Results for ‘POEMS’
[Welland Telegraph April 3, 1903]
Sad news; bad news;
Anything but glad news!
What do you suppose they’re saying
at the fashion show?
Grum things; blum things;
Gloomier than some things;
They declare the shirt waist girl
must pack her trunk and go.
Tall girls; small girls;
Medium ad all girls
Are informed that it’s decreed by
those who cut and sew-
Slim waists; trim waists
None of them may wear the things
if the shirt waist girl must go.
Spare girls; fair girls;
Touch-me-if-you-dare girls;
Heavy girls or skinny girls will
hear the news with woe.
Cheap waists; steep waists;
Price-that-causes-sleep waists-
None of them are dear enough; the
shirt waist girl must go.
Pert waists; flirt waists;
Guimped and gored and girt waists;
Any kind of shirt waist with
collar high or low-
Rough news; tough news;
Hope that it is bluff news-
It’s more than enough news; the
shirt waist girl must go!
[Sands of Time by Lorne C Loney, 1964]
‘Neath shading and greenwood bough
The Ploughman’s team doth stand,
But where to find the ploughman
For he seemth not at hand?
While echoing down the valley
Though it soundth far away,
There comes a faint but earnest call
At the waning of the day.
Oh! Robbie come ta supper lad
For it canna’ longer wait,
Now ye’ve ploughed enough the red-soil
And the hour is getting late,
But lying on the river bank
With foot in cooling stream
We find the weary ploughman
Where he’s ever prone to dream.
For he’s watching as the white clouds
Drift on a lazy sky,
And the verse that forms within his mind
Through pen will never die,
With beauteous thought, his mind hath caught
The gladness born of May,
For dawning love hath filled his soul
To form a poet’s lay.
There are meetings in the twi-light
Along the River Ayr,
For Robbie and his Jeannie
Have their trysting places there…
But echoing down the valley
And out across the glade,
There comes a faint and loving call
The woodlands to invade.
Oh! Robbie come to supper lad
For it canna’ longer wait,
Now ye’ve ploughed enough the red-soil
And the hour is getting late
Dedicated to the memory of Robert Burns and all his fellow Scotsmen throughout the world.
ON ROBERT BURNS
There’s a hush in the air of Ballachmyle woods
Near the banks of the river Ayr,
See the fisherman pause as he whiffs on his pipe
For he senses a presence there.
With a whispering breeze, comes a sigh in the trees
And it seems of a past refrain,
For two lovers of old haunt the woodland path
To stroll through the green-fern again.
“Oh! Dear Robbie Burns, can ye catch me the noo
As I hide ‘neath the greenwood tree?’
“Oh! Sweet Jeannie Armour, I’ll find ye for sure
Cause ye niver can hide fra’ me”…
“Oh! Robbie, dear Robbie, the years have sped by”
“Whatever awa’ can ye be?”
“Oh! Sweet Jeannie Armour, ye’ll be wi’ me soon
And ‘twill be forever ye’ll see
There’s a sunset glow on the river of Ayr
Reflecting the willows of gold
And ‘twas here they went wandering arm in arm,
On that fern-strewn path of old.
There’s a whispering sigh in the woods near Mauchline
Oh! fisherman hark to the sound,
For two lovers of yore haunt the woodland path
And ‘tis here their story is found.
Though the years have been many and far between
Since she hid ‘neath the greenwood tree,
There’s a whispering sound of a song in the birch
And there’s love in it’s melody.
“Oh! Robbie, dear Robbie, where are ye the noo?
“A’ the ache in my heart is for thee,’
Oh! sweet Jeannie Armour, ye’ll be wi me soon
And ‘twill be forever ye’ll see.
[Welland Telegraph November 19, 1903]
She walks unnoticed in the street;
The casual eye
Sees nothing in her, fair or sweet;
The world goes by
Unconscious that an angel’s feet
Are passing nigh.
She little has of beauty’s wealth;
Truth will allow
Only her priceless youth and health,
Her broad white brow;
Yet grows she on the heart by stealth
I scarce know how.
She does a thousand kindly things
That no one knows;
A loving woman’s heart she brings
To human woes;
And to her face the sunlight clings
Where’er she goes.
And so she walks her quiet ways
With that content
That only comes to sinless days
And innocent
A life devoid of fame or praise,
Yet nobly spent.
[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.
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