory sites and finest schools.
Talk with genuine elation
All about your transportation.
Honest boosting always pays.
Don’t be stingy with your praise
Publicize in many ways
Your home town.
Greet each stranger with a smile.
Boost your town in super-style.
Don’t be one who sings the blues.
You can spread the cheerful news.
Tell about your nifty cops,
Pretty girls that are “the tops,”
Healthy children, free from care,
Flowery gardens everywhere
And abundance of fresh air,
Be a booster.
Say your merchants are alert,
Streets well paved and free from dirt,
Firemen finest in the land.
Don’t forget your city band.
Culture, justice, moral worth-
Here they are-the best on earth.
Points like these let strangers know.
Blow your trumpet loud-not low.
Then just watch your home town grow.
Be a booster
-Joseph A. McGuire.
[Welland Telegraph November 4, 1941]
Once France was gay, her cities bright,
Her people brave and true;
No tragic hint of war or death-
Now she is torn in two.
Once Poland stood, in Freedom bathed,
Her soldiers strong and bold-
Now like the Finns, the Czechs, the French,
Her sufferings are untold.
Across the world, like fire unchecked,
Destruction flames anew,
But Britain stands on mighty guard-
The English are not through!
Each soldier knows within his heart
The battle that shall be-
But British hearts are strong and brave,
They will not turn and flee.
And when the fight shall come, at last,
And Victory is won,
We’ll lift our eyes in thankful prayer,
‘Twill be a task well done.
WINNIFRED PIERCE, Welland.
[Welland Telegraph April 17, 1903]
Oh, fit,
Of Fancy, fuzz, film and fluff,
And feathers, film and fluff.
Upon a head as light as you;
Oh, delicatessen dream,
Of dowager and doll;
Oh, millinered melody
Of matron and of maid;
Oh rapturous bunch of botany
Bedixening womankind,
How beautiful you are,
Poised on the tresses
Touched with glinting gold,
Or sunset kissed,
Or richly brown as Mother Earth
Now flushed with budding spring;
Or fair as streaming strands
Of soft-spun silver silk!
Man’s fascinated eyes
Are fixed on you.
And, lost in admiration of your
charms.
He quite forgets
How great the cost of beauty is.
Set like a crown
Of fairy filigree
Above a face an angel would
Give heaven for
You diadem an Easter Queen
With all the glories
Of the Easter morn,
And make a halo
Look like thirty cents.
You are a poem
Wrought in wire and lace,
And fabric fragile
As the poet’s dream,
Illumined by the tints and shades
That painters breathe
Into the pictures of their souls,
Your harmony of hues holds fast
The fancies of the frenzies of
The limner’s spirit and its score
And light divides itself
In seven times seven spectrum tones
To make your color scheme
A brilliant, bursting
Blazonry of bloom.
The sculptor’s sorcery seeks
All shapes
Or earth and air and sky,
And frost and sunny time,
And molds all lines of figure
Into you.
Oh! Easter hat;
Oh! fleeting flash
That fulminates
The flowery charge of spring
And bursts it it bloom
That fills
The circumambient air
With rainbow remnants
Multiplied a million times;
Oh! Easter hat,
Infinity
Of shape and size
Of colorature and cost;
Oh! Easter hat
Oh! promised praise and prayer
Of woman’s love and hope,
Oh! say,
Are you on straight?
[Welland Telegraph April 10, 1903]
The prodigal son of the modern day
Journeyed homeward from far away;
“We’ll treat it all as a harmless
joke,”
His father said: “when he comes
home broke,”
But the young man sported a necktie
red,
And his hat reposed on the side of
his head,
And he put his feet on the parlour
chair
And told them to get him the bill of
fare.
They stood and waited in great
suspense
For him to begin his penitence,
But he simply said he would like to
know
What made the town so confounded
slow.
And he never allowed them to forget
That he was on deck as the family
pet,
And they sold the calf, ‘mid vexations
grim
‘Cause veal wasn’t good enough for
him.
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