Results for ‘POEMS’
[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.
[Welland Tribune September 22, 1905]
What is the little one thinking about?
Very wonderful things, no doubt!
Unwritten history!
Unfathomed mystery!
Yet chuckles and crows and nods and winks,
As if his head were as full of kinks,
And curious riddles as any sphinx!
Warped by colic and wet by tears,
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears
Our little nephew will lose two years;
And he’ll never know
Where the summers go–
He need not laugh. for he’ll find it so.
Who can tell what a baby thinks?
Who can follow the gossamer links
By which the manikin feels his way
Out from the shore of the great unknown
Blind and wailing and alone,
Into the light of day?
Out from the shore of the unknown sea,
Tossing in pitiful agony–
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls,
Specked with the barks of little souls,
Barks that were launched on the other side,
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide!
What does he think of his mother’s eyes?
What does he think of his mother’s hair?
What of the cradle roof that flies
Forward and backward through the air?
What does he think of his mother’s breast,
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white,
Seeking it ever with fresh delight–
Cup of his life and couch of his rest?
What does he think of her quick embrace,
Presses his hand and buries his face
Deep where the heart throbs sink and swell
With a tenderness she can never tell,
Though she murmur the words
Of all the birds–
Words she has learned to murmur well?
Now he thinks he’ll go to sleep!
I can see the shadow creep
Over his eyes in soft eclipse,
Over his brow and over his lips,
Out to his little finger tips!
Softly sinking, down he goes!
Down he goes, down he goes!
See! He is hushed in sweet repose!
–J.G. Holland.
[Welland Tribune August 18, 1905]
Be helpful
Be sociable
Be unselfish
Be generous
Be a good listener
Never worry or whine
Study the art of pleasing
Be frank,open and truthful.
Always be ready to lend a hand.
Be kind and polite to everybody.
Be self-reliant, but not conceited.
Never monopolize the conversation.
Take genuine interest in other people.
Always look on the bright side of things.
Take pains to remember names and faces.
Never criticise or say unkind things of others.
Look for the good in others, not for their faults.
Cultivate health and thus radiate strength and courage.
Forgive and forget injuries, but never forget benefits.
Rejoice as genuinely in another’s success as in your own.
Always be considerate of the rights and feelings of others.
Have a good time, but never let fun degenerate into license.
Learn to control yourself under the most trying circumstances.
Have a kind word, and a cheery encouraging smile for everyone.
Be respectful to women and chivalrous in your attitude toward them.
Meet trouble like a man and cheerfully endure what you can’t cure.
Believe in the brotherhood of man and recognize no class distinctions–
Success
[Welland Tribune August 25, 1905]
The lines were first published in England in 1485 before the discovery of America and before any of the discoveries and inventions mentioned therein. All the events predicted have come to pass except that in the last two lines, in which Mother Shipton, like a good many others, would seem to have made a mistake.
Carriages without horses shall go,
And accidents fill the world with woe;
Around the world thoughts shall fly
In the twinkling of an eye.
Waters shall yet more wonders do.
Now stranger yet shall be true,
The world upside down shall be,
And gold be found at root of tree.
Through hills man shall ride,
And no horse nor ass be at his side.
Under water man shall walk,
Shall ride, shall sleep, shall talk;
In the air men shall be seen,
In white, in black, in green
Iron in the water shall float
As easily as a wooden boat.
Gold shall be found ‘mid stone
In a land that’s now unknown.
Fire and water shall wonders do;
England shall at last admit a Jew,
And the world to an end shall come
In eighteen hundred ad eighty-one.
[Welland Tribune July 11, 1905]
There comes to my mind a legend, a thing I had half forgot,
And whether I read it or dreamed it –ah, well it matters not!
It is said that in heaven at twilight a great bell softly swings,
And man may listen and harken to the wondrous music that rings
If he puts from his heart’s inner chamber all the passion, pain and strife,
Heartache and weary longing, that throb in the pulses of life,
If he thrust from his soul all hatred, all thoughts of wicked things,
He can hear in the holy twilight how the bell of the angels rings;
And I think there lies in this legend, if we open our eyes to see,
Somewhat of an inner meaning, my friend, to you and me.
Let us look in our hearts and question: Can pure thoughts enter in
To a soul if it be already the dwelling of thoughts of sin?
So, then, let us ponder a little—let us look in our hearts and see
If the twilight bell of the angels could ring for us—you and me.
–From Word and Work.
[Welland Tribune September 8, 1905]
I never bought a block of stock,
Supposing it was low,
That didn’t stay upon bedrock
Until I let it go.
If diamonds. Some day from the sky,
Came zipping down like hail,
I know that it would be when I
Was out without a pail
If I should run to catch a train
I’d find as sure as fate,
When I the station steps should gain.
That it-the train-was late.
If I could read my title clear
To mansions in the skies,
I’ll bet you that the taxes there
Would soon be on the rise.
–Chicago Record.
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