Results for ‘POEMS’
[Welland Telegraph October 26, 1903]
She lost her little boy to-day;
Her eyes were moist and sweet
And tender, when he went away
To hurry down the street.
She stood there for the longest while
And watched and watched him; then
She said-and tried to force a smile–
“He’ll not come back again.”
Inside the house her tears would come
She sank into a chair,
And sobbed above the battered drum
And trumpet lying there.
The sunshine stole into the place–
It only made her sad
With thinking of the pretty grace
His baby tresses had.
She minded all his little ways,
She went to see his crib
Up in the attic; then to gaze
At platter, spoon and bib,
And all the trinkets he had thought
So fair to look upon–
Each one of them this murmur bro’t;
“My little boy has gone.”
She wandered through the house all day,
To come on things he’d left,
And, oh! She missed his romping play
And felt herself bereft!
When he came home, with shining eyes
To tell of school’s delight,
She kissed and held him, motherwise,
With something of affright.
This is the pain in mothers’ hearts
When school days have begun;
Each knows the little boy departs
And baby days are done.
Each mother fain would close her ears
And hush the calling bell,
For, somehow, in its tone she hears
The sounding of a knell.
[Welland Telegraph October 26, 1903]
Fonetic spelling I abhor,
And nawt can rowz mi bile
Or ruffle up mi temker mor
Than Izak Pitman’s style
The Yankee “theater” and such
Az follo in its trane
Anoi mi gentle sole so much
That I becom profane.
A traveler with but one “I”
Will make me simply fome
For fok hoo cannot lern to spel
Had better stop at hom.
Wun needs to be no pedagog
To shun this horrid voge;
Cood he hoo rites down “catalog”;
Be other than a roge?
London Tattler.
[Welland Telegraph October 29. 1903]
The cynics mock her,
The red storms rock her,
But on she rolls!
Downcast, elated–
For ruin slated,
She still goes freighted
With human souls!
The great seas thunder
And rend asunder–
The white stars wonder
As Time grows gray;
But-reaping, sowing,
Her way she’s going,
To meet-unknowing–
A Judgment Day.
But-joy go with her!
Nor slip his tether
When stormy weather
Makes grief and moan!
Tragedy-test world–
Lost-unto-test world,
Still-still the best world
We have ever known!
Atlanta Constitution
[Welland Telegraph October 8, 1903]
What’s the use o’ growin’ up?
You can’t paddle with your toes
In a puddle; you can’t yell
When you’re feelin’ extra well,
Why every feller knows
A grown-up can’t let loose,
I don’t want to no older–
What’s the use?
What’s the use o’ growin’ up?
When I’m big I don’t suppose
Explorin’ would be right
I don’t like to get my clo’s
All water melon juice.
I don’t want to be no older–
What’s the use?
What’s the use o’ growin’ up?
You couldn’t ride the cow,
An’ the rabbits an’ the pig
Don’t like you cause you’re big.
I’m comfortublest now.
Z’raps I am a goose;
I don’t want to be no older–
What’s the use?
What’s the use o’ growin. up>
When you’ve growed, why, every day
You just have to be one thing;
I’m a pirate. Er a king,
Er a cow-boy—I can play
That I’m anything I choose.
I don’t want to be no older–
What’s the use?
Burgess Johnson
[History of the Village of Fonthill. 1944]
Thou happy hamlet of the hill,
Whose waters flow from spring and rill,
Whose maple trees their emblem bear
Of Canada, our land so fair;
‘Tis now of thee our pen would write-
Thou superb village of delight.
‘Tis here the sun-kissed peaches grow,
And nature does her gifts bestow,
With Spring caresses soft and sweet
On flowers and gardens at our feet,
From here the first fruit of the spring
Into our lives fresh pleasures bring.
In scenic beauty, none so grand:
At Lookout Point with me now stand
And view the landscape o’er and o’er
From Toronto’s Bay to the southern shore:
While to the east in the picture gay
You see Niagara’s foaming spray.
But of all the gifts of which we boast,
Democracy we value most.
‘Tis here a man is judged by worth
And not by what he owns at birth;
No automatic snob lives here,
And every man and child’s a peer.
No titled gentry need apply-
No Earl or Duke or Lord most high,
For democratic laws still stand
And Justice reigns through-out this land.
May peace and plenty ever fill
This happy hamlet of the hill
Robert Miller 1911..
[Welland Telegraph August 1900]
There’s a lot that’s seductive in titles and rank
In station and pomp and degree
And crosses and stars on a nobleman’s breast
Are mighty attractive to see
It comforts most people straight through in this life.
To think that their blood’s a clear blue,
But the salt of the earth is its common folk still
Honest and simple and true.
They hold fast to justice and freedom and right,
They’re virtuous, manful and strong,
And it’s ever their mission to straighten things out.
When the world gets entangled in wrong;
Not always we’re willing to credit them up
With the glorious things that they do,
But the salt of the earth is its common folk still,
Honest and simple and true.
Ripley D. Saunders
Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard
or
Canadian Cook Book, 1881
WOMAN’S LOVE
Like ivy, it is often seen
To wear an everlasting green-(no sarcasm)
Like ivy, too, it’s apt to cling
Too often ‘round a worthless thing.
May the flowers of friendship
Embellish thy cot,
And flourish long after
This friend is forgot.
While silently one by one,
In the infinite meadows of heaven.
Blossomed the lovely stars-
The “Forget-me-nots’ of the angels.
I kissed her little tiny hand,
I pressed her fairy form.
I vowed I’d shield her from the blast.
And from the world’s cold storm.
She raised her gentle eyes to mine,
They were filled with drops of woe,
With trembling lips she faintly said,
“Confound you-let me go!”
Sweet songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.
May thy voyage through life
Be as happy and free
As the dancing waves
Of the deep blue sea.
Remember me-’tis all I ask;
But, if remembrance proves a task,
Forget me.
Remember me, and bear in mind
A constant friend is hard to find;
And if you find one that is true,
Oh! do not change her(him) for a new.
May the great spirit, so brighten the chain of affection between you and me, that even a child may find it by the pale light of the stars, when the sun has gone to sleep behind the western hills.
There is a pretty little flower,
Of sky-blue tint and white,
That glitters in the sunshine,
And goes to sleep at night.
‘Tis a token of remembrance,
And a pretty name it’s got.
Would you know it if I told you?
‘Tis the sweet “Forget me not.”
Had I the power to carve or print
Thy future, my dear friend.
It would be fair and ever bright,
Unclouded to the end.
I saw two clouds at morning
Tinged by the morning sun,
And in the dawn they floated on
And mingled into one;
I thought that morning cloud was blest,
It moved so sweet to the west.
Such be your gentle motion,
Till life’s last pulse shall beat,
And you float on in joy to meet
A calmer sea, where storms shall cease,
A purer sky where all is peace.
May heaven protect and keep thee
From every sorrow free,
And grant thee every blessing-
My earnest wish for thee.
Think of me when you are happy,
Keep for me one little spot;
In the depth of thine affection
Plant a sweet “Forget-me-not”
SUITABLE SELECTIONS FOR AUTOGRAPH ALBUMS
It is good to be merry and wise,
It is good to be honest and true;
It is good to be off with the old love
Before you are on with the new.
I ask for thee as much happiness as can safely be given without unlinking the chain that binds thee to heaven.
A tiny, slender, silken thread
Is friendship, and we make it
Bind hearts and lives to hearts and lives,
But e’en a breath may shake it’
And oft it takes but one wee word,
But one wee word to break it.
If your lips, you’d keep from slips,
Five things observe with care-
Of whom you speak, to whom you speak,
And how, and when, and where.
Love is a little golden clasp,
That bindeth up the trust,
Oh! break it not, lest all the leaves
Should scatter and be lost.
Men are not to be trusted-
No, not even a brother.
So girls, if you must love,
Love one another.
Though oceans now between us roll,
And distant be our lot;
Though we should meet no more, sweet maid,
Forget me not.
LOST:
Somewhere between sunrise and sunset, a golden hour, set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, as it is lost forever.
Go, little book, thy destined course pursue,
Collect memorials of the just and true;
And beg of every friend so near
Some token of remembrance dear.
We may write our names in albums,
We may trace them in the sand;
We may chisel them in marble
With a firm and skilful hand;
But the pages soon are sullied,
Soon each name will fade away;
Every monument will crumble,
Like all earthly hopes decay.
But, dear, there an Album,
Full of leaves of snowy white,
Where no name is ever tarnished,
But forever pure and bright.
In the Book of Life-”God’s Album”
May your name be penned with care,
And may all who here have written,
Write their names forever there.
My album’s open! Come and see!
What! won’t you waste a line on me?
Write but a thought-a word or two,
That memory may revert to you.
As life flows on from day to day,
And this, your book, soon fills,
How many may be far away
From treasured vales and hills!
But there is joy in future time
To turn the pages o’er,
And see within a name or rhyme
From one you’ll see no more.
My album is a garden spot
Where all my friends may sow,
Where thorns and thistles flourish not,
But flowers alone may grow.
With smiles for sunshine, tears for showers,
I’ll water, watch, and guard these flowers.
[People’s Press July 4, 1905]
Saying that fate is against you.
Finding fault with the weather.
Anticipating evils in the future.
Pretending and be your real self.
Going around with a gloomy face,
Faultfinding, nagging and worrying.
Taking offense where none is intended.
Dwelling on fancied slights and wrongs
Talking big things and doing small ones.
Scolding and flying into a passion over trifles.
Boasting of what you can do instead of doing it.
Thinking that life is a grind and not worth living.
Talking continually about yourself and your affairs.
Deprecating yourself and making light of your abilities.
Saying unkind things about acquaintances and friends.
Exaggerating and making mountains out if molehills.
Lamenting the past, holding on to disagreeable experiences.
Pitying yourself and bemoaning your lack of opportunities.
Comparing yourself with others to your own disadvantage.
Work once in a while and take time to renew your energies.
Waiting round for chances to turn up. Go and turn them up.
Writing letters when the blood is hot, which you may regret later.
Thinking that all the good chances ad opportunities are gone by.
Dreaming that you should be happier in some other place or circumstances.
Belittling those whom you envy because you feel that they are superior to yourself.
Longing for the good things that others have instead of going to work and earning for yourself.
Looking for opportunities hundreds or thousands of miles away instead of right where you are—May Success.
[People’s Press October 23, 1900]
Stowed here, with old treasures and dresses,
Queer bonnets, gay ribbons and lace,
The rose that once decked her dark tresses,
The picture of her winsome face,
I found—queerly fashioned with buckle and bow,
With jewels to sparkle and glance–
The quaint little shoes that Grandmother wore
The night that she learned to dance.
Oh! Gay was my Grandmother, surely.
That night, as her feet flew along
In time to the orchestra’s music,
Her heart keeping time with a song;
Oh! Trim was her form and light were her feet,
And proud of her shoes was she,
The vain little girl, dancing at her first ball,
–Grandmother, that was to be.
Like stars were her eyes in the lamplight,
And full were her lips, rich and red,
She looked like a bird in the sunshine,
As through the gay measures she sped;
I wish I could see her, as that night she looked,
Some power would the gift to me give,
For the old people say that when she was young
My Grandmother looked like me.
Quaint shoes. I will aye keep them sacred,
My Grandmother’s feet are but dust;
No music will rouse them to dancing,
She sleeps the sweet sleep of the just.
But still—as a vision—I see gliding by,
A figure in gossamer dressed,
It fades—I recall that with slim feet unshod
My Grandmother lies at rest.
[People’s Press October 23. 1900]
All the summer, early and late,
And in the autumn drear,
A maiden stood at the orchard gate
And waved at the engineer.
He liked to look at her face so dear,
And her homely country dress;
She liked to look at the man up there
At the front of the fast express.
There’s only a flash of the maiden’s eye,
As the engine rocks and reels,
And then she hears in the distance die
The clinkety, clink of wheels,
Clinkety, clink; so far apart
That nothing she can hear
Save the clink of her happy heart
To the heart of the engineer
Over the river and down the dell,
Beside the running stream,
She hears the sound of the engine bell
And the whistle’s mad’ning scream,
Clinkety clink; there’s an open switch,
Kind angels, hide her eyes!
Clinkety, clink; they’re in the ditch,
Oh, hear the moans and cries!
Clinkety, clink and down the track
The train will dash today,
But what are the ribbons of white and black,
The engine wears away?
Clinkety, clink, Oh, worlds apart,
The fireman hangs his head;
There is no clink in the maiden’s heart–
The engineer is dead.
Cy Warman in New York Sun.
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