'V 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 Chap. Copyright No. 
 
 i$n 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
"S 
 
RANDOM RHYMES 
 
 Bv J. W. BRYCE 
 
 w mm w 
 
 Battle Creek, Mich. 
 1899 
 
111899 
 
 
 
 
 
 41417 
 
 COPYRIGHT 1899 
 BY 
 
 J. W. BRYCE. 
 
 'o oopies ^eoEivg; 
 
 
 .S.fp^fi^HINf^^LTI). 
 BATTLE CREEK, MICH. 
 
 
INDEX. 
 
 Page 
 
 Autumn Thought, An. . ^ 10 
 
 After All 38 
 
 Apostrophe to Goguac 72 
 
 Breeze at Play, The 14 
 
 Blues, The 58 
 
 Better Day, The 81 
 
 City Incident, A 23 
 
 Cobblestone Pavement, The 67 
 
 Crack Wi' Burns, A , 99 
 
 Cheerfu' Smile, A 105 
 
 Cycling Scene, A . . . 48 
 
 Captain Dick 49 
 
 Do You Like Me ? 42 
 
 Dinna Greet Lassie ' 95 
 
 Esto Perpetua 79 
 
 Flight of the Poet's Pen 7 
 
 Flowery Way, The 12 
 
 Flowers Never Come Amiss 13 
 
 Fragment, A t,2> 
 
 Fragment, A 54 
 
 Feb. 22nd, 1895 60 
 
 Forgive Them , 83 
 
 Glowing Old Stove, The .... 36 
 
 Goguac Lake 59 
 
 Home Divine, A 32 
 
 " Hursel 'Yont a Bit" 112 
 
 In the Gloaming 11 
 
 Interesting Story, An . . - , . . . 45 
 
 In Remembrance 66 
 
 Justification 22 
 
 Jennie 46 
 
 Laugh While You May 35 
 
 Love Me 41 
 
 My Friend, the Tramp 17 
 
 Memory, A 25 
 
 Meditation 37 
 
 Measure of Right 47 
 
 My Wish 82 
 
 New Song, A 75 
 
 No ' Dialect Ava 92 
 
 Obituary Poet, The 44 
 
 Our Civic Flag 61 
 
 Pansy, The 27 
 
Tower of the Pen, The 28 
 
 Pret's Friends, The 30 
 
 Pleading the Case 43 
 
 I Main Americans 53 
 
 Query, A 74 
 
 Robin, The 29 
 
 Refrain, A 87 
 
 Song of the Ren, The 20 
 
 She Spurs Me On 5r 
 
 Specter, The 76 
 
 Something to Say 85 
 
 Smile o' Her E'en 96 
 
 Scottish Invitation, A 102 
 
 Sang o' the Heart, A 104 
 
 Tramp, A 24 
 
 That Last Sweet Song 55 
 
 To Conductor G. H. on His 45th Birthday 57 
 
 Tribute, A 63 
 
 To Hearts that Feel 64 
 
 To C. B. on Her 77th Birthday • 68 
 
 Twentieth Century Club, The • 69 
 
 Thinker's Song, The 79 
 
 To Rredjudice 80 
 
 Take Heed 89 
 
 Tangibility , 90 
 
 To Burns .- 93 
 
 Their Silver Wedding; Day 94 
 
 To My Guid Frien ' Robert Stewart . , 98 
 
 Tarn Thamson's Team 106 
 
 Valentine, A , 73 
 
 Without and Within , .■ 34 
 
 Wish, A 44 
 
 What's in a Name 56 
 
 What the Wind Says 78 
 
 What Wullie Wad Be no 
 
 W'i" Smile an' Sang 114 
 
 ILLUSTRATED POEMS. 
 
 A City Idyl 8, 9 
 
 The Maples , 16 
 
 A Memory 25 
 
 A Home-made Valentine 39, 40 
 
 An Interesting Story 45 
 
 Goguac Lake 59 
 
 Their Silver Wedding Day,- 94 
 
 To My Guid Frien' Robert Stewart 98 
 
ERHAPS, we should not rhyme ; 
 
 Perhaps it's wrong 
 
 To try our wings 
 
 In simple song 
 
 That no one sings ; 
 Perhaps, 'tis waste of time 
 When other men 
 Can wake the muse, 
 With poet's pen, 
 Whene'er they choose ; 
 Perhaps — but who can tell 
 What we can do 
 Unless we try ? 
 My friend, can you 
 Say to us why, 
 Perhaps, it is not well 
 
 To write a rhyme 
 Until we find 
 That we can climb. 
 Be not unkind ! 
 Perhaps, it's wrong, but pray 
 How learn to fly, 
 To sing, or write, 
 Unless we try 
 A fledgeling's flight ? 
 Perhaps, to reach some day, 
 A place where fame 
 May hear in time 
 Our humble claim 
 To write in rhyme. 
 
THE FLIGHT OF THE POET'S PEN. 
 
 HE flight of the eagle is high in the sky 
 
 Yet higher is that of the wren, 
 But the eagle or wren ne'er flew so high 
 
 As the flight of the poet's pen. 
 Untiring it mounts when the eagle tires 
 
 And the wren has flown earthward again. 
 The pen of the poet forever aspires 
 
 To soar with the spirits of men. 
 
 It soars like the eagle, and sings like the lark, 
 
 It sighs o'er the sorrows of men, 
 Like the flash of a sunbeam, it mellows the dark, 
 
 All the joy of life in its ken ; 
 Its flight is unbroken, though mountains divide, 
 
 And oceans roll ever between ; 
 It wings through the ages whatever betide, 
 
 And rules by a philter unseen. 
 
 In poverty's hovel, it lightens the gloom, 
 
 It reigns in the palace and cot, 
 Its melody softens the sway of the tomb 
 
 At the end of the toilers lot ; 
 Undaunted by tyrants it sings as it will, 
 
 Unfearing the minions of wrong ; 
 Whose heartless conspiring the poet may kill, 
 
 Yet they cannot destroy his song. 
 
 The rush of the river, so silent and deep, 
 
 May wear all its channel away, 
 The uprearing mountain, so rugged and steep, 
 
 May level its crest in decay. 
 The earth in its fullness may crumble and fall, 
 
 Debased into chaos again 
 Ere mortals forget in love to recoil, 
 
 The flight of the poet's pen. 
 
°<M glearn of. y 
 
 ;: ,.;:^Mou df/ joy complete 
 
 )r(ere Where rr\aples shacle iKee. 
 Joil.ir\g Kan65 }\aVe rr\ade i)\e<? 
 In l)\e sWee|es| wcaf, 
 \ ^Boianie liitle coiiage *£x 
 
 -\ a ^ Of iKe lal e r day .^ ^ ?k# 
 
 \o beauty, grace }ias lerej iKee., 
 fl /\r\6 on ci n\issior\_5mi jH.ee. 
 
 : -oriAg of Kumarv fee) ij^gr. jJ 1 - 
 JPeace benecitK ^ foam. .s^TL 
 OfJKe bfr.Je of ),V,ng ^J£l 
 
 
 u t ^earaglovv/,n i |W«lfc 
 
 7; . ;nT\r oujgH ihe dar\ne5btrvoWir\ 
 
 
 "YhoU do )! ^eem n\ore cKeeryl ^ f wfc^ 
 
 \vt\er\ the ^Ky is dreartf. 
 
f 
 
 Like a diamond shini 
 J a the 2J0M reclining 
 ^Sweeter beadfy getting 
 3w£efer by thy Joeing, 
 "WaXing power of gladness 4 
 z freaking in jo^bong, 
 hoif dotf, humble cof/age, 
 Joj/5 o^ life prolong"" 
 
 GrcieejulW jhe rose^ 
 
 ^p^xjfd their (oefci)b bWeef 
 
 Oer | Ke d i m p||pW ve r 
 
 p4 Growing at ihy jeel. 
 
 SwrKecid me rohmb 
 
 pipe | heir notes of e^lee, 
 
 jv at he red songsters trilling 
 Wl^ubicVild andjree 
 vile wjthij^thy portals 
 Jiappiest ojYnorfals 
 ^JTnd surpassing sWeejn 
 
 \\o/\\ oj lije tKe m 
 SjfrervgiK WiiKout drj 
 le li'ille collage? 
 ,g by ike Way 
 
AN AUTUMN THOUGHT. 
 
 HE autumn leaves were falling 
 
 On a chill October day, 
 And the singing birds of sum- 
 mer 
 To the south had flown away, 
 Leaving northern clime in sad- 
 ness 
 That had basked in summer 
 gladness, 
 While the trees of glory shorn, 
 Looked a picture most forlorn. 
 
 But the cheer of children's laughter, 
 As they gathered autumn leaves, 
 
 Filled the heart with flowing measure 
 Of the joy that still believes 
 
 There is love in every season ; 
 
 Bearing naught of knavish treason 
 
 To the summer's glowing brightness, 
 
 And its dear departed lightness. 
 
 Spring is nature's early morning ; 
 
 Summer is her shining light ; 
 Autumn is the twilight warning 
 
 Of her coming wintry night ; 
 Round and round, in ceaseless motion, 
 Roll the seasons, like the ocean, 
 Moving on from shore to shore, 
 Restlessly forevermore. 
 
IN THE GLOAMING. 
 
 H, the sighing of the trees 
 
 As they waver with the breeze, 
 Gives a sense of blissful ease 
 To the soul. 
 
 As you sit in summer eve, 
 When the light begins to leave 
 And the darkness shadows weave 
 O'er the land ; 
 
 Then your thoughts in fancy sails 
 To where friendship never fails, 
 And a tenderness prevails 
 Over all. 
 
 While you list to hear a song 
 That will help the world along, 
 And relieve the weary throng 
 From their care : 
 
 But alas ! no music fills 
 Beating heart with tender thrills, 
 In response to angel trills, 
 
 In sweet song ; 
 
 For you simply hear the sigh 
 Of the breezes as they fly 
 On their mission, ere they die 
 Into calm. 
 
 n 
 
THE FLOWERY WAY. 
 
 ^AIREST flowers of summer blooming, 
 Modest flowers so unassuming, 
 Which of all your race is best 
 Standing far above the rest ? 
 Violets of deepest blue ? 
 Pansies sweet of varied hue ? 
 Roses yellow, white, or red ? 
 Lilies to the water wed ? 
 Snowdrops, harbingers of spring ? 
 Morning-glories, as you cling 
 To some sturdy safe support, 
 While the breezes round you sport ? 
 In your home of nature's green, 
 Which, sweet soul, is king or queen ? 
 
 Soon the answer came emphatic ; 
 " We are not aristocratic " 
 " In the woody wildernesses 
 
 Where the sun and shade caresses 
 
 Gracefully our home of green, 
 
 While the breezes rove unseen, 
 
 Gentle dew-drops softly fall 
 
 In response to nature's call ; 
 
 And this kindly ministration 
 
 Knows no high or lowly station. 
 
 Brothers of the honey-bee 
 
 Humming over hill and lea, 
 
 Brothers of the light are we, 
 
 From all chains of bondage, free." 
 
 " We live here as common fellows, 
 That the sun to beauty mellows, 
 
All the wealth of color blending, 
 Here on earth in faith defending ; 
 Loving comrades of the note 
 From the feathered songster's throat : 
 Equals here upon the sod ; 
 Equals in the sight of God : 
 All our chains are bands of love 
 Forged by Him who rules above ; 
 Fairest flowers of summer blooming, 
 Need no other power persuming ; 
 This our answer most emphatic, 
 " We are not aristocratic." 
 
 Here sweet voices sang in chorus ; 
 " Not a king or a queen reigns o'er us." 
 
 V7* t5* 
 
 FLOWERS NEVER COME AMISS- 
 
 LOWERS never come amiss. 
 They are full of mortal bliss 
 As a dainty maiden's kiss. 
 There is depth of truth in this. 
 Here the fellows of the rose, 
 Spread a sweetness of repose 
 Over all our joys or woes 
 From life's opening 'til its close ; 
 When the light of life is born ; 
 When the soul of life is shorn ; 
 When true love our lives adorn ; 
 When the heart is made to mourn. 
 Flowers never come amiss, 
 There is depth of truth in this. 
 13 
 
THE BREEZE AT PLAY. 
 
 AVE you heard how the breeze 
 Came to play in the trees, 
 On a fine sunny day 
 In the sweet month of May, 
 When the soft touch of spring 
 Rules the earth as a king ? 
 Well ! be silent a spell, 
 And the story I '11 tell. 
 
 Said the breeze to the trees, 
 " I am coming to-day 
 
 With your branches to play." 
 Said the trees to the breeze, 
 " Come away, come away." 
 Straightway the game began ; 
 Lightly the soft breeze ran 
 Over and under, 
 Finding in wonder, 
 All the green shady nooks 
 Where the sun never looks ; 
 And the robin's red breast 
 Tints the rim of her nest ; 
 Softly gliding between 
 Brilliant masses of green, 
 In and out like a sprite, 
 Gleaming and glancing, 
 Prancing and dancing, 
 Through the shade and the light ; 
 Then lulling away 
 
 To join the infinite, 
 Whose mystical sway 
 . Never rests for a minute. 
 14 
 
With a rush, might and main, 
 Comes the breeze back again 
 With a sighing refrain ; 
 Springing and singing, 
 Melody flinging, 
 L,ike a dream, o'er the plain ; 
 Bending the branches low, 
 Swaying them to and fro, 
 Moving them fast and slow, 
 Stirring the trees to speak 
 Slowly with halting creak 
 And low sounding mutter ; 
 Over the rushing roar, 
 Sadly the trees deplore, 
 The breeze voice must utter. 
 But the breeze never caring 
 In its glee, bravely daring, 
 Played away all the day 
 'Til the sun sank to rest 
 Where the gold of the west 
 Gilds the end of the way. 
 Then the breeze softly sighing, 
 Sank to sleep without trying, 
 On the soft balmy air, 
 Only dreamers know where. 
 
 £-U~ 
 
 GD 
 
 15 
 
k£? 
 
 <s:.. 
 
 **~ 
 
 "W 
 
 .predefine! leafy 'n^aple; 
 
 j)ear olc^ 
 
 Jhaf bhabe (Ke city street, 
 
 Silent ser\tir\elb of nature, 
 
 )n dreen uniforms cornplete , 
 Wl^ile I waik^ bergatlyjhy shadows, 
 jA\y Heart CL rapture fee)s, 
 Ano IJ-\e ec^tctby of pleasure 
 AD Yny badcler tHoucfhi conceals. 
 
 As 1 peer up 'moncSbi your tranches, 
 
 Searched" ouf eacK shady r\ooK 
 
 JKaf tfiveb M-\e lovely robir\'5 r\e^i 
 
 A guarded, cosy look; 
 
 A^> I trace H-\e Wondrous beauty 
 
 Of eacl-\ brio'r^tly colored leaj, 
 
 \r\ reflective meditation. 
 
 %/ 
 
 .^-aAll my worry fi' r\6b relief. 
 
 < -*- 
 
 ^(f 1 'VAnd when tr\e ^kacleb o^ even/ntf" 
 1 l| Gkase the bunbeamb home to rest 
 And the silvery t wil id" h,i follows 
 *g£/ Golden burner to [he wesf , 
 
 
 - r> 
 
 -^Vvj 
 
 
 ML /31s sweet beaeatK ^Ky brancr\es_^ 
 ijl&L-T loiter by the vvay *^ < k£^ e 
 
 ^fplAac) wajoh thy shadows f)icker^5^^ 
 ^£"^i]\e sorhe wilt -o- wisp-s ai play t- 1bi| 
 
 yef 
 
 love \\e dear old maples. *§L 
 ^/V)^ r\o heaven Will be complete ^ 
 ^ unless 'Iheir stately presence 
 JG uarcb a no" ) i r\es the cJo 1 d e n, 5 1 r e e £ 
 §o liKe children we may gather ^h|f 
 .?Wifr\ our spirits freed from care.,^% 
 >To sing' of We forever^ t fo&- % 
 
 f^eath jKeir spreacWg' 'branches then 
 
MY FRIEND THE TRAMP. 
 
 AINT always best to give the name 
 ^JSy jlT* | of tramp 
 
 / \ L ^ ^>X» To any man that looks the lazy 
 
 scamp, 
 With work so scarce and money 
 
 hard to get, 
 One cannot tell who may be tramp- 
 ing yet. 
 I scorned a tramp without the 
 
 least restraint, 
 And never stopped to hear that 
 
 old complaint 
 Of lack of work within the reach 
 of home ; 
 I thought it simply an excuse to roam. 
 It seemed to me that all the tramps did shirk 
 The place where they might find some honest work ; 
 And so I kept on hating them like sin, 
 Until one came along my heart to win. 
 
 One stormy evening when my work was done 
 And by the fire, to read I had begun, 
 Upon the door there came a pounding knock 
 That seemed to jar the house like windy shock. 
 I forward sprang and threw it open wide, 
 When quick my friend, the tramp, did inward stride, 
 Ragged and dirty, shaking with the cold, 
 A wrinkled face grown prematurely old ; 
 He stood within the threshold of the door, 
 As weird a figure as could help implore ; 
 
 17 
 
His face lit by the lamp's soft glowing light, 
 
 Behind him all the stormy clouds of night ; 
 
 A starving man with all his vigor fled, 
 
 Begging of me, a man, a mite of bread. 
 
 No foolish notions o'er me held their sway, 
 
 And that cold night, I felt that he must stay. 
 
 So asked him to be seated then and there 
 
 While mother brought him what there was to spare 
 
 From out our humble hoard to serve his need ; 
 
 His shaking form to warm, his want to feed. 
 
 We sat and watched him, Mother, Jim and I, 
 
 And smiled to see him make the victuals fly. 
 
 Jim was a little tot then scarcely three, 
 
 But light of life to mother and to me. 
 
 Jim toddled up to him and said, — " Oos not bad, 
 
 Oo man, when somefing good to eat oos had ? " 
 
 The smile that lit that poor old rugged face 
 
 Would lend to angels e'en an added grace, 
 
 And that salt tear that fell upon his plate 
 
 Stirred to the depths my pity for his fate. 
 
 The bread you cast on waters will return, 
 E'en though this gospel truth in thought you spurn. 
 And sometimes in the midst of earthly cares 
 One entertains a hero unawares. 
 'Twas two years after, to the very day, 
 When that poor tramp in hunger came our way ; 
 The fields were covered o'er with glistening snow, 
 That gleamed and sparkled as the sun sank low 
 Behind the hills into its glowing bed, 
 Spreading o'er blue of sky a rosy red. 
 Our little Jim with sturdy footsteps, strode 
 To slide adown the hill that skirts the road. 
 We stood and watched him through the window pane, 
 Pull up his sled and ride it down again. 
 The sturdy lad from care and sorrow free, 
 Seemed to attain the best of childish glee. 
 
 18 
 
The loving light that lit his mother's eyes 
 Turned my unworded thoughts beyond the skies ; 
 When sound of sleigh-bells' hurried jingle, neared 
 And soon a running team in sight, appeared. 
 Without a driver too — " My God ! where's Jim ? " 
 Right in the road, then all the light seemed dim. 
 With trembling limbs in haste I tried to run, 
 But ere I reached him all the harm was done ; 
 Yet not to Jim, for he was safe and sound 
 And in his place a mangled form I found, 
 That as I ran, had darted with a will 
 To grasp my boy and push him up the hill, 
 Then backward fall 'neath that mad rushing team, 
 While from his lips there came a muffled scream. 
 I turned him o'er and found my friend, the tramp, 
 Whom I had called a vagabond and scamp. * 
 
 That's many years ago, I know, but then 
 Whenever I go down to Stony Glen, 
 I deck with flowers the sad and quiet grave 
 Of he who gave his life my boy to save ; 
 And now when'er I hear that worthless name 
 I think of him who won a hero's fame. 
 
 <9 
 
THE SONG OF THE PEN, 
 
 With an Apology to the Spirit of Tennyson. 
 
 DWELL in haunts of busy men, 
 With writing ink and paper, 
 
 And sparkle in the author's den 
 Where fairies dance and caper. 
 
 I dwell within the mansions fine 
 Where rules the hand of plenty, 
 
 In homes where chances are to 
 dine 
 Far less than one in twenty. 
 
 And oft I mark the grieving sigh 
 When souls in sorrow sever ; 
 
 For men may live and men may 
 die, 
 But I move on forever. 
 
 I bubble o'er with sparkling wit 
 
 In merry tale and joking, 
 And shiver where the growlers sit 
 
 To voice their chronic croaking. 
 
 I sing in nature's boundless field, 
 
 And gleam in realms of fancy, 
 Where fairies, their sweet presence yield 
 
 To posy's necromancie. 
 
 And oft again I softly sigh 
 
 O'er souls that sorrows sever ; 
 For men may live and men may die, 
 
 But I move on forever. 
 
I wind about, both in and out, 
 Through depth of human failing, 
 
 And here and there I cast a doubt 
 Of right o'er wrong prevailing. 
 
 And here and there, a secret take 
 
 Upon me to unravel, 
 And cause the struggling souls to wake 
 
 To wisdom's ways of travel. 
 
 I cause the heart to sing or sigh 
 
 In song and story clever ; 
 For men may live and men may die, 
 
 Yet I move on forever. 
 
 I move along through plot and plan, 
 
 In open field or cover, 
 And make or mar the schemes of man, 
 
 Or suit of tender lover. 
 
 I sing, I sigh, I wail, I weep, v 
 
 Through light and darkness wading ; 
 
 And to the highest heights I leap, 
 My power o'er all prevading. 
 
 I murmur under tyrant laws 
 
 That liberty represses, 
 And bravely dare in freedom's cause 
 
 That manly mankind blesses. 
 
 Of all the powers beneath the sky, 
 
 Mine is the greatest lever, 
 For other powers may droop and die, 
 
 But mine moves on forever. 
 
JUSTIFICATION. 
 
 ^HERE'S a story old and hoary, 
 From the dusty tombs of time, 
 That 'tis better not to fetter 
 
 Language in a metric rhyme ; 
 For our neighbors in their labors, 
 To increase their earthly store, 
 Find the measure of their pleasure 
 In the fields of prosy lore. 
 
 Ah, how blindly or unkindly 
 
 Is that old and musty tale ; 
 Stated fairly it is rarely 
 
 That a rhyme is known to fail 
 In appealing to the feeling 
 
 Of some soul in silent grief, 
 Quietly smoothing with its soothing, 
 
 Wrinkling thoughts of unbelief. 
 
 'Tis the glory of a story 
 
 That it finds responsive chord, 
 And unseeing fills the being 
 
 Of both commoner and lord, 
 With a meter that is sweeter 
 
 Then is found in common prose ; 
 Surely proving in its moving, 
 
 Where the fount of feeling flows. 
 
 'Tis the ringing and the singing 
 
 Of the poet in his rhyme, 
 That is reaching with its teaching 
 
 Souls that live to end of time ; 
 'Tis the rhyming and the chiming 
 
 Of a sweet and tender song, 
 That can brighten life and lighten 
 
 Burdens we have borne so long. 
 
A CITY INCIDENT. 
 
 AY, pardner, give me enough to 
 
 buy a meal, 
 I'm a knight of the road, the road 
 
 of steel, 
 A poor old shack that is out of 
 
 a job, 
 And on down hill run from top 
 
 of the knob. 
 What ! call me a bum ! If you 
 
 only knew 
 
 You'd never let slip that vile name from you ! 
 I'm ragged and dirty, ah, yes ! I know, 
 But say, pardner, I wasn't always so. 
 Don't ! don't turn away ! I'm hungry as — well 
 It won't do any good for me to tell 
 For your heart is cold as a chunk of ice, 
 'Neath your fur- trimmed coat so warm and nice. 
 Afraid I'll drink it, is that what you say ? 
 When we have to beg that's always the way ! 
 Men cast up our failings to ease the heart 
 From the sting of playing the meaner part ; 
 But that won't do, for the demon of drink 
 Has never led me to that awful brink 
 Of the lower depths where manhood is lost 
 And on fire of desire is madly tossed. 
 I am only one of the many poor 
 That in midst of plenty grim want endure, 
 
 2} 
 
Filling every place with wails of pain, 
 From the Golden Gate to the Coast of Maine. 
 Why ! if liquor would only drown my care 
 I'd drink its dregs e'en if death was there ! 
 You'll feed me well if I tell you a tale, 
 Do I look like a man with brains for sale ? 
 Why, what is the use, you are like the rest ; 
 You haven't a dime in shacks to invest — 
 What ! a silver dollar ! My God, forgive ! 
 Here's one more chance for a shack to live ! 
 The demon of hunger has made me wince 
 But to-night ! to-night ! I'll dine like a prince ! 
 Food for my stomach. Yes, mountains of bread !"- 
 With a groan he sank on the sidewalk, dead ! 
 
 A TRAMP. 
 
 ES, I'm a tramp, and glory in it. 
 I love the robin and the linnet, 
 And life is prison any minute, 
 I miss their song. 
 
 I love, in summer time, to sally 
 Through mossy glen and woody valley, 
 Or, by the gleaming lake to dally 
 The whole day long. 
 
 I love to tramp when dew is clinging 
 Upon the grass from nature springing 
 And hear the feathered songsters singing 
 In early morn. 
 
 Yes, I'm a tramp, the tale go spin it. 
 That name for years I've strove to win it ; 
 And find there's satisfaction in it, 
 From nature torn. 
 
 24 
 

 W|> r\o 
 
 o © ace ' 
 
 N book of time we count each 
 day a page 
 When youth is ours and youth- 
 ful pleasures flow. 
 Our forward glance declares 
 each year an age 
 And votes that time creeps 
 onward dull and slow. 
 The joys we feel are common- 
 place and tame 
 Compared to those our souls anticipate, 
 When we ascend the gilded height of fame 
 
 And claim as kinsmen all the storied great. 
 The simple home, we feel, must soon make way 
 For grander place that in our youthful dreams 
 We see upbuilding for the future day 
 
 When manhood's power with wealth and honor teems. 
 
 25 
 
No backward look or retrospective glance, 
 
 We cast, for youth looks ever on and on, 
 And seeks for glory in the world's advance, 
 
 Nor sighs in longing for the time that's gone ; 
 But time moves on with fast increasing pace 
 
 As day by day the cares of life increase, 
 And sombre gloom the gleams of light efface, 
 
 While sterner duty bids our dreaming cease ; 
 Then in the onward rush towards the goal 
 
 Of our ambition and our human end, 
 We seek, as consolation for the soul, 
 
 To give our riper thought a backward trend. 
 We sigh for days of childhood, careless days, 
 
 When shades of sorrow never lasted long, 
 And mother's voice in lays of love and praise, 
 
 Seemed to contain the sweetest notes of song. 
 The cottage home we once accounted mean 
 
 When dreams of grandeur fired our youthful hearts, 
 Flits now in memory upon the scene, 
 
 A thing of joy that light and love imparts ; 
 The family circle gathered side by side 
 
 Around the table eat their frugal fare 
 With heartiness that stirs a mother's pride 
 
 And makes her long to keep them ever there; 
 With laugh and joke the moments swiftly fly, 
 
 The evening meal draws quickly to a close; 
 But in the heart those moments never die ; 
 
 They live again when added years disclose 
 That all the glitter of our youthful dreams 
 
 Have sped away before the saddened gray 
 Of mists that rise like mountains o'er the streams 
 
 Which moves all human efforts to decay. 
 Oh, dear old home! within your humble walls 
 
 The joyous hours with youthful comrades spent 
 Like beam of sun which never vainly falls, 
 
 Are for our future dreaming surely meant. 
 
 26 
 
Tne father's voice but seldom raised to chide, 
 
 The mother's love for all her hearty brood, 
 The sister's song and brother's manly pride, 
 
 As age creeps on awakes the melting mood 
 That keeps the soul from growing hard and cold 
 
 When constant turmoil, never ending strife 
 Embitters all our searching after gold 
 
 With which to smooth the roughened road of life. 
 No earthly fame, however high we mount 
 
 To write our name in honors gilded dome, 
 Can stir the heart like love's melodious fount, 
 
 The dear old place, the dear old cottage home. 
 
 «£*«£• 
 
 THE PANSY. 
 
 EAR pansy, thou model of grace 
 
 That blooms in the garden bed, 
 ^Lifting thy loving face 
 
 To welcome the sun's embrace, 
 When gloom of the night has fled, 
 
 Beautiful color inbred, 
 Beautiful thought is sped, 
 Dear pansy. 
 
 Oh maid of the garden space, 
 Queen of a dainty race ; 
 Race in which beauty is said 
 To be with the sunbeams wed, 
 Come lighten this darksome place, 
 Dear pansy. 
 27 
 
THE POWER OF THE PEN. 
 
 'M but a simple, inanimate thing 
 
 Though great is my power to sigh or 
 
 sing; 
 The stream of my life is the flowing 
 
 ink; 
 The wisdom of men is my food and 
 
 drink, 
 And my inner soul is the thoughts men 
 
 think. 
 
 I wrote for tyrants their harsh decrees; 
 I robbed those tyrants of careless ease; 
 I wrote the message that freed the slave; 
 I mocked the planning of traitor knave; 
 I caused the people to wail and weep; 
 I lulled their senses to careless sleep; 
 I wrote the stories of demons low 
 That dwell in hades where lost souls go; 
 I wrote for lovers sweet songs of love 
 And sang of gleaming heaven above; 
 I rule the forces in bloody war; 
 The fame of monarchs I make or mar; 
 I reign o'er nations in time of peace 
 When hand of plenty their stores increase; 
 I reign when famine rides o'er the land 
 And spreads its blackness with blighting hand; 
 I mark the prices in marts of trade; 
 I pierce the gloomy dark lands of shade; 
 I've caused the bravest to sob and sigh; 
 I've caused the strongest to droop and die. 
 28 
 
Though my form be of gold or baser steel, 
 Yet powerful am I for woe or weal, 
 For never a song have the poets sang 
 Nor never a tale into being sprang 
 But echoing sound has my praises rang. 
 
 Only a simple inanimate thing, 
 Yet potent to sooth or mighty to sting; 
 And sages have said again and again, 
 In matters of state and councils of men, 
 Greater than all is the power of the pen. 
 
 «,?•«,$» 
 
 THE ROBIN. 
 
 ROBIN sat on a leafless tree 
 In the March wind cold and dreary, 
 Trilling a note from his tiny throat, 
 Filling the air with melody rare 
 Of a songlet sweet and cheery. 
 
 The robin sang, as he sat at rest, 
 On the bough the wind was swaying, 
 With never a care for branches bare 
 Or wintry woe of the things below, 
 Over which the wind was playing. 
 
 The robin sat in a pensive mood 
 'Til he heard the distant rumbling 
 Of noisy sound roll over the ground 
 In a fearful way that cold March day, 
 Iyike the voice of thunder grumbling ; 
 
 Then spreading his wings away he flew 
 Ivike a flash of sunlight fleeing 
 On the wings of light before the night, 
 That never will stay where gloom holds sway 
 O'er the souls of men unseeing. 
 29 
 
THE POET'S FRIENDS. 
 
 ~\ 
 
 f POET oft has visitors 
 
 That others never see; 
 When free from all in- 
 quisitors 
 They are with him 
 
 quite free; 
 Untrammeled by in- 
 tentional 
 Restraint of things 
 conventional, 
 Themselves, they dare to be; 
 And, though unlike to other eyes, 
 A poet makes them harmonize 
 With ways and means at his command, 
 So other men may understand. 
 
 Here is a partial calling list 
 
 Of friends a rhyming bard has kissed. 
 
 The summer breeze, the gloom, the light, 
 The shade of long departed night, 
 Love by sorrow unembarrassed, 
 Joy by trouble never harassed, 
 Labor with its lot contented, 
 Troubled dreaming unlamented, 
 Sins unholy unrepented, 
 30 
 
Rays of learning, days of yearning-, 
 Hateful spurning, gracious turning, 
 Meanings hidden, ways forbidden, 
 Hobbies by their riders ridden, 
 All the notes of future songs, 
 All the woes of human wrongs, 
 Gleeful tales, and merry joking, 
 Weary wails of chronic croaking, 
 Sorrows sighing, senseless tears, 
 Gloomy thoughts, and hidden fears, 
 Spirit voices, onward started 
 To assuage the broken-hearted, 
 Melodies of bygone days, 
 Glints of color, sunny rays, 
 Songs of life and hymns of praise, 
 Fits of rhyming, bits of jingle 
 Mix, unite, and intermingle 
 With a troop of dreamy fancies 
 And a wealth of life's romances 
 That before a poet dances. 
 
 All of these and many more 
 Meet within a poet's door, 
 When the hours of evening tell 
 Silence rules with witching spell ; 
 Each in turn a moment spending 
 Each in turn a favor lending; 
 Harmony from chaos blending, 
 Aiding in sublime creation l 
 Of a poet's inspiration. 
 
 31 
 
A HOME DIVINE. 
 
 S there a home beyond, 
 
 A heaven far away, 
 Where sonls of men may soar 
 
 When freed from earthly clay? 
 Tell me, thou moon benign, 
 Ere thou from sight decline, 
 Is there a home divine? 
 
 Tell me, ye fleecy clouds 
 That fleck the blue on high, 
 
 Is there a home beyond, 
 A mansion in the sky, 
 
 Where souls shall ne'er repine, 
 
 And love round hearts entwine, 
 
 A place of God's design? 
 
 Tell me, untrammeled sun, 
 Whose never less'ning rays 
 
 Shed down on mother earth 
 A wealth of golden days, 
 
 Is there a home sublime, 
 
 Where thoughts will sweetly chime 
 
 Unto the end of time? 
 
 Or thou, soft summer breeze, 
 That cools the heated brow 
 Of moving men who please 
 To dwell in land of now, 
 Is there another clime 
 Unstained by mocking mime, 
 Where human souls may climb? 
 32 
 
1 
 
 The moon no answer gave, 
 The clouds in silence fled, 
 
 The glowing sun stood still, 
 While summer breezes said, 
 
 " There is a home divine, 
 
 A place of God's design, 
 
 Where life should love enshrine. 
 
 " But 't is not far away 
 
 Beyond that sky of blue, 
 Where twinkling stars of night 
 
 Like diamonds sparkle through. 
 If I must now define 
 That place of God's design 
 <Tis in that heart of thine." 
 
 A heaven is within 
 
 Each throbbing human heart, 
 And is, of God's design, 
 
 The true, inceptive part. 
 Love and thy soul will chime 
 With notes of joy sublime, 
 On, on to end of time. 
 
 
 A FRAGMENT/ 
 
 HEN your fancy flies beyond the skies 
 
 Keep an anchor out below 
 For a joy lies in earthly ties 
 
 That the angels never know, 
 And an earthly friend, you may depend, 
 
 Is a gem of rarest worth, 
 Spreading a light through the darkest night 
 
 That hovers o'er mother earth. 
 
 33 
 
B 
 
 WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 
 
 LOW on, ye wintry breezes blow, 
 
 And drift ye white winged clouds of snow; 
 Freeze hard ye blighting imps of frost 
 
 That chill the birds on wild winds tossed; 
 
 And wail ye wires by storm king crossed, 
 
 Like eerie cries of sad souls lost. 
 
 The wild winds' blow weds white winged snow 
 
 To darker gloom of wintry woe. 
 
 Burn on, thou coal fire ruddy red, 
 Shooting bright gleams from out thy bed; 
 Shine on, thou lamp's resplendent light, 
 Dispelling shades of falling night; 
 Sing on, thou steaming kettle bright, 
 Like droning song of careless wight; 
 The coal fire's red to lamplight wed, 
 Their cheerful glow in home cot spread. 
 
 The storm without with roaring din 
 Mellows the light and warmth within; 
 The wailing wires, in wild, weird song 
 Makes droning kettle to joy belong; 
 The wind and snow, so fierce and strong^ 
 Fall in their might on toiling throng 
 That fight to win 'gainst blighting sin 
 Of storm without and want within. 
 
 34 
 
LAUGH WHILE YOU MAY. 
 
 HY sigh o'er the woes of the world 
 And suffer the tortures of gloom ? 
 Better to laugh than to sigh, my friend, 
 On your onward march to the tomb. 
 Laugh while you may for the tears will come 
 
 When the tender voice of your loved is dumb, 
 And you bow in grief o'er sainted dead 
 Whose breathing soul from earth has fled. 
 
 Why weep o'er the wrongs of the world 
 
 And harrow your soul with its woe ? 
 Better to smile than to weep, my friend, 
 
 Though the wrongs o'er your life may flow. 
 Smile while you may for weep you must 
 
 When pain and grief in your life is thrust, 
 And dull despair seems dark as the night 
 
 When moon and stars are hidden from sight. 
 
 Why cry o'er the troubles of life 
 
 And worry your soul with its wrongs ? 
 Do what you can with laugh and smile 
 
 That to beautiful life belongs. 
 Smile while you may and laugh while you can, 
 
 Do not bemoan the follies of man. 
 'Tis better to laugh than to sadly sigh, 
 
 For the smiles shall live when the tears are dry. 
 
 35 
 
THE GLOWING OLD STOVE. 
 
 >HEN a fellow is mired, in his feelings so tired 
 That he hates all the labors of life, 
 And in misery feels that the future reveals 
 Only hurry and worry and strife, 
 There is comfort in store, yes, there's comfort galore, 
 
 When home from his toil he does rove, 
 And forgetting his sins he sits toasting his shins 
 By the warmth of the glowing old stove. 
 
 You may talk, you may sing of the beauties of spring 
 
 Or the glories of summer and fall, 
 Of the glimmer and glow of the scenes that you know 
 
 And their memories fondly recall ; 
 But there's none can compare, none so bright, none so 
 fair, 
 
 Though through fanciful scenes you may rove, 
 As that old sitting-room filled with glory and bloom, 
 
 Of that cheery and glowing old stove. 
 
 It's comfort delightful, so cosy and sightful 
 
 When the daylight is blending with night, 
 Makes fretting and worry disappear in a hurry, 
 
 And brushes the gloom out of sight ; 
 Its gleams and its glances, its fairy-like fancies, 
 
 Is with comfort and peace interwove ; 
 And life's scrimpy measure is balanced with pleasure 
 
 By that gleaming and glowing old stove. 
 
 36 
 
MEDITATION. 
 
 ACH pleasure has its pain, 
 
 Each loss its gain, 
 Today a sunlit sky, 
 
 Tomorrow rain. 
 A cloudless sky may burn 
 
 So hearts will yearn 
 For darkness of the clouds 
 
 To soon return. 
 
 Each joy has its grief, 
 
 Each grief relief, 
 The clouds that hide the light 
 
 In life is brief ; 
 The darkest day will wane, 
 
 Its force is slain 
 When ruddy beaming light 
 
 Breaks forth again. 
 
 Each bitter has its sweet, 
 
 Each sweet deceit, 
 No single thing in life 
 
 Holds all complete. 
 The pleasure and the pain 
 
 Is life's refrain ; 
 The saddest souls shall wake 
 
 To smiles again. 
 
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AFTER ALL. 
 
 FTER all, what is life 
 But a round of constant strife, 
 Clouds and sunshine, storm 
 
 and calm, 
 Want and plenty, burns and 
 
 balm? 
 Dire distress in a measure 
 Overshades all human pleas- 
 ure ; 
 This is life, after all. 
 
 After all, which is best 
 Human souls to fairly test, 
 Bitterness without alloy, 
 Or unbounded human joy ? 
 Loving friendship full and sweet, 
 Or ambitious work complete ? 
 
 Which is best, after all ? 
 
 After all, do we know 
 What we need while here below ? 
 Can we say without delay 
 Which is best, to work or play ? 
 Pleasure with its careless prattle, 
 Labor with its ceaseless battle ? 
 
 Do we know, after all ? 
 
 After all, what is death 
 But a lack of living breath ? 
 Just a stoppage in the sowing 
 Of the seeds by waters flowing ; 
 Just some friends in sorrow parting 
 From a soul on journey starting ; 
 
 This is death, after all. 
 40 
 
LOVE ME. 
 
 OVE me, love only me," she sang, 
 And soft and sweet the echo rang — 
 Love me, love only me. 
 
 My heart is true, aye, fondly true, 
 Where'er you go, I long for you, 
 And free I cannot be." 
 
 u When sunlight shines and sun- 
 beams glide 
 O'er dreamy vales where fancies ride, 
 
 I feel the breezes blow 
 My thoughts to you as, never blew 
 The softest breeze a song for you 
 Or waft of joy below. 
 
 " When shadows shade the gleams of light 
 And hide the sunbeams from your sight, 
 
 My soul will sail to thee 
 And sympathize when doubts arise 
 To hide the paths where duty lies 
 
 O'er mountain, hill, and lea. 
 
 " Love me, love only me, and feel 
 The joy of love soft o'er you steal 
 
 And fill you with delight 
 Of cupid's still, yet tender thrill 
 Applied with all his loving skill 
 
 To make your life more bright. 
 
 " Love me, love only me," she sang, 
 And soft and sweet the echo rang — 
 
 " Love me, love only me. 
 My heart is true, aye, fondly true, 
 Where'er you go, I long for you, 
 And free I cannot be." 
 
 4T 
 
DO YOU LIKE ME? 
 
 O you like me ? " she entreated, 
 " Do you like me ? " she repeated, 
 " Just as well as when we wed ? 
 Just as well as when you said 
 You would ever fondly cherish, 
 Love and keep me 'till you'd perish 
 From this earth where loving heart 
 Sees in sorrow love depart ? 
 
 " Do you like me? " she proceeded, 
 " Just as well as when you pleaded 
 
 You'd be ever fond and true 
 
 If my heart I gave to you ? 
 
 Like me less, or like me more, 
 
 Than you ever did before 
 
 We had started life to travel, 
 
 And its secrets to unravel ? 
 
 " Do you like me? " she demanded, 
 " Tell me quickly," she commanded. 
 " Is my presence still a pleasure? 
 
 Am I still your dearest treasure ? 
 
 Do you like me? " she persisted, 
 " Like my cheek as when you kissed it 
 
 On the porch at even-tide, 
 
 Long ere I became your bride ? " 
 
 And the husband, old offender, 
 
 Acting like a lover tender, 
 
 Out of trouble to assist her, 
 
 Drew her gently near and kissed her ; 
 
 Then he said : " I must confess 
 
 If I ever liked you less 
 
 Than I did in days of yore 
 
 Now I love you, love you more." 
 
 42 
 
PLEADING THE CASE. 
 
 NE balmy summer evening 
 In the pleasant month of June, 
 
 When the air was sweet and fragrant 
 And all nature was in tune, 
 
 A loving couple tarried 
 
 'Till the hour was growing late, 
 'Neath the shadow of the maples 
 
 That shade the garden gate. 
 
 Their talk was low and earnest 
 As they spoke of things above, 
 
 Of life's divinest treasure 
 The glorious theme of love. 
 
 And just before they parted, 
 
 As a taste of earthly bliss, 
 The youth from gentle maiden, 
 
 Pleaded strongly for a kiss. 
 
 Soft came the maiden's answer, 
 " Do you know it's after ten ? 
 And that I promised mamma 
 Never to kiss the young men ? " 
 
 The youth, well trained to reason, 
 Took the maiden's answer in, 
 
 Said he, " To break a promise 
 Is considered quite a sin. 
 
 " No need to kiss the young men, 
 To your promise you'll be true 
 If you are simply passive 
 
 While this young man kisses you." 
 
 43 
 
o 
 
 THE OBITUARY POET. 
 
 HE obituary poet, 
 
 As he rolls his doleful rhyme, 
 Ties a tearful tether 
 
 To the feet of " Father Time." 
 As he wakes the woeful echoes 
 
 With the wailing cry, " Thou didst, 
 Oh Time, thou fearful reaper, 
 
 Take a comrade from our midst ! " 
 
 The somber clouds of sorrow 
 
 Finds him first among his peers 
 At soothing sighs and sobbing, 
 
 And weeping endless tears. 
 Now when at last he reaches 
 
 The sky's ethereal blue, 
 Where all is bright and cheerful, 
 
 What will this poet do ? 
 
 He'll seek Thee, angel Gabriel, 
 
 Wherever Thou art hidst, 
 And say, " My muse is rusting 
 
 Drop an angel from our midst." 
 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 NLY a flower I give to thee 
 As earnest of my wish to see 
 Your life expand and fill the air 
 Like scented sweets from blossoms fair. 
 Only a flower yet it will tell 
 The story we have liked so well — 
 The old, old tale, yet always new, 
 Oh may it ever be so to you ! 
 
 44 
 
AN INTERESTING STORY. 
 
 NCE there was a boy just like us, 
 Who ran away from school 
 Because the teacher pinched his ear, 
 
 And set him on a stool. 
 The teacher sent the truant man 
 To try and fetch him back, 
 And soon that man was running hard 
 Right after little Jack. 
 45 
 
But say, that boy was far too smart 
 
 To run his breath away, 
 So sneaked into a farmer's cart 
 
 And hid beneath some hay. 
 Right in that cart there was a lot 
 
 Of 'splosive dynamite 
 That mister farmer just had bought 
 
 To blow stumps out of sight. 
 The farmer's horses ran away 
 
 And threw the farmer out ; 
 Poor little Jack got 'fraid and then 
 
 Began to squall and shout ; 
 The horses ran like crazy mad, 
 
 The cart struck ev'ry bump 
 And kept poor Jack afalling down 
 
 So that he couldn't jump. 
 At last they ran into a wall 
 
 Crash-i-ty bang kr-whack, 
 The 'splosive blew poor Jack so high 
 
 That he never came back. 
 
 J>j> 
 
 JENNIE. 
 
 :-ENNIE sat upon my knee, 
 
 Never blushing as I kissed her ; 
 And the name, she gave to me, 
 
 Was not cold and formal mister. 
 Oft in dreams her form I see, 
 
 Though for years my sight has missed her, 
 Surely she still thinks of me, 
 
 And the days when oft I kissed her. 
 Jennie's age was only three ; 
 
 Jennie was my little sister. 
 46 
 
A MEASURE OF RIGHT. 
 
 AR with its trials and its 
 triumphs 
 Is a medley of groaning and 
 cheers ; 
 To-day we are covered with 
 glory, 
 To-morrow may bathe us in 
 tears ; 
 But hardest of all is the waiting, 
 
 While time seems to drag in its flight 
 Like slow moving dawn of the morning 
 When misery reigns in the night. 
 
 The rushing and roaring of cannon, 
 
 The sound of the riflery's din, 
 Makes bravery seemingly common 
 
 In soldiers who struggle to win ; 
 But it's hard in the pits and the trenches* 
 
 'Neath rays of a sweltering sun, 
 To drown out the deep fires of longing 
 
 That the mutter of battle be done. 
 
 Emblazon the heroes of battle 
 
 With highest of honor and praise, 
 Who fought on the land and the water 
 
 To mark war's historical days ; 
 But give to the heroes who waited 
 
 In patience, the fight to renew 
 If the first of our army was routed, 
 
 A tithe of the honor their due. 
 47 
 
In truth, in the camp there were heroes 
 
 Who fought against feverish pain, 
 An enemy more to be dreaded 
 
 Than treacherous minions of Spain. 
 A health to the heroes of battle 
 
 Who fought in each glorious fight, 
 A health to the heroes who waited 
 
 Is simply a measure of right. 
 
 jfrj* 
 
 A CYCLING SCENE. 
 
 YOUTH, a maid, a wheel for two, 
 A country path, a pretty view 
 Of rural life serene. 
 
 Said youth to maid, " What bliss to kiss, 
 There's naught prevents but only this 
 Forbidding space between." 
 
 Said maid to youth, " You must not dare 
 To kiss me here, or anywhere, 
 
 To kiss me would be mean, 
 
 Unless, — unless," — she backward turned 
 Her pretty face where blushes burned — 
 " Unless I backward lean." 
 
 A dash, a crash, they own 'twas rash, 
 But then they did not mean to smash 
 Their careless old machine. 
 
 48 
 
CAPTAIN DICK. 
 
 \0 the peaceful town of Marshall, 
 
 After Spaniards sank the Maine, 
 Came the call for earnest soldiers 
 
 To destroy the power of Spain. 
 Out from field and farm and office, 
 
 Out from every walk of life, 
 Came the peaceful, earnest toilers, 
 
 Seeking glory in the strife ; 
 
 And among the first to offer 
 
 Service to avenge the stain 
 Cast upon our country's honor, 
 
 By the treachery of Spain, 
 Was the gallant Richard Lockton, 
 
 Of her sterling sons the pick, 
 Whom to know was but to honor," 
 
 And they made him Captain Dick. 
 
 49 
 
Uncomplaining, fearless fellow, 
 
 Daring ever for the right, 
 Friends and soldiers found him always 
 
 Making ready for the fight 
 Cheerfully, when days were gloomy v 
 
 Doing duty's hardest part. 
 Captain, yet a loving comrade, 
 
 Binding closer heart to heart. 
 
 Others sing of sons of battle, 
 
 Heroes brave of fighting days, 
 And no patriot would lessen 
 
 By a jot their meed of praise, 
 Still it is but just to render 
 
 Rightful praise to those who sought 
 To uphold a nation's honor 
 
 Though they never fired a shot. 
 
 Bravery, the mark of courage, 
 
 May not ever have a chance 
 To attain the height of glory 
 
 In the fighting van's advance, 
 But the things that mark the hero 
 
 As above his fellowman, 
 Is the will to do his duty 
 
 Fearlessly when'er he can. 
 
 Orders from the Great Commander 
 
 Called his body to the grave, 
 And like fallen sons of battle 
 
 Life for us he surely gave. 
 Render unto him the tribute 
 
 Rightfully a hero's due ; 
 Friend and brother, comrade, captain, 
 
 Ever faithful, ever true. 
 50 
 
If immortal is the spirit 
 
 When from mortal body free, 
 Then there must be life forever 
 
 For a comrade such as he ; 
 And if all the friends of Marshall 
 
 Could their future mansions pick, 
 They would surely be close neighbors 
 
 To the gallant Captain Dick. 
 
 
 SHE SPURS ME ON. 
 
 HE spurs me on, my thoughts to tell 
 In rhyming verse that jingles well, 
 Some talent may within me lie 
 But 'tis the kindling of her eye 
 That bids me climb where others fell. 
 
 When fancy takes an upward spell 
 And wings to where the angels dwell, 
 I follow fast where fancies fly, 
 
 She spurs me on. 
 Though gloomy thought may light repel 
 And seem to sound the parting knell 
 Between the tender muse and I ; 
 From me escapes no grieving sigh ; 
 She says, my verse will yet excel ; 
 
 She spurs me on. 
 51 
 
HE SLEEPS, 
 
 Respectfully dedicated to the memory of Private 
 Don Stevens of Co. D, 32d Regiment, U. S. V., the 
 first member of Company D to answer to the last 
 roll-call. 
 
 He sleeps, he hears not now the trumpet call. 
 His march is o'er, a gallant hero's soul 
 
 Has passed beyond the realm where soldiers fall 
 To enter in where angel scribes enroll 
 Each hero's name on an immortal scroll. 
 
 He sleeps, his race is run, the war is o'er 
 
 That spurred his youthful heart to dare and do. 
 
 This life is past, not dead, but gone before 
 To tell the tale of heroes tried and true 
 Who answered < ' here, " and bravely donned the blue. 
 
 He sleeps, he sleeps, while weeping comrades mourn, 
 And wakens not at grieving parents' sigh. 
 
 His freeman's soul is not of glory shorn, 
 
 Though parting day came not as soldiers die 
 When trumpet sound swells loud the battle-cry. 
 
 He sleeps, a soldier sleeps, his voice is still. 
 No earthly cry can ere his spirit start; 
 
 But God is just, and all his mercies will 
 Flow gently o'er a sleeping hero's heart, 
 And with his love eternal joy impart. 
 
 52 
 
PLAIN AMERICANS. 
 
 UST we be always aliens ? 
 
 We men of foreign birth 
 Who have foresworn allegiance 
 
 To potentates of earth, 
 To kings and queens or princes, 
 
 Who ruled our native land, 
 And crushed out independence 
 
 With weight of tyrant hand ? 
 
 Must we be Scotch or Irish 
 
 When strife is at its worst ? 
 Be Germans, French, or English, 
 
 When war-clouds o'er us burst ? 
 Deride, denounce, the country 
 
 That has our manhood nursed, 
 While gratitude would seem to say 
 
 That country should be first ? 
 
 To love the songs of country, 
 
 The memory of hills 
 Whereon our feet have trodden, 
 
 No thought of wrong instills 
 To honor deeds of valor, 
 
 Wrought out in freedom's cause 
 By gallant sons of battle, 
 
 Wins all the worlds' applause. 
 
 To feel the pride of nations 
 Course onward like a flood, 
 
 Through tingling veins of manhood 
 Is worthy pride of blood. 
 
 53 
 
But mark : 'tis depth of treason, 
 A thousand times increased, 
 
 To plot against a country 
 While at its board you feast. 
 
 Must we be always aliens, 
 
 Untouched by moving tide 
 Of even-handed justice 
 
 From which all traitors hide ? 
 Be French, or Scotch, or German, 
 
 When we have all foresworn 
 Allegiance to all rulers 
 
 Of lands where we were born ? 
 
 Be men without a country, 
 Self-outlawed from the land 
 
 Of birth or of adoption, 
 As treason may command ; 
 
 Be hyphenated bubbles, 
 Each jealous breeze may burst, 
 
 Why not be plain Americans 
 And hold this country first ? 
 
 j* j* 
 
 A FRAGMENT* 
 
 OULD we count the throbs of human hearts, 
 
 Could we feel their pulses beat, 
 If we rose to realm where spirit parts 
 
 With the clay of earthly feet ! 
 Could we cure the wrongs that men endure, 
 
 Could we feel a brother's love 
 If the cares of life we would abjure 
 
 And soar to a realm above ? 
 
 54 
 
THAT LAST SWEET SONG. 
 
 Y heart is sore, I cannot sing 
 
 The dear old songs I used to know, 
 Though measures to my heart still cling 
 Of bygone music sweet and low; 
 My mem'ry turns to days of bliss 
 
 When, by the rambling river shore, 
 I tasted joy of mother's kiss 
 
 And dreamed of joy fore vermore. 
 
 My mother sang of rolling sea 
 
 And bounding barks that o'er it glide, 
 Of soaring eagles, wild and free, 
 
 That far from haunts of men abide, 
 Of babbling brooks and bubbling springs 
 
 That sparkle in the grassy lea, 
 But to my soul the echo clings 
 
 Of last sweet song she sang to me. 
 
 She sang of home, the dearest place, 
 
 That brightly decks the fairest land, 
 And lends its light the earth to grace 
 
 When fearless love is in command. 
 The humble cot or palace fine, 
 
 Where rules the cheery charm of love, 
 Awakes the soul to love divine 
 
 That reigns supreme in Heaven above. 
 
 Though now afar from her I roam, 
 
 And hear no more her loving voice, 
 I often dream of dear old home 
 
 And waking thoughts in dreams rejoice. 
 As o'er the land I wander forth, 
 
 Where'er my humble lot may be, 
 I'll prize as gem of priceless worth 
 
 That last sweet song she sang to me. 
 
WHAT'S IN A NAME. 
 
 PAINTED rose in gilded frame 
 
 Was placed where all might see, 
 And on it was the artist's name 
 
 Where it is wont to be; 
 Great crowds of wond'ring people came 
 
 To see that painted rose, 
 Drawn by the power of painter's fame 
 
 Who drew its graceful pose. 
 
 A critic came to test its worth, 
 
 And called it wondrous fine; 
 In admiration gave it forth 
 
 As handiwork divine. 
 " 'Tis true to life," the critic said. 
 
 " 'Tis like the living flower 
 That ope's its petals rosy red 
 
 In dewy morning hour." 
 
 A humble artist loving art, 
 
 As mother loves her child, 
 While dwelling close to nature's heart, 
 
 His leisure hours beguiled 
 By rambling o'er the flowery lea 
 
 Where fragrant blossoms grow, 
 In wild profusion glad and free, 
 
 Near brooklet's babbling flow. 
 
 This humble artist went one day 
 
 To see that pictured rose 
 That in its sparkling splendor lay, 
 
 A sovereign in repose. 
 He noted there the artist's name, 
 
 And this conclusion drew, 
 That it was magic hand of fame 
 
 That gave it proper due. 
 
 56 
 
TO CONDUCTOR G. H. ON HIS 45th BIRTHDAY. 
 
 UT on the brakes and stop the train, 
 You've reached the starting point again 
 Where time with his unresting feet 
 His yearly round has made complete, 
 And started in his usual style 
 To course around another mile. 
 Toot, toot, you're off, away once more 
 Upon the road you've gone before, 
 To jog along up hill and down, 
 Through ruddy light and cloudy frown, 
 O'er life's as yet unrusted rail 
 That you have never known to fail. 
 We're here to cheer you from the heart 
 And help you make another start, 
 To take a friendly neighbors' stand 
 And lend a hand to give you sand, 
 And start you out with our good will 
 On time to climb another hill. 
 Call in the flag, the way is clear, 
 A wreck we have no need to fear 
 For friendship with its sunny ray 
 Here drives all gloomy thought away. 
 Put on the brakes we're just on time, 
 So need no more of rhymer's rhyme. 
 
THE BLUES. 
 
 HAT care I for the songs of childhood, 
 Or simple joys of bygone days; 
 For the summer sheen of tangled wildwood 
 Where the songbirds trill their simple lays; 
 For waters still or for waters flowing, 
 
 The placid lake or the rippling stream; 
 For sunbeams glow through darkness showing, 
 
 Lighting the gloom with a fitful gleam; 
 For the sad sea- waves or blooming meadow, 
 
 The mountain high with its snow-capped peak 
 That casts o'er the vale a giant shadow 
 
 Glooming the day when the light is weak; 
 For snow or frost in sunlight gleaming, 
 
 The sun's red rays or the beaming moon; 
 For soft'ning sway of pleasant dreaming, 
 
 With all the world I am out of tune; 
 And the way of life seems sad and dreary 
 
 As moaning winds when the night is long, 
 Chilling the soul of the bright and cheery 
 
 With mournful notes of a wailing song. 
 The smile and laugh seems to turn to sighing; 
 
 The voice of mirth is a painful groan, 
 While the gleams of light are swiftly dying 
 
 And darkness reigns o'er the earth alone. 
 All faith and hope to sweet mercy clinging 
 
 Has sunk to the depth of dull despair, 
 While the chimes of love in softness ringing, 
 
 Have an empty sound and gloomy air. 
 Earth's every joy seems bathed in sorrow, 
 
 The light dissolves into darkest views. 
 Oh, how I long for the coming morrow! 
 
 For to-night! to-night! I have the blues! 
 
 58 
 
J J^YS^r^ * : - £hV^»i^— ^^^^ 
 
 
 
 ^_^=z_ X^o^ucic |ake 
 !/jj|_Uv\o>Ya lake where beauty dwells 
 
 / 
 
 Vn bidder 
 | .Among; the rolling hills and jelb 
 
 \A/l r i ,IS h»c)der\ 
 
 Vvr\ec\ bojf the summer breezes blow 
 Oer waters ripplir\c5 to and fro 
 I (juichjy hasten there to go 
 
 And gentle thought s with naught of woe' 
 
 I carry . 
 
 H is not in some {airy land 
 
 n Of btory, 
 
 iJut sjoreads itb Waters r\ear at hand 
 
 W- L • In plo 
 
 VVitr\m my reacr\ or\ bummer day 
 When Wintry oloorn. has hid away. 
 And beaming; Sunshine holds itb sway 
 
 Unje He red 
 And songbirds sing th.<?ir sweetest /ay 
 
 Unlettered 
 
 J Know itb shallows and its deeps 
 Wl a Unrneasu.^ 
 
 Where jlcibhnia" sunbeams' dlcmcincj leaps 
 
 >Are treasured 
 Cach sandy beach and shady nook 
 from Wilkiros cove to Mincfes firook 
 Tnat round ifs Waters curve and crook 
 a c ■ , c , . £ricKanfin.a;. 
 
 /A j airy gleam trom natures book ■ 
 
 Implanting 
 
 ) know its islands coves and bays 
 
 \A/L n \ ■ ... Unnumbered, 
 
 VYr\ere pashmg, dashing, bunny rays 
 
 Un , ii j , Wave slumbered 
 
 Until awaKened by ti\e breeze 
 
 That softly stirb the leajy trees 
 , /Where robins poise in graceful ease 
 if* , r Contented. 
 
 "'"'5 there a soul Jrom scenes tike fr\ese 
 
 prevented ' - j fi ' ^-f r ^ 
 
FEB. 22nd. 1895. 
 
 N eighteen hundred, eighty five 
 One winter's day, a babe 
 was born; 
 While yet this babe is still 
 alive 
 The name of babe he holds 
 in scorn. 
 
 This babe is ten years old to-day 
 
 And proudly thinks he's most a man, 
 
 Just like all boys, in every way, 
 Since first this world of ours began. 
 
 The babe has gone, yes, this is true, 
 As though he'd passed to realms above; 
 
 The dimpled babe with eyes of blue 
 That mother's heart did fondly love, 
 
 Is surely gone and in his place 
 
 There lives a boy both tall and strong, 
 
 Of sturdy mien and pleasant face, 
 Who loves the music of life's song! 
 
 Oh Thou, who knoweth every heart! 
 
 Give us wisdom, strength, and grace, 
 To help him rightly play his part 
 
 In life's stern and earnest race. 
 
 60 
 
OUR CIVIC FLAG, 
 
 Written during the competition for best design for a civic 
 flag for Battle Creek. 
 
 WE want a flag 
 No painted rag 
 
 Of which to brag, 
 But something that will mark and tell, 
 In colors bright, our story well. 
 
 Some bright design 
 
 That will incline 
 
 Your thoughts and mine 
 To local pride in our old town 
 And mark the way it won renown. 
 
 Come let us see 
 
 What it will be. 
 
 We all agree 
 That beauty is, of course, the thing 
 We want to see the artist bring 
 
 Quick to his aid, 
 
 Ere flag is made, 
 
 And prize is paid. 
 The flag's design must be unique, 
 And free from must of things antique, 
 
 Yet not a freak 
 
 That ill may speak 
 
 Of Battle Creek. 
 We need a flag, yes, that is plain, 
 If we our prestige would maintain; 
 
 And I suggest 
 
 To aid the quest 
 
 To find the best 
 Design or plan for flag of ours, 
 That we display on it the powers 
 
 That laid the frame 
 
 Of city's name 
 
 On hill of fame. 
 
 61 
 
A wreath of pumps on field of green 
 And underneath a big machine 
 
 That threshes grain; 
 A border of a row of books, 
 With Postum in the corner crooks; 
 
 And health-food plain; 
 A background of two health resorts, 
 And some official health reports 
 
 Of death rates low; 
 And scattered o'er the face of it 
 Some specimens of city wit 
 
 To make a show 
 That letters have not been forgot 
 While fame in other fields we sought. 
 
 On other side, 
 The placid lake with fringe of green, 
 Some lawyers gazing on the scene 
 
 With hunted look; 
 They want to bathe yet are dismayed 
 By waters, to the lake, conveyed 
 
 By Minges Brook. 
 Of course, the artist must not fail 
 To paint all things in close detail 
 
 Or some will pout 
 And claim the picture is untrue, 
 Or is a weak, one-sided view 
 
 If they're left out. 
 We want a flag. Do we forget 
 The flag that floats above us yet? 
 
 Nay, not at all. 
 We want a flag to call our own 
 And place above the mayor's throne 
 
 In City Hall. 
 
 62 
 
A TRIBUTE. 
 
 To the ladies quartette of Battle Creek, Mich., whose rendering of "My Old Ken- 
 tucky Home" is an inspiration. 
 
 HERB is music so celestial 
 
 That it elevates the soul, 
 And in a grand cathedral 
 
 You may hear its rhythmic roll, 
 When the voices of the chorus 
 
 Softly joins the organ's notes 
 'Till the music of the anthem 
 
 Seems to fall from angels' throats; 
 
 But there's music that is dearer 
 
 To the throbbing human heart 
 And the message seems much 
 clearer 
 That the voices would impart, 
 When a gentle human quartette 
 Stays the senses as they roam, 
 With soft melody of music 
 
 Of, "My Old Kentucky Home." 
 
 Filled with human aspirations, 
 
 We of heavenly song may dream, 
 But we draw our inspirations 
 
 From some tender, human theme. 
 Sleeping memories are awakened, 
 
 Backward once again to roam, 
 When that gentle human quartette 
 
 Sings, "My Old Kentucky Home." 
 
 63 
 
TO HEARTS THAT FEEL. 
 
 HERE rambling river, river 
 meets, 
 
 And wind around 'midst 
 rambling streets, 
 
 Within ♦ that queer old ram- 
 bling town; 
 
 Where valleys smile and hill-tops frown, 
 In good old State of Wolverine, 
 In town of all the west, the queen; 
 Where curfew rings the hour of nine 
 Each fleeting evening dull or fine, 
 To let the playful youngsters know 
 That to their homes 'tis time to go, 
 And snuggle down their weary heads 
 Within their warm and cosy beds, 
 To dream of marbles, tops, and games, 
 Of queer designs, and queerer names. 
 
 Here, on a blust'ring winter's eve 
 When earth in sorrow seemed to grieve 
 O'er its glad summer's glory fled, 
 To mingle with departed dead, 
 Gone from the gaze of mortal eyes 
 Like water that from rivers rise 
 To fall again when nature deigns 
 To please the earth with gladsome rains; 
 Or like the sunbeams fleeing fast 
 Before the clouds from Heaven cast; 
 Like joys of life that flee before 
 The clouds of grief life holds in store, 
 64 
 
Two ragged lads so thinly dressed 
 That winter's blast their forms oppressed, 
 With quick'ning footsteps wend their way 
 To view the stores with beauty gay, 
 For Christmas day, when Christ was born, 
 Will dawn with breaking of the morn. 
 With gaudy show they feast their eyes, 
 That in each lighted window lies, 
 And mark the wealth within the doors 
 Of all the brightly gilded stores. 
 
 They view the rushing, crushing throng 
 As happily it moves along; 
 But. sigh to find they have no share 
 In happiness that's pictured there. 
 They homeward turn as curfew note 
 Falls from the ringing, brazen throat 
 Of bell high up in old church tower, 
 Built there to mark the Savior's power 
 Who gave his spotless life to prove 
 To human souls his depth of love. 
 Oh Tom and Joe! ye longing lads! 
 This world is full of modern fads 
 Planned, with intentions very good> 
 To better mankind's mental food; 
 But sometimes in our rush and hurry 
 In ignorance, the brain we bury 
 'Neath loads of care and weights of woe 
 That over struggling lives we throw; 
 Unheeding needs of Jesus' poor 
 That misery of want endure. 
 But to my tale. They onward roam 
 And reach at last their humble home 
 To breath a tale in mother's ear 
 Of how the busy streets appear 
 In splendid garb of Christmas eve 
 That fairy hands have seemed to weave, 
 65 
 
Then softly ask if Santa Claus 
 Will ever at their dwelling pause 
 To give from out his magic pack 
 Some earthly comforts that they lack. 
 The mother here the gloom conceals 
 That deep within her heart she feels, 
 While to the grief of Tom and Joe, 
 She falters out a trembling no. 
 
 Oh, Thou, who doeth all things well 
 Cast o'er the hearts of men a spell 
 And cause their aid to freely flow 
 Quick to relieve poor Tom and Joe. 
 
 
 IN REMEMBRANCE. 
 
 BRING no costly presents to renew 
 thy love, 
 You need them not. 
 I simply wake the muses here to 
 show 
 You're not forgot. 
 If I was rich as any storied Jew, 
 I'd bring my wealth and give it all to you. 
 I have no wealth beneath the sky above, 
 Unless, you count as wealth a wealth of love; 
 And as you've had this from me long ago, 
 What else you'd have me bring, I do not know. 
 The fleeting years that have so quickly fled, 
 Since that cold winter's eve when we were wed, 
 Brought no remorse. I love you still the same 
 As when, to grace my life, you changed your 
 name. 
 
 66 
 
THE COBBLE-STONE PAVEMENT. 
 
 ANISHED and gone is that cobble-stone pave- 
 ment, 
 That cobble-stone pavement our forefathers 
 laid; 
 
 Gone to give place to modern improvement 
 That the dads of our city have said should be made. 
 No more shall we bump o'er its uneven surface, 
 While our temper and language we strive to re- 
 strain; 
 No more shall our voices with agony tremble 
 While our thoughts, as we sing, have that bitter re- 
 frain — 
 
 That blasted old pavement, 
 That measley old pavement, 
 That cobble-stone pavement 
 Our forefathers laid! 
 
 Not a sigh nor a tear will its memory awaken 
 
 Unless we consider the sighs of relief; 
 
 No sorrow we feel as we watch its departure, 
 
 And its funeral sermon is pointed and brief, 
 
 For the groans that it caused as we drove o'er its 
 
 surface 
 Have shattered all reverence that its age might at- 
 tain, 
 For the reverent thoughts, that we coined into 
 
 language, 
 Was changed, while we rode, into bitter refrain, — 
 Oh drat that old pavement, 
 That sin breeding pavement, 
 That cobble-stone pavement 
 Our forefathers laid ! 
 67 
 
And now far removed from its old habitation, 
 No tear of regret will intrusively swell, 
 While we lay it away without least hesitation, 
 Close, close to the spot where the stone-crusher fell. 
 Its memory will live till the bones of its fellows 
 Are laid by its side unlamented to rest; 
 Until some green, sleepy, old, moss-covered village, 
 In a cobble-stone pavement, will want to invest. 
 
 In time serving pavement, 
 
 Hard cobble-stone pavement, 
 
 Good cobble-stone pavement, 
 
 Would like to invest. 
 
 «,?* ^5* 
 
 TO C B. ON HER 77th BIRTHDAY. 
 
 COME to greet you with a rose, 
 
 Though cold the wind of winter blows, 
 To help you pass another mile 
 
 In good, old fashioned, friendly style. 
 
 We're growing old, a bard has sung, 
 But stay, — I think we're growing young. 
 For while the years are flowing fast 
 We live not now but in the past. 
 
 Let gloom begone, its ways, forsooth, 
 Are not the ways of careless youth; 
 Let joy prevail this natal day, 
 And let our hearts in joy be gay. 
 
 68 
 
THE TWENTIETH CENTURY CLUB. 
 
 Written for and read at the meeting of the club, Tuesday 
 evening, Dec. i. 
 
 HERE'S a Club that's always ready 
 With a purpose strong and steady, 
 To obtain a truer learning 
 While the leaves of life are turning 
 On all subjects, bright or prosy, 
 Of sable hue, or color rosy; 
 
 At this Club's judicious framing 
 Special care was given to naming 
 Twentieth Century creation, 
 So that every creed and station 
 In its name would find selection 
 That would answer in perfection; 
 
 And the groundwork of its being, 
 Builded with a sight farseeing, 
 In the broader thought was grounded 
 On the rock of truth was founded, 
 With the light of reason shining, 
 Through dark clouds with silver lining, 
 
 Like a star, in early morning 
 With its light the sky adorning, 
 Single diamond in a cluster, 
 Shedding forth its magic lustre, 
 Quietly aiding in the grander 
 Planning of the Great Commander. 
 
 *» 
 
 Any theme howe'er entrancing, 
 Finds the Club in thought advancing 
 69 
 
To examine, weigh, and measure, 
 With an eager sort of pleasure; 
 Soon to pierce with criticism 
 Learned 'ology or 'ism. 
 
 Oh the wit that's ofttimes wasted! 
 
 Never better has been tasted 
 
 By divinity or mortal 
 
 Though they're passed the wondrous portal 
 
 Of wisdom's hall where bards are singing, 
 
 Power from knowledge here is springing. 
 
 Songs and stories light and cheerful 
 Tales of woe both sad and tearful, 
 Give the Club full many an earful 
 Of joy and love or something fearful, 
 Blending bitterness with the sweetness 
 Just like life in all completeness. 
 
 And we have it from Dame Rumor, 
 That the Club believes in humor, 
 Mixing well stern thoughts with folly 
 Just to keep its members jolly; 
 Relishing good natured chaffing ; 
 Smoothing wrinkles out with laughing. 
 
 When the Club is upward sailing, 
 Sordid life and care bewailing, 
 Building castles light and airy, 
 Like a dream of something fairy 
 With the wings of fancy flying, 
 For the realms of dreamland sighing, 
 
 'Tis reminded that the glory 
 Of the truthful, earthly story 
 Lies in being tied to reason 
 That is never out of season, 
 Anchored well to earth when telling 
 Of some bright angelic dwelling. 
 70 
 
Here we meet as brothers truly, 
 Mixing with each other duly, 
 Smoothing o'er each human blunder 
 That might rend the Club asunder, 
 Hailing truth where'er we find it, 
 Striving hard to earth to bind it. 
 
 Ivong live the Club, long may it reign 
 Through earthly joy and earthly pain, 
 And keep forever in its train 
 The master work of mind and brain, 
 To spread the light of reason here, 
 Establish love and banish fear. 
 
 jfc«5* 
 
 ESTO PERPETUA, 
 
 HEN God made the earth in display of His 
 
 powers, 
 He painted it green and decked it with 
 
 flowers, 
 
 So that the flowers might have something to grace, 
 He created women to brighten the place. 
 Fair is the beauty of scent-ladened flowers, 
 1 Neath mellowing touch of sunlight and showers, 
 Yet fairer they seem as they charmingly grace 
 The form of a woman with love in her face. 
 
 V 
 
APOSTROPHE TO GOGUAC 
 
 AIL thou, gentle Goguac, 
 
 That nestles 'mongst the hills 
 Where piping note of songbird 
 
 The air with music fills, 
 Where monarchs of the forest 
 
 In all their verdure green, 
 Maintain in regal splendor 
 
 A majesty serene! 
 
 Hail, to thy placid waters, 
 
 By sloping shores caressed, 
 That serves the toiling workers 
 
 As a pleasant place of rest. 
 In all the years recorded, 
 
 Since thy Maker gave thee birth 
 And spread thy sparkling waters 
 
 To deck a gracious earth, 
 
 Hast thou ever told the story 
 
 Of the things within thy ken? 
 Breathed the tales of mystic hap'nings 
 
 In the ears of listening men? 
 Told of water sprites and mermaids 
 
 That beneath your water rove 
 From the beach of Waupakisco 
 
 To the shores of Willard's cove? 
 
 Told of hap'nings on your surface 
 When as years have rolled along, 
 
 Careless revelers in their mer'ment 
 Filled the air with mirthful song? 
 
 72 
 
Told of picnics on the island, 
 
 Long ago when things were new, 
 
 And those solemn, stately matrons 
 Were the maidens that you knew ! 
 
 In the sky the moon was shining 
 
 With a soft and mellow light 
 Reflecting on the placid water 
 
 All the beauties of the night; 
 Twinkling star, and fleecy cloudlet, 
 
 Sky of blue were mirrored there; 
 While the shadows of the forest 
 
 Framed a picture wondrous fair. 
 
 On the surface not a ripple, 
 
 Not a murmur from the deep, 
 While the ever changing colors 
 
 O'er the waters slowly creep; 
 Not a voice awakes the echo, 
 
 All my pleading is in vain; 
 And the story of the water 
 
 Still a secret will remain. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 OW let me think, what cau I send her 
 To let her know that I remember, — 
 Oh happy thought ! to show my wit, 
 I'll get a card and write on it, — 
 
 Mave ir forgotten tbis oav. ? Wever ! 
 1PU be sour valentine forever." 
 
 73 
 
A QUERY. 
 
 HAT is the white man's burden, 
 Rudyard Kipling, 
 As at the fount of knowledge 
 
 You are tippling? 
 Is the story of your song 
 Told to right the human wrong 
 Of the weakling by the strong 
 Who have wrecked this world so long, 
 Manhood crippling? 
 What is the white man's burden 
 
 Rudyard Kipling? 
 
 What is the white man's burden, 
 
 Rudyard Kipling? 
 The moving of your measure 
 
 Music rippling. 
 We would sing with better grace, 
 If your meaning we could trace, 
 And our darkest doubts efface 
 By the light you lend the race, 
 
 Forward trippling. 
 What is the white man's burden, 
 
 Rudyard Kipling? 
 
 What is the white man's burden, 
 
 Rudyard Kipling? 
 
 In the wisest school of sages, 
 
 You're no stripling. 
 
 Tell the truths that you have found 
 
 In your search the world around; 
 
 With a grand majestic sound 
 
 Like the song of life unbound, 
 
 Onward rippling. 
 
 What is the white man's burden, 
 
 . Rudyard Kipling? 
 
 74 
 
A NEW SONG. 
 
 WONDERFUL measure of music 
 
 The magical sway of a song 
 That appeals to the heart in its moving, 
 
 Is sweeping and sweeping along 
 Over the hill and the valley, 
 Over the mountain and lea; 
 There's a glimmer of hope in the singing 
 That comes like a sunbeam to me. 
 
 The uplifting measure of music 
 
 That floats o'er the valley to me, 
 Tells the glorious dream of the people 
 
 Who patiently toil to be free. 
 Their voices blend sweet in the measure 
 
 Of melody manful and true, 
 A funeral dirge to the old time, 
 
 A radiant song to the new. 
 
 'Tis coming, 'tis coming, ye brothers 
 
 Who toil and toil onward to win, 
 Like the rush and the roar of the ocean, 
 
 The turn of the tide has set in 
 To carry you upward and onward, 
 
 Out of the quagmire of gain, 
 Where tyrants make slaves of their brothers, 
 
 And live by their labor and pain. 
 
 There's beautiful thought in the message, 
 
 Conveyed in the measure of song, 
 Resounding o'er mountain and valley 
 
 To those who have waited so long 
 For blessed advent of the knowledge 
 
 That freedom is bred in the bone, 
 And sometime that all of the people 
 
 Will surely come into their own. 
 75 
 
THE SPECTER. 
 
 N an evening dark and dreary, 
 
 With my spirit far from weary, 
 
 In comfort I sat dreaming by the fire 
 
 And my eyes with gazing glis-. 
 
 tened, 
 While the silence as I listened, 
 Grew profound and more intense 
 than my desire 
 
 To be sailing far from sorrow 
 In the sunshine of to-morrow 
 That anticipation gilds with golden fire. 
 
 But my dream was filled with groaning, 
 
 Sad bewailing, sad bemoaning, 
 Like the grieving of a soul forever lost, 
 
 And a form by labor bended 
 
 Quick before my gaze ascended 
 To remind me of the lives by sorrow crossed, 
 
 Of the humble, poor and lowly, 
 
 Who are starving sure and slowly, 
 While the brothers who should aid them count the 
 cost. 
 
 "I'm a spirit that is speaking 
 
 And for you, I've long been seeking, 
 To unburden in your ear my tale of woe. 
 
 I'm a spirit of your clothing, 
 
 Do not turn away in loathing, 
 There's a story surely right for you to know. 
 
 I was made by mothers tearful 
 
 In your garret dark and fearful 
 Where the sins of competition live and grow; 
 76 
 
By the flaring of the lamp-light, 
 In the gloomy hours of midnight, 
 
 While in comfort you were sleeping, there I grew. 
 Where the dust and grime abounded, 
 There by want and woe surrounded, 
 
 I became a suit of clothing fine and new, 
 But the tears of some sad mothers 
 Stitching, stitching, aye, for others, 
 
 Bearing burdens to their weakness all undue, 
 
 Stirred me deeply, though my feelings 
 
 Is not mentioned in your dealings 
 With the merchant of the trade from whom you buy, 
 
 And I vowed that I would never 
 
 Be of silent things forever 
 Till I rightly helped to still that hungry cry 
 
 Of the poor, the weak, the lowly, 
 
 Children of the Savior holy, 
 Brothers, sisters in their need to you and I." 
 
 Here I started at the rumbling 
 
 Of the coal in hasty tumbling 
 Rushing quickly, like a specter, down the drum 
 
 Of the coal-stove brightly glowing, 
 
 Ruddy shadows round me throwing, 
 And I listened for that voice once more to come, 
 
 But the silence was unbroken, 
 
 Not another word was spoken 
 To awaken all my senses cold and dumb; 
 
 But I sat in silent thinking 
 
 All my inner conscience shrinking 
 At the thought of poor and starving sons of men 
 
 In their hovels bound together 
 
 With a harsh, unholy tether, 
 Sighing deeply for a Savior once again 
 
 Who in pity would dissever 
 
 All their galling bonds forever, 
 By the sunshine of his love-light in their den. 
 
 77 
 
Then a voice of gentle wooing 
 
 Said, " My friend, are yon pursuing 
 Just the course of common justice by the way 
 
 You would wish to have another 
 
 Treat you if you were his brother, 
 And was starving in a garret cold and gray? " 
 
 Then I vowed that I would never 
 
 Be of silent men forever 
 Till my brothers saw the dawning of the day 
 
 When this life should be worth living, 
 
 In a spirit so forgiving, 
 That we'd all be sure of Heaven o'er the way. 
 
 
 WHAT THE WIND SAYS. 
 
 HERE e'er I go, I blow 
 
 Pleasure and woe. 
 
 A wild, weird wail, 
 
 An eerie tale> 
 
 On me is borne 
 
 To those who mourn, 
 
 To those who sing, 
 
 Sweet joy I bring. 
 
 My onward flight 
 
 Yields them delight, 
 
 Whate'er the heart 
 
 Takes as its part; 
 
 Just as you live, 
 
 I freely give 
 
 Pleasure and woe, 
 
 Where e'er I go, I blow. 
 78 
 
THE THINKER'S SONG. 
 
 OME from his work the laborer came 
 And kissed the woman that bore his name; 
 The woman smiled in a mournful way, 
 As she thought of the bills they had to pay. 
 
 Of the forms to clothe, and the stomachs to stay, 
 
 And all to be done on a dollar a day. 
 
 Yet this better-half of the wedded pair, 
 This wife and mother, so full of care, 
 In a gentle voice said: "I'm content 
 To struggle along without lament 
 If there was nothing that would prevent 
 Your earning a dollar a day. 
 
 a For with work so scarce, I ofttimes fear 
 
 The end of freedom will soon be here." 
 
 And the man said: " Stop! you must be brave! 
 
 No need of fearing to be a slave 
 
 While masters of men can money save 
 
 By paying a dollar a day." 
 
 Then the laborer laughed in mocking glee 
 And gazed on the forms of his children three, 
 Who were plump and healthy and full of play; 
 They were sweet to him as the flowers of May. 
 He said: " God grant I can always say 
 I did my best on a dollar a day." 
 
 The thinker who paused to hear their talk, 
 As he passed their home on his lonely walk, 
 Cried out in the night: " There is something 
 
 wrong 
 When over half of the busy throng 
 Must work and worry the whole day long 
 For a pitiful dollar a day." 
 
 79 
 
TO PREJUDICE, 
 
 REJUDICE, thou monster, that fills the 
 air 
 With hatred foul intent on the unfair! 
 Where is thy abiding place on Mother 
 
 Earth? 
 Was it an ignoramus that gave thee birth? 
 Or did some demon low, in mocking mirth, 
 Create thy power to show the present dearth 
 Of human justice or want of kindly care 
 And prove the broader man a being rare? 
 
 Is ignorance the home where thou dost dwell, 
 Where thou canst surely rule thy minions well? 
 Does lack of knowledge give thee greater force 
 To bend the world to thy narrow course? 
 And make for thee a strong unfailing source 
 Of power, from which the world has no recourse 
 From thy inhuman grip that throttles truth 
 In aged experience or in careless youth? 
 
 Surely, blind Prejudice! thou'lt never find 
 Safe entrance to the intellectual mind, 
 For comprehensive thought will scorn thy sway, 
 And will ne'er follow thy contracted way; 
 But shall, in spite of thee, sing sweeter lay 
 Of coming dawn, of truer brighter day, 
 When men in judging first shall see the light 
 Whereby their fellowman says, u I am right. 1 ' 
 
 So 
 
u 
 
 THE BETTER DAY. 
 
 PWARD, onward, sang the poet, 
 Upward, onward, on and on, 
 Freemen reap life as they sow it ; 
 Freedom's hope is never gone, 
 Though the clouds of darkness follow, 
 Sunny gleams of brighter days ; 
 O'er the darkest hill and hollow 
 Come again those sunny rays. 
 
 Upward, onward, spreading, spreading, 
 Though the clouds roll in between, 
 Comes the song of freedom shedding 
 Lightness, brightness o'er the scene. 
 Hearken, hearken to its humming, 
 Sweeping on with grander tone ! 
 'Tis the sound of manhood coming, 
 Onward, onward to its own. 
 
 Ivisten, listen men who falter, 
 Growing weary by the way! 
 Right is loosened from its halter, 
 Fear no longer holds its sway ; 
 And the cry of grief spread o'er us, 
 Sadness, sorrow, wailing pain, 
 Changes to triumphant chorus 
 Swelling grandly o'er the plain. 
 
 Upward, onward, sang the poet, 
 Onward, onward, day and night; 
 Gather courage as you show it ; 
 Gloomy clouds but hide the light. 
 Waken, waken from your slumber! 
 Gird your armor for the fray! 
 Add your forces to the number 
 Striving for the better day. 
 
 81 
 
MY WISH. 
 
 others sigh for golden harps 
 And wings on which to glide 
 Through airy space with fairy grace 
 Beyond the great divide, 
 For homes divine in mansions 
 fine 
 Where rippling rivers flow; 
 I'd rather claim as truly mine 
 A cottage here below. 
 
 Let others play the golden harps 
 
 In their imagining, 
 And search for grace in realms of space 
 
 On fancy's willing wing. 
 I will not sigh on wings to fly 
 
 Away from weight of woe, 
 Until that weight is lifted high 
 
 From humble homes below. 
 
 How can we know the depth of love 
 
 In other realms than this, 
 If all our aims no need proclaims 
 
 For right of human bliss ! 
 How can we love a soul above, 
 
 Unless we learn to show 
 To every man a human love 
 
 Who labors here below ? 
 
 82 
 
FORGIVE THEM, 
 
 NE winter eve, when winds were cold and 
 bleak, 
 I saw a humble toiler, old and weak, 
 Spread out his trembling limbs before 
 the fire, 
 
 His shaking form to warm ere he retire 
 To find in sleep a measure of that rest 
 That weary, work-worn toilers knoweth best. 
 
 In modest tones I heard this toiling sage 
 Quote, as example, from the Holy Page, 
 To struggling millions of the patient poor 
 Who, through the greed of man, grave ills endure, 
 The Savior's dying words so sadly true, 
 " Forgive them, God, they know not what they do." 
 
 His drooping form all youthful vigor fled, 
 Stood just between the living and the dead; 
 The earthly clay clung to the cottage hearth; 
 His spirit soared between the sky and earth; 
 A human soul for higher duty carved; 
 An earthly form by competition starved. 
 
 And yet, this sage, low in the social scale, 
 As measured by the cant that does prevail, 
 Prayed for his brothers who unthinking lent 
 Their power to make their fellow men lament, 
 In modest tones, those words so sadly true, 
 "Forgive them, God, they know not what they do." 
 83 
 
Religious force is not in empty sound 
 Of idle words, but in the deed is found 
 Which clears the way of wrong as dawn sun- 
 kissed 
 In majesty of light dispels the mist, 
 And caring naught for man-made church or 
 
 creed, 
 But lives to serve the people in their need. 
 
 Then haste the day when competition dies, 
 For by its death the truer man may rise 
 Unhampered by that economic chain 
 That binds his losses to his brothers' gain, 
 Then men may pray> and have their prayers 
 true, 
 "Oh bless them, God, they know now what they do. 1 
 
 nlF'J?' 
 
 ' ' A KING for a day, 
 
 A A slave for the rest of the year." 
 "What mean you I pray ? 
 Your meaning is not quite clear." 
 
 " I mean what I say. 
 A king, but the end is near 
 
 When I shall be king for a day 
 And a slave for the rest of the year." 
 " Better a slave always 
 Than to reign on certain days, 
 And taste the joy of praise, 
 Then slink back again 
 To your galling chain." 
 
 84 
 
SOMETHING TO SAY. 
 
 OMETHING to say, my brother, 
 
 something to say; 
 k Right is in need of the light, do 
 not delay. 
 Open the portals of thought, 
 Show what your reason has 
 
 wrought 
 Down in the deep of your heart, 
 Then let your language impart 
 Knowledge to listening men, 
 Who long for true freedom again ; 
 Something to say, my brother, something to say, 
 Right is in need of the light, do not delay. 
 
 Something to say, my brother, something to say, 
 Men are in search of the light, do not delay. 
 
 Think as you never have thought, 
 
 Seek as you never have sought, 
 
 Strive the solution to find, 
 
 To bring relief to your kind; 
 
 Then with the tongue and the pen 
 
 Repeat it again, and again; 
 Something to say, my brother, something to say, 
 Men are in search of the light, do not delay. 
 
 Something to say, my brother, something to say. 
 Right is in need of your might, do not delay. 
 
 85 
 
Policy never unfolds 
 The truth that a question holds, 
 But like a thief in the night 
 Hides from the forces of right; 
 Then let your reason array 
 Its forces in something to say ; 
 Something to say, my brother, something to say, 
 Right is in need of your might, truth to convey. 
 
 Something to say, my brother, something to say, 
 Cowards who plead for delay, fall by the way, 
 
 Speak out the truth in you mind, 
 
 Heedless of critics unkind, 
 
 Tell it in story and song, 
 
 Moving with music along; 
 
 Tell it with voice and with pen 
 
 Over and over again; 
 Something to say, my brother, something to say, 
 Truth with its radiant rays lightens the way. 
 
 <LS> 
 
 (T2> 
 
 86 
 
A REFRAIN. 
 
 HE oak and the maple dwell side by side 
 On the shore of the lake where sunbeams 
 
 glide 
 O'er the rippling wavelet's rounding crest, 
 And its gleaming face when waters rest 
 In harmony spreading a loving shade 
 O'er the gentle banks of the grassy glade, 
 While whispering winds blow the glad refrain, 
 God loveth all things that on earth remain. 
 
 A sturdy worker grown old and gray, 
 While wearily toiling each livelong day, 
 From early morning till shades of eve 
 The dying sunbeams last gleams receive, 
 Gave voice to thought of the heaven above, 
 Of that glorious home where God is love; 
 But his spoken thought had this sad refrain: 
 God pity the ones that on earth remain. 
 
 The oak and the maple will dwell in peace, 
 While the passing years their joys increase; 
 But shall man to man forever be 
 The harshest of life's inharmony ? 
 Strewing the paths of the pinched and wan 
 With withering doubt where hope has ran, 
 Attuning their souls to the sad refrain: 
 God pity the ones that on earth remain. 
 
 The birds of the air and the beasts of the field 
 Are cared for by nature's bounteous yield; 
 But the son of man — God's living breath — 
 In a land of plenty may starve to death; 
 87 
 
For masters of men with pitiless power 
 Turn the light of day into darkest hour, 
 Attuning men's souls to the sad refrain: 
 God pity the ones that on earth remain. 
 
 But the darkest clouds that obscure the sky 
 Have a silver lining for you and I, 
 And the mighty force of the people's will, 
 When freed from its bondage the wrongs will 
 
 kill. 
 The day will dawn when the sun will shine 
 With a softer light for thee and thine, 
 When the people's songs have this glad refrain: 
 There is love for us who on earth remain. 
 
 * 
 
TAKE HEED. 
 
 N golden, olden time, 
 So the story goes, 
 A tall, insipid weed 
 
 Blossomed like a rose ; 
 And, as its beauty grew, 
 It posed as master mind, 
 - By nature's law ordained 
 As ruler of its kind. 
 
 In arrogance it said : 
 
 " I am Queen of Flowers; 
 For me the sunbeams wed 
 
 Gentle summer showers; 
 For me the breezes blow 
 
 And softly falls the dew; 
 For me the ruddy glow 
 
 Tints the heavenly blue; 
 For me each low born weed 
 
 Must all its toil incline 
 To deify my power 
 
 As part of God's design." 
 
 But hark ! the autumn winds 
 
 Blew shrill with ^angry sound, 
 As though a worthy foe 
 
 Its blighting power had found. 
 At last, it reached that Queen — 
 
 All boasting powers take heed- 
 And laid it low in death, 
 
 L<ike any common weed. 
 
 89 
 
TANGIBILITY. 
 
 HEAVEN is my home," the anthem rang, 
 "Heaven is my home," the people sang 
 
 In church one day in seven; 
 But to a wanderer, all unsought, 
 Like sorrow came this wandering thought, 
 u To me a home is heaven." 
 
 " Heaven is my home," soft are the notes, 
 " Heaven is my home," the pastor quotes, 
 " 'Tis sorrow's greatest leaven ; " 
 But to the wanderer still there clings 
 That thought upborne on memory's wings, 
 " To me a home is heaven." 
 
 * 
 
 90 
 
COID 
 gRAID 
 
 QCOTCH 
 
NO' DIALECT AVA. 
 
 VOTARY of music, 
 A student feminine, 
 Of the art of vocalizing 
 
 Notes of melody divine, 
 Got a lesson from her teacher, 
 
 In the dialect in vogue, 
 And it passed her understanding 
 For 'twas writ in Scottish brogue. 
 
 In the fields of her acquaintance, 
 
 Was a guid, auld mother Scot 
 Who had pu'ed the purple heather 
 
 Frae the hills where Bruce had fought, 
 And to her she quickly hastened 
 
 With her lesson dialect, 
 To see if her pronouncing 
 
 Of the words was quite correct. 
 
 But much to her astonishment 
 
 When her Scottish friend she met, 
 She got from her an answer 
 
 That she never will forget. 
 Said her friend of heath and heather, 
 
 "Hoots ! lassie, gang awa\ 
 That's naething only guid, braid Scotch, 
 
 It's no' dialect ava." 
 
 92 
 
TO BURNS. 
 
 -^|pf AR ower the ocean's briny deep 
 
 In lowland vale and highland steep, 
 True Scottish hearts their vigils keep 
 O'er Rabbie's hame, 
 And mithers croon their bairns to sleep 
 Wi' Rabbie's fame. 
 
 Dear Scotland, wi' her Pentland hills, 
 Green mossy glens and mountain rills, 
 The native heart wi' love instills, 
 
 And pride o' birth; 
 But Rabbie's sangs send tender thrills 
 
 O'er a' the earth. 
 
 Great kings hae rin their royal race, 
 And ither kings hae ta'en their place, 
 But Rabbie's fame has set the pace 
 
 Forevermore; 
 And up aboon his soul doth grace 
 
 The golden shore. 
 
 A genius o' the hodden gray, 
 Born in a humble cot o' clay, 
 He sang the sweetest human lay, 
 
 To bitter end; 
 And down through time still holds his sway 
 
 As human friend. 
 
 And here whaur freedom hauds her ain, 
 And stands upright, a fearless wean; 
 We hae wi' Rabbie's name been ta'en, 
 
 And loe him weel 
 For fighting shams wi' might and main, 
 
 A fearless chiel. 
 
 93 
 
JS Mr and Jv\rs. uavid ("fermie on, 4ieir aWr 
 V^e^ing^aij, from JKe CaWc^nja G^. 
 
 yOn/enfei wi'lif^e an 1 hajojoj/ Wi'mair 
 a)W^ A&fiVes o'cbcof/ana con£?nfe<$ ~(o bcvr 
 JKr\& irdfye oa fr\egiiher jV°ujg\/rou^le arid) a; 
 W love cte mem focKer" Whafev^r' befa'. 
 ^Ani noo jVe, an^ fvVen(y tang xjectrs navfrur spe<T 
 bin Da/e (o tV l c ^ o'Aib cAoice Wdb Wecf, 
 qj)©'me ai/lc) |arrar\f neeW^,eac)\ doc^wrK/bow/. 
 (pomes in Wi jVi ro&bXefe fae show ihe/r gu/c? Will. 
 
 j1s Ad £or me sake o'lheir gouo rxor {heir gear, 
 J\dj j\e Jriervfe o 1 me cli/So )nae co/t\q irv fa spier 
 
 JKb me <5cu$ w\e)\ fW ^evV^fforrv /aejK n^Ker* awix . 
 i^uf jjsf fa? lefriewly an f\cm^ei fhefr creel , 
 yVTciJolten "tee faroVe lAleer vftthjixg tW^KWeei. 
 jAnb We/her cm^cracX anp Kelp mem /aej/n^ 
 j/\ere's ^iiiHK/r\g5 jnjjfe mo' WJ/ ]ed\rei/ouf)i berynD- 
 
DINNA GREET LASSIE. 
 
 spINNA greet, lassie, 
 I kin your heart is sair, 
 The auld house is lanesome 
 When mother's no' there; 
 But a' the lo'e you ha'e 
 And a' the gowd you lack, 
 Gin you spend it a', 
 Wadna bring her back. 
 
 Dinna greet, lassie, 
 For greeting gaed her pain, 
 Dinna let your sorrow 
 Grieve her soul again. 
 She has passed tae heaven 
 Where nae tear-drops fa' 
 And in lo'e is smiling 
 Doon upon us a'. 
 
 Dinna greet, lassie, 
 Dear mother sees you weel, 
 Kens your heart sae lo'eing, 
 Kens the grief you feel; 
 Yet wi' dear bought wisdom 
 Gathered frae the past, 
 Kens like a' things earthly, 
 Grieving canna last. 
 
 Dinna greet lassie, 
 There's naething sad abin 
 In the light o' heaven, 
 Smiling's no' a sin. 
 Mother's smile will welcome 
 A' her bairnies in, 
 When the weary toiling 
 O' this life is din. 
 
 95 
 
THE SMILE O' HER EEN. 
 
 HERE'S a picture that rises before 
 
 me, 
 A picture I canna ignore 
 
 O' a bonnie wee, broon-colored 
 
 cottage 
 And mither's dear face at the door. 
 Wi' a froon she looks doon on 
 
 her laddie, 
 Her laddie a' drooket and torn 
 Frae his racing an' chasing 
 
 through bushes, 
 A' weet wi' the dew o' the morn. 
 
 And I couldna look up tae her frooning, 
 
 The piercing cauld glare o' her e'e, 
 Tae my thinkin' was sairer than ony 
 
 Sair licks that my father ga'ed me; 
 And I waited in fear and in tremblin' 
 
 Tae hear hoo her wordies would fa', 
 But she didna say naething at a', man, 
 
 She turned frae her laddie awa'; 
 
 And the tearfu' lang sigh o' her sorrow 
 
 Brought me wi' a loup tae her side 
 For I couldna be bold i' my failings 
 
 When mither her tears couldna hide. 
 Sae I telt her, "Oh mither, I'm sorra, 
 
 I'll be guid if only forgeen." 
 Though she didna say naething ava, man, 
 
 She srrnled and forgave wi' her een. 
 96 
 
Oh, it's aften when trouble is crowdin' 
 
 My notions o' right tae the wa' 
 That the picture o' mither in sorrow 
 
 Keeps guiding my feet frae a fa'; 
 For I couldna be sure o' her comfort 
 
 Nor ken that my wrangs were forgeen 
 If I didna keep striving forever 
 
 Tae honor that smile o' her een. 
 
 CL5 
 
 97 
 
')q TOfj guirf frien Robert ^iewm-t . 
 
 oua u/irjour naivers, aulc) Steiaarr t; gae uja' , 
 Can rjou Ihihh o'naefhing' *but nonsense am ? 
 you^loupin , a^ , cJancin' majg Turtle jtj our jrierr 5 
 Ijjut airma e;ae da/t like a lass in her teens. " 
 ^ae spak the auld jar rant guid frien's oihe club. 
 Ab Stewart cam forrrt to whirl the hut, 
 An^ smooth; oot ihe wrinkles jrae ilka auld jare 
 UDi' laughin' an ' clancfn', fair makers ojgrorce. 
 
 ©ut Ios>rr taK "the man, for he tuouldnabe still , 
 He kleekit an'Wacket likeTDrreelock'S aulJ mill. 
 M\b voice uuas a cross tuuixt a host an' a sgueat, 
 Jin' ever ran on )\Ke an auld water wheel . 
 Ma fear has auld Stewart o' critic sae stern 
 Wf heart like a stookie an' held like a perrr , 
 Saehelauehs an he sing's an jauks his> guidwife 
 Contented lae gather the fan oot o' life. 
 
 Gin it please the dear tore) iae bend him awa* 
 <5o Luhaur winds o' w inter, therj sag never blaw, 
 Or tak him agont to rjon fair gbwden street 
 Hell find him a ca)\an\ oaith hal e&o me an sweet 
 Sae cheerfu an' couthie below or a bin, 
 Hell dance tui AuMGIooiie or laugh tui the min 
 Hell sing u)i' the: .angels some cantie auld iune 
 An preen up the cloudies jor fear therj la'doun. 
 
 Guid Kord when it please rjou \a harvest and glean 
 tjfris auld mortal bodrj'o minefrae the scene 
 And weigh i' the balance mrj faults an mrj sin 
 Jhe rights ) hae helpit the Wangs- ) hae din 
 ^ouTl aae me a favor ta let me gae hame 
 Sae ouJeXl . wi , that callan* TV^,&teu;ari bry name 
 XUi' T{pb for acrom'e a\>in orb'eloui 
 ))) an be content it an happrj ) Know 
 
 \i 
 
A CRACK WT BURNS. 
 
 N wee sma' hours ayont the twal, 
 
 When eyelids droop at nature's call, 
 And honest neebors gang to sleep 
 And ghaists and warlocks o'er earth 
 
 creep, 
 I wandered thro' a lanely street 
 And there the ghaist of Burns did 
 meet. 
 
 I kent him by that lightsome e'e 
 That in a' things could beauty see. 
 His weel kend face was drawn sae lang, 
 I thought wi' him a' things gaed wrang. 
 But losh ! I had to tak' that back 
 When we sat down to frien'ly crack. 
 "I'm sair amazed to see you here 
 Sae far frae Scotland's hills maist dear, 
 Hoo's a' the lads in town o' Leith ? " 
 I spier't atween my chatterin' teeth. 
 His answer was as sure's I'm leevin — 
 
 " I cam' to this place straight frae heevin, 
 When I, as mortal, ca'd the plough 
 And milked my ain auld brindle coo 
 Nae wealth o' gowd had I to spare 
 Tho' aften times I missed' it sair, 
 Sae a' my jaunts was unca sma' 
 They might as weel been nane ava. 
 Weel noo, that I ha' joined the speerits 
 Whaur a' things gang on former meerits, 
 The Lord has gien me wings to flee 
 To ilka Ian' I'd like to see, 
 See here I am just lighted doon 
 To see your braw bit modern toon.'' 
 
 99 
 
" Well, Rob my frien', your just in time 
 To gie us some auld Scottish rhyme, 
 For on this night some canty chiels, 
 Wi' sangs and stories, flings and reels, 
 Will celebrate in guid Scotch way, 
 The memory o' your natal day; 
 For since frae earth your speerit's flown, 
 You've gained a world-wide renown. 
 
 ' Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,' 
 They'll sweetly sing in ilka toon. 
 Our droughty frien', auld Tarn o' Shanter, 
 This night will ride his fearfu' canter; 
 c Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,' 
 Frae early e'en till cock does craw, 
 1 What signifies the life o' man' 
 Unless we wander han' in han' 
 O'er bonnie hills and valleys green 
 Each braw lad wi' his lassie Jean." 
 
 " Stop," Robbie cried, " My earthly fame 
 Is scarcely worthy o' the name, 
 A guid wheen times I've surely said 
 Fu' scurvy trick the dame had played; 
 Na mair I'll follow her fause light 
 That's e'en as aften wrang as right. 
 I've cam to see this Yankee Nation 
 Whaur a' men hauds an equal station 
 Whaur ilka man is surely free 
 And plans o' men ne'er gang aglee. 
 My certes its a lightsome place 
 For God to keep the human race. 
 Come tell me, frien', of a' things new, 
 Your good Scotch tongue must share ken hoo. 
 What's a' these lights a swinging doon 
 As if wi' strings hung frae a boon, 
 Their light comes frae a bleezin' pin 
 That looks like chip frae off the Min ? " 
 
He listened wi' a strict attention 
 
 To a' the new things I could mention; 
 
 O' steam-boats and electric cars, 
 
 And how the nations fight their wars 
 
 Wi' pen an' ink an' printin' paper — 
 
 (They make each other dance and caper.) 
 
 I telt him o' advancing thought 
 
 That education surely brought; 
 
 O' stoves in kirks to keep folks warm, 
 
 And organs' music souls to charm 
 
 O' preachers no' afeard to tell 
 
 There wasna sic a place as hell; 
 
 O' that braw metal light as air; 
 
 O' our new women bright and fair; 
 
 O' men who clamb great mountain peaks; 
 
 And lovely maidens wearing breeks. 
 
 We sat and cracked till mornin' light 
 
 Had brushed away the dark o' night. 
 
 Auld frien'," quo Rob, "I little kent 
 What a' thae things ca'd modern meant, 
 When now you've filed the information 
 I've lost for ay the inclination 
 To live on Mither Earth again, 
 Wi' little joy and muckle pain, 
 Just tell the frien's that gather roun' 
 The festive board in ilka town, 
 That Robbie's work on earth is din 
 He'll meet them a' in Heaven abin." 
 
 I prest him sair to stay, but na, 
 He spread his wings and flew awa. 
 
 IOI 
 
A SCOTTISH INVITATION. 
 
 H ye wha lo'e the sound o' auld 
 
 Scotch sangs, 
 The melodies that rin through 
 
 a' her wrangs, 
 An' glints the e'e wi' sparkling 
 
 beams o' light, 
 When rhythmic roll rounds oot 
 her tales o' right, 
 Come, cantie chiels, come, lassies sweet an' braw, 
 Come, fathers, mithers, aunts, an' uncles a', 
 Come, gather like the spokes around the hub, 
 An' meet wi' frien's in oor farrant club. 
 
 Come, hear the sangs your mithers' lips hae sung, 
 When to her breast in fearless lo'e you clung, 
 Come, hear the tales o' heroes lang since dead 
 Wha for the fame o' Scotland bravely bled; 
 O' mountain rills that murmur o'er the moor 
 And sing their sangs alike to rich an' poor; 
 O' heather hills a' sweet wi' purple bloom, 
 O' thistle bold that wrought the Danish doom; 
 
 But maist o' a' come crack wi' a' your frien's 
 
 Iu guid, braid Scotch o' maist forgotten scenes, 
 
 That pleased ye weel when ye were fearless weans 
 
 An' had nae fear o' men wi' polished brains 
 
 Wha mocked your tongue an' held your careless ways 
 
 Wad haud ye doon in fetters a' your days. 
 
 Come, crack wi' frien's o' times baith auld an' new 
 
 O' bygane days or tak' a forward view. 
 
Come, help tae cheer the heart o brither, man, 
 And mak' the hours grow brighter as you plan. 
 For nips o' fun weel ended wi' a dance, 
 That wakes each sleepy jock frae oot his trance, 
 An' lifts the leaden load frae lassies' feet 
 Wi' highland fling an' twa-step sae complete; 
 Nae soor looks wanted, leave them a' behind, 
 Nor grumlie lad wi' ranklin, jealous mind. 
 
 There's room for a' but threepin maids an' men 
 
 Wha see but flaws in every yin they ken, 
 
 Gin they were locked in some auld granie's kist 
 
 Their beetlin broos I'm shair wad ne'er be missed; 
 
 But come awa, ye neebors, bright an' braw, 
 
 Wha lo'e tae hear the lilts o' music fa' 
 
 Frae lips o' lads an' lassies fu' o' life 
 
 That gars you think o' days when your guidwife 
 
 Was but a lassie dancing on the green 
 
 An' you a lad was her accounted frien'. 
 
 Come, join your frien's an' mak' the moments fly; 
 
 Come, heart to heart an' wi' each ither vie 
 
 In frien' ly way a' carkin care tae chase 
 
 Up oot the lum in darkness an' disgrace. 
 
 Come, pass the hours in fellowship divine 
 
 As ye were wont in days u O' auld lang syne." 
 
 103 
 
A SANG O' THE HEART. 
 
 HE flowers o' the forest are 
 
 sweet to see, 
 As they bloom for a moment 
 
 then swiftly dee, 
 Fading awa' frae their earthly 
 
 hame 
 Back tae the dust frae whence 
 they came, 
 Leaving behind a memorie 
 That fills the heart wi' melody. 
 
 The birds o' the air that sweetly sing, 
 When winter's cauld turns into spring, 
 Gaes a pleasant thought tae ilka carl 
 Who bravely faces this fearfu' warl, 
 
 Bringing him closer day by day 
 
 To full belief in nature's way. 
 
 The sangs of hame wi' their music sweet, 
 
 Gars mony a weary wanderer greet 
 
 Wi' visions o' bygane happy time 
 
 And the kindly friends o' auld lang syne, 
 
 Turning their thoughts frae theirsel's awa', 
 Melting their hearts like summer snaw. 
 
 But a human soul wi' a cheerfu' face, 
 In the inmost heart finds a dearer place; 
 For a laughin' e'e o' bonnie blue, 
 A grasp of the hand that thrills you through, 
 Brushes frae life fu' mony a trace 
 O' dismal care in life's weary race. 
 
 A man's a man that will stand upright 
 
 And be a man wi' a' his might, 
 
 Helping his brithers wi' open hand 
 
 'Gainst worldly ills to make a stand, 
 
 Cheerin' the weak wi' words o' praise, 
 Makin' things bright wi' his cheerfu' ways. 
 104 
 
A CHEERFU' SMILE. 
 
 INNA greet, bonnie lassie, dinna greet, 
 Keep your fair and bonnie face 
 Free frae ilka tearfu' trace, 
 For this warl's a licghtsome place 
 And a cheerfu' smile lends grace 
 
 Maist complete, bonnie lassie, maist complete. 
 
 Dinna greet, bonnie lassie, dinna greet, 
 
 For the tears that easy fa' 
 
 Hide the licght like somber wa 1 
 
 Frae the heart where thoughts sae braw 
 
 Wadna rankle you ava, 
 And are sweet, bonnie lassie, and are sweet. 
 
 Dinna greet, bonnie lassie, dinna greet, 
 Though they rend your fairest fame 
 Wi' the harshest, bitter name 
 That frae lips o' man ere came, 
 They will greet you just the same 
 
 If you greet, bonnie lassie, if you greet. 
 
 Dinna greet, bonnie lassie, dinna greet, 
 
 For although your heart be sair, 
 
 Wi' its heavy load o' care 
 
 And a treatment maist unfair, 
 
 There is love for you up there, 
 At His feet, bonnie lassie, at His feet. 
 
 105 
 
TAM THAMSON'S TEAM. 
 
 %AM THAMSON had a cuddie, 
 
 And his brither had a coo, 
 Poor budies they are lanesome, 
 
 For they havna got them noo. 
 If you'll listen, I will tell you, 
 
 Gin you think it worth your while, 
 Hoo they lost their coo and cuddie, 
 
 But you maunna crack a smile. 
 
 Thamas had a wee bit garden 
 
 Doon ayont the county jail, 
 Whaur he grew his leeks an' tatties, 
 
 Cabbage heids, an 1 corn an' kail. 
 Early springtime's nicghts an' morning 
 
 Found auld Thamas wi' his spade 
 Diggin' as if life depended, 
 
 Till his garden was a' made. 
 
 But there came a time to Thamas 
 
 When tae dig was awfu' slow, 
 An' he couldna seem tae manage 
 
 Wi' his spade tae mak' a show; 
 Then the thought tae Tarn cam' slowly, 
 
 u Gin I only had a pleugh, 
 An' a strappin pair of horses 
 
 A' my diggin' wud be through." 
 
 An' the thought kept growin' deeper 
 Into Thamas Thamson's mind, 
 
 Till it left a' ither matters 
 O' his plannin' far behind; 
 1 06 
 
Then he thought, "Why mercy on me! 
 
 I can get ould Samson's pleugh, 
 An' for horses, there's my cuddie, 
 
 An' my atilder brither's coo." 
 
 Tarn was tickled wi' his plannin' 
 
 Sae he cudna hardly wait, 
 For the daylicght o' the mornin' 
 
 When a' pleughmen tak' the gait. 
 Tarn, O Tarn, had you been wiser 
 
 Than the sheep-heids of the glen, 
 You wad ne'er be ca'ed the cuddie, 
 
 As a mark of a' you ken. 
 
 A' nicght lang he made his harness, 
 
 Laughin' gleefu' in his hope, 
 Bits o' canvas an' auld leather 
 
 Tied thegither wi' a rope, 
 Padded out wi' some auld blankets 
 
 Sae they wad be unco soft, 
 Then when a' was din an' finished 
 
 Tarn danced roun' like he was daft. 
 
 Doon the lane an' through the pailin' 
 
 In the morning's early gray, 
 Wi' the pleugh, an' coo, an' cuddie, 
 
 Puffed wi' pride, Tarn went his way, 
 Draggin' ane an' leadin' ithers, 
 
 Man, it was an' awfu' task. 
 Hoo he did it there's nae tellin'; 
 
 Come noo, neebor, dinna ask. 
 
 Hoo he fitted fearfu' harness 
 
 On the cuddie an' the coo, 
 Hoo he hitched his lang rope traces 
 
 Tae the clevis o' the pleugh, 
 
 107 
 
Hoo he stood an' iooked admiring, 
 
 At creation o' his hand, 
 An' wi' pleasure kept exclaiming, 
 
 " Man alive, its braw an' grand!" 
 
 Nane can tell you, honest neebor, 
 
 There was nae ane there to see; 
 But that pleughin' coo an' cuddie 
 
 Gaed an awfu' fricght tae me. 
 Wi' his lines tied roun' his body, 
 
 'Tween the handles o' the pleugh, 
 "Noo," said Tarn, wi' cheerfu' chirrup, 
 
 " Gang awa, I'm ready noo." 
 
 But the coo looked at the cuddie, 
 
 An' the cuddie wadna gang, 
 Just threw back his lang, lang luggies, 
 
 An' brayed out his cuddie song; 
 And at that the coo sprang forrit, 
 
 Fairly tremblin' wi' her fricght, 
 While the cuddie, brayin' louder, 
 
 Followed fast wi' a' his might. 
 
 Thamas roared, her cooship bellowed, 
 
 Roun' an' roun' like mad they flew, 
 Loupin' blindly through the garden, 
 
 Thamas hangin' tae the pleugh; 
 'Til at last they louped the pailin', 
 
 Pu'in' poor auld Thamas through, 
 Left the pleugh all broke an twisted 
 
 An' the pailin' a' askew. 
 
 Doon the lang hill tae the river, 
 Madder, madder, grew the race, 
 
 A' the fricghted neebors rinnin' 
 Hard as hunters at the chase. 
 108 
 
Yelpin' dogs frae sleep disturbit, 
 Howled an' barked wi' fearfu' din; 
 
 Girnin lads an' jaukers yellin' — 
 "Gae it, Thamas, you maun win." 
 
 Soon the river gaped before them, 
 
 Dark an' dismal, slow and deep, 
 And the crazy coo an' cuddie 
 
 In the river gaed a leap; 
 But the lines aroun' Tarn's body 
 
 Broke an' left him on the bank, 
 While his strappin pair o' horses 
 
 In the dismal water sank. 
 
 Tarn is aulder noo and wiser, 
 
 Though they ca' him cuddie yet, 
 An' that awfu' springtime mornin' 
 
 He remembers with regret. 
 An' they say that on the river 
 
 Fearful sounds the neebors hear, 
 O' that fricghted coo and cuddie 
 
 Brayin', booin' ance a year. 
 
 ^1*>~ 
 
 ^J?^ 
 
 109 
 
WHAT WULLIE WAD BE. 
 
 ULLIE WILSON was a lad, 
 
 No' sae guid an' no' sae bad, 
 Wha loved the soond o' simmer 
 breeze 
 Whistlin' brawly through 
 the trees, 
 An' lo'ed tae paiddle doon the 
 burn, 
 Seeking oot each winding 
 turn 
 Roun' the hill an' ower the lea 
 Whaur it rippled fancy free. 
 
 But Wullie hated ilka rule, 
 Binding bairns in simmer school, 
 When the sunbeams licghtly chase 
 Dark'ning shade frae place to place; 
 Hated books, an' slate, an' pen; 
 Hated teachers, maids or men, 
 Wha in sweetest time o' year 
 Wi' his dreams wad interfere. 
 
 Wullie's mother fu' o' care 
 For her laddie grievin' sair, 
 Pleaded wi' him as indeed, 
 Nane but mither's e'er can plead: 
 " Wullie, laddie, dinna gang, 
 Trippin' blin'ly tae the wrang, 
 Gin you winna try tae learn 
 You'll be brainless as a pern." 
 
An' ae' day when Wullie played 
 Truant wi' the sun and shade, 
 Creepin hame when shades o' nicght 
 Threw their curtains ower the licght, 
 Mither met him at the door, 
 As she'd aften din before, 
 Cryin' oot, " Oh ! Wullie, lad, 
 You are gaein' tae the bad. 
 
 " Ignorance will keep you doon 
 As a feckless, silly clown, 
 What you'll mak', I dinna ken, 
 You'll be laughin' stock o' men 
 Else you quickly tak' a turn 
 An' your lessons try to learn. 
 Tell me, Wullie, what you'll mak' 
 Gin tae books you winna tak' ? " 
 
 Wullie ready wi' his tongue, 
 Nerves as yet wi' fear unstrung, 
 Cried, " Noo, mither, dinna heed, 
 Learnin' some folks dinna need, 
 Aften-times you'll see them pass 
 Dressed in bonnie blue and brass, 
 Bobbies booin' wi' a grin, 
 Learnin's useless, mak' me yin." 
 
HURSEL' 'YONT A BIT." 
 
 N auld lang syne there reigned 
 a king 
 Within the British coast, 
 Wha's knowledge o' the Scot- 
 tish tongue 
 Was ca'd his proodest boast; 
 But a bright and sonsie lassie, 
 
 Fu' o' sparkling mither wit, 
 Stumped the knowledge o' her 
 ruler 
 Wi' a u hursel' 'yont a bit" 
 
 'Tis a pleasant little story 
 
 Be it fause or be it true, 
 Tho' the king was but a callant 
 
 And the lassie but a shrew. 
 As a modern application 
 
 O' this saying 'twould befit, 
 The folks that fill the highest seats 
 
 Noo' to "hursel' 'yont a bit." 
 
 When a chiel is struggling bravely 
 
 Fighting hard to win a place 
 That will gie him safer fittin' 
 
 In this life's unending race, 
 Dinna push him frae the benches 
 
 Whaur there's room for mair tae sit, 
 But be willin' tae assist him 
 
 And to u hursel' 'yont a bit." 
 
It is telt that men are brithers, 
 
 And the ills that men befa' 
 Are a part o' God's creation 
 
 That governs the human law. 
 But to poor and starvin' bairnies 
 
 'Tis a doctrin mair befit 
 That they wha' live with little stint 
 
 Quickly "hurseP 'yont a bit." 
 
 O ye wise men o' this nation 
 
 Let your wisdom noo' prevail 
 Gie us light from out the darkness 
 
 Ere our glim'ring hope shal) fail t 
 Send to far and near a message 
 
 That this nation still is fit 
 To care for a' its bairnies 
 
 If they " hurseP 'yont a bit." 
 
 
 us 
 
WI' SMILE AN' SANG. 
 
 [T's a lang, dreary road whaur naebody 
 lees; 
 It's an awfu' dour place whaur nae- 
 body gi'es 
 Their neebors a smile as the're pas- 
 sing alang, 
 Nor cheers up the way wi' the 
 lilt o' a sang; 
 It's an awfu' steep hill whaur nae yin can climb; 
 It's an awfu soor face that licghts no' in time 
 Tae the grace o' a smile or glint o' an e'e 
 Frae neebor or frjen' baith cantie an free. 
 
 It's a dark eerie day when sun disna shine, 
 But it's darker tae me when that brither o' mine 
 Looks dour an' forsaken as though Father Death 
 Had saddened his soul wi' the blight o' his breath. 
 There's sadness enough ilka day o' the year, 
 An' sorrow comes surely tae ca' in the tear, 
 But joy is no' certain at your house tae ca', 
 When smiles an' sweet sang finds nae welcome ava. 
 
 It's barren an' bleak whaur the grass never grows; 
 It's bleak whaur nae nonsense does enter the pows 
 O' lassies an' laddies baith halesome an' braw, 
 As sunbeams that glitter wi' gold as they fa'. 
 Some grumlie auld sourick wha never may ken 
 What's needfu' tae hearken the spirits o' men, 
 May froon on a' nonsense as mark o' the deil 
 But guid maun be gloomy tae please sic a chiel. 
 
 114 
 
And its cauld is the man that never can find 
 Guid fellowship true 'mang the men o' his kind. 
 The gayness o' men is his constant complaint, 
 He ne'er will be welcome tae sinner or saint. 
 The sinner will shun him as something tae fear 
 While saint will dispise him as lackin' o' cheer. 
 Sae smile oot your welcome an' sing an' be glad 
 That your cheerfu'ness helps baith the guid an' 
 the bad. 
 
 115 
 
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