[HE ] IBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CAL iFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 Hit LIBKAKY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MEMORIES 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM BAUCHOP WILSON 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 REVISED 
 
 THE TRADES UNIONIST 
 WASHINGTON. D. C.
 
 COPYRIGHTED, 1916. BY W. B. WILSON.
 
 DEDICATION 
 
 * * 
 
 my Father and Mother, whose 
 hopes that their son might follow 
 a literary career have not been realized, 
 this little book is affectionately inscribed 
 as a partial compensation for their dis 
 appointment. 
 
 WILLIAM BAUCHOP WILSON. 
 Christmas, 1902. 
 
 2091802
 
 PREFACE 
 
 * + 
 
 I have no intention of inflicting upon the general public 
 these few rhymes, written, principally, under the influence of 
 youthful exuberance. It could not be expected to appreciate 
 the circumstances under which they came into existence or 
 overlook the defects they contain. I am looking for a more 
 sympathetic audience. This little volume has been printed 
 (not published) for circulation amongst those intimate 
 friends of mine who can bury its poetical, grammatical and 
 structural defects beneath their personal respect for the 
 author. My friend, Sam, says : "No man ever writes poetry 
 except when his liver is out of order." This may be true, 
 and, if it is, I submit this book to my friends as conclusive 
 proof that my life has been a reasonably healthy one. 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 No great, refined, poetic powers I claim ; 
 
 No college learning smooths my humble muse ; 
 Unknown to fortune, hidden far from fame, 
 
 I simply sing, because to sing I choose. 
 Nor shall I sing of lords or ladies fair, 
 
 Of kings or queens vain-glorious in might, 
 Of priests or parsons bowed in holy prayer 
 
 Imploring grace to guide their flocks aright. 
 Of chivalry, or gallant knights of old, 
 
 Who gloried in their prowess with the lance ; 
 Who fought for ladies bright, for kings and gold, 
 
 For transient fame and pleasure, too, perchance. 
 But, as I tune my rude, uncultured lyre 
 
 I'll sing the praises of the multitude 
 Whose toiling brawn and brain and heart's desire 
 
 Moves ever for their fellow beings' good. 
 
 When England's mighty nobles gathered round 
 
 The sturdy oak on Island Runnymede, 
 All by a promise to each other bound 
 
 To give the future freedom's title deed 
 Signed by King John, and ratified by those 
 
 Whose genius grasped the coming of the hour 
 To organize the forces, to oppose 
 
 A tyrant monarch's autocratic power, 
 A strike was threatened. On the issue hung 
 
 "Liberty or death," freedom or servile strife
 
 To all the race that speak the English tongue 
 And value liberty more dear than life. 
 
 When Freedom's goddess, sweet enchanting maid, 
 
 Had fled Columbia's ever beautious shore, 
 When low, the hand of Justice had been laid 
 
 And brave men fought with desperation, more 
 To guard their homes from arbitrary wrong 
 
 Than to resist the payment of the cash 
 Which Britain sought, because her arm was strong, 
 
 To have, or force collection with the lash. 
 When through the time that tried men's souls 
 
 The patriot fathers stood, unconquered still, 
 Trusting to Him whose destiny controls, 
 
 To add a Yorktown to their Bunker Hill, 
 'Twas but a strike, born of a Union, made 
 
 By separate States, each of itself too frail 
 To thwart the wrongs imposed. But with the aid 
 
 Each gave the other, wrong could not prevail. 
 But strikes like these are far beyond my muse. 
 
 I leave them for a greater Minstrel's themes, 
 While I, a lowly humble strain may choose 
 
 And sing a toiler's hopes, his waking dreams 
 Of coming power used for the common weal, 
 
 Where all alike in God's eternal plan, 
 Sharing the burdens and the profits, feel 
 
 The spirit of the brotherhood of man. 
 
 But as I tune my rude, uncultured lyre, 
 I'll sing the praises of the multitude, 
 
 Whose toiling brawn and brain and heart's desire 
 Moves ever for their fellow being's good.
 
 THE OLD TIN CAN. 
 
 + * 
 
 There's a spring of sparkling water flowing out beneath the 
 
 hill, 
 Where the trees are tall and shady and the robins sport at 
 
 will, 
 As the breezes, soft and pleasant, in the summer's sultry 
 
 heat, 
 Play about in cooling eddies where the light and shadows 
 
 meet. 
 
 On a stone within the shadows sits a can of ancient tin, 
 With a band of rust about it and a coat of rust within ; 
 But there's nothing God has given to appease the thirst of 
 
 man 
 Like a cooling drink of water from that old tin can. 
 
 You may sip the rarest vintage from the sunny soil of Spain, 
 Quaff the purest ardent spirits malted from the golden grain, 
 Or consume a foaming tankard of the brewer's purest mead ; 
 Drink the fine Italian liquors 'till your blood is warm indeed ; 
 You may praise with fitting ardor, either French or native 
 
 wine, 
 
 And all the ancient product of the Moselle or the Rhine ; 
 But there's nothing more refreshing ever made since time 
 
 began 
 Than a cooling drink of water from that old tin can. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 * * 
 
 Sing Ho ! for the depths of the forest glade, 
 For the rocky glen and the cool cascade 
 When the painter's hand on the hills is laid 
 And the Autumn leaves are falling,
 
 And the soft breeze sings through the leaves and limbs 
 With the low, sweet strains of enchanting hymns, 
 
 Like the voice of an Angel calling. 
 When the days are bright and the nights are grey. 
 And the squirrel turns from his summer's play 
 To carefully gather his stores away 
 
 As the rich, brown nuts are falling. 
 Then the mystic chords that pervade the trees 
 Soon soothe the toil-worn heart to ease, 
 
 Like the voice of an Angel calling. 
 
 v 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 * * 
 
 Where shall we look when the heart is sad 
 
 With the burden of many cares? 
 Where shall we turn when the weak and bad 
 
 Have covered our pathway with snares? 
 Where shall we seek for a helping hand 
 
 When the body and spirit bend ? 
 Ah! then we must seek for courage and 
 
 Unbosom ourselves to a friend. 
 Where shall we go when the heart is gay 
 
 And throbs with a pure delight 
 That lightens the weight of toil by day 
 
 And sweetens our sleep at night? 
 What shall we do when the battle of life 
 
 Goes on with a glorious trend ? 
 Ah ! then in the joy of the world's strife 
 
 We must share our hopes with a friend. 
 
 10
 
 AU REVOIR. 
 
 + * 
 
 Written for the menu of a banquet to John Mitchell on the eve of his 
 departure to attend the British Trade Union Congress as a Fraternal 
 Delegate from the American Federation of Labor. 
 
 * * 
 
 We're a goin' to give a blow-out to Johnny Mitchell, now, 
 
 In honor o' the trip that's addin' laurels to his brow. 
 
 And when he leaves his native heath our hearts '11 fill with 
 
 pain 
 
 And keep a constant longin' till we git him back again. 
 There ain't no use o' talkin', all the time he is away 
 We'll miss him in the councils, and we'll miss him in the fray 
 When sturdy blows are needed 'gainst the wrong and for 
 
 the right, 
 
 For though he is a man o' peace he ain't afraid to fight. 
 He's got a way about him some employers doesn't like, 
 He beats them in convention and he whips them in the strike, 
 But he's won their admiration, and its growin' more and 
 
 more, 
 For they know he stands for justice and he's honest to the 
 
 core. 
 
 So we're goin' to give a blow-out to Johnny Mitchell, now, 
 In honor o' the trip that's addin' laurels to his brow. 
 And in this partin' moment as we bid him "au revoir," 
 We hail him Labor's Prince o' Peace, likewise its King o' 
 
 War. 
 
 *A A A A 
 p 9f * j* 
 
 JOHNNY JUMPER. 
 
 * * 
 
 He's a little chap, is Johhny, 
 Frail of form and pale of cheek, 
 
 With a modest disposition 
 And a manner mild and meek. 
 
 11
 
 Not a soul in all the village, 
 
 Where the boy was born and bred, 
 Ever guessed the latent forces 
 
 Lying dormant in his head. 
 If you'd asked his nearest neighbors 
 
 If they thought him really bright 
 They'd have answered very plainly 
 
 That they thought his heart was right, 
 "But so far as brain is needed 
 
 For to plan and scheme and such, 
 And for nerve to execute it, 
 
 Johnny don't amount to much." 
 In the many miners' meetings 
 
 He had not a word to say, 
 And whatever was decided, 
 
 That was always Johnn's way. 
 For he learned the lesson early, 
 
 In the plain Trade Union school, 
 That the judgment of the many 
 
 Is the judgment that should rule. 
 So he left his work serenely, 
 
 Taking all his kit along, 
 When, one day, a strike was voted, 
 
 For to right a grievous wrong. 
 Four long months the strike had lasted, 
 
 With no settlement in view, 
 And the men had scattered widely, 
 
 Looking for some work to do, 
 Leaving but a few behind them 
 
 To protect their interests there, 
 One of whom was Johnny Jumper 
 
 On whose shoulders trust and care 
 Were experiments. The action 
 
 Of selecting him to lead 
 
 12
 
 In a move of such importance 
 
 Seemed a strange and risky deed. 
 But he wore his added honors 
 
 In a modest, manly way, 
 And his form was ever present 
 
 In the thickest of the fray, 
 Cheering on his weaker comrades 
 
 To a more determined stand, 
 While maintaining law and order 
 
 With a firm but gentle hand. 
 Thus it was one Autumn evening 
 
 When the strikers all had gone 
 From the village, save the pickets 
 
 Whom the men depended on 
 To apprise such stray wayfarers 
 
 As might seek employment there, 
 Of the burdens of oppression 
 
 Which they sought to make more fair, 
 That a horde of drunken rowdies, 
 
 Filled with liquor to the brim, 
 Freely furnished by the bosses, 
 
 Through their leader, Broncho Tim, 
 Worked themselves into a frenzy 
 
 While they strutted up and down, 
 Shouting loudly their intentions 
 
 That of "cleaning out the town." 
 Broncho Tim, fierce, tall and brawny, 
 
 Swung his pistol o'er his head, 
 Challenging to mortal combat 
 
 So that he could shoot him dead, 
 Any man among the strikers 
 
 Who would dare to meet a foe 
 With the reputation he had, 
 
 Gathered in the long ago. 
 
 13
 
 Rumor whispered, faint and lowly, 
 
 Only as such rumors can, 
 That, on more than one occasion 
 
 Broncho Tim had "killed his man," 
 And their bones were slowly bleaching 
 
 On some boundless Western plain, 
 Proving his undaunted courage 
 
 But his challenge was in vain. 
 By the silence much emboldened, 
 
 Loud and rank his curses grew, 
 Called them anarchists and cattle, 
 
 Swore he'd bore their bodies through, 
 Gathered all his rowdies round him, 
 
 Drove the sheriff from the place, 
 Styled himself the "Lord High Mayor," 
 
 Shoved his gun in every face 
 With his challenge. Johnny's patience 
 
 Fled. A pale film swept his brow, 
 "Sir," he calmly said, "Your challenge 
 
 Is accepted here and now. 
 Pistols, I suppose, will suit you, 
 
 Any distance that you choose, 
 But three paces is sufficient. 
 
 What ! You surely don't refuse 
 After all your blow and bluster ?" 
 
 While he spoke the giant's frame 
 Swayed and trembled like an aspen, 
 
 And his knees together came 
 With a rythmic, fast vibration 
 
 To his pulses keeping time, 
 All his courage oozing from him 
 
 Like the filthy flow of slime. 
 Then the men he had about him 
 
 As they saw his startled face, 
 
 14
 
 Lost their arrogant assertion 
 
 And prepared to leave the place. 
 "I am sick today," he muttered, 
 
 But some other day we'll see 
 If a stunted little pigmy 
 
 Can defy a man like me." 
 Then the rowdies, all crestfallen, 
 
 With their leader marched away, 
 Leaving peace and hope behind them 
 
 And the miners won the day. 
 
 * * * * + 
 
 Lines on receiving a present of 
 
 A NEW PEN. 
 * * 
 
 I hain't bin a writin' but little of late, 
 
 I've bin lazy an' tired an' dull, 
 An' thoughts wouldn't think in my old thick pate 
 
 Er ideas enter my skull. 
 But I hain't as tired 's I used to be 
 
 An' I've started to writin' agen 
 No more of the lazy and dull f er me 
 
 'Cause I've got a new pen. 
 Ideas may come an' ideas may go 
 
 Like the regular tides o' the sea, 
 Any one with ideas can write, you know, 
 
 Tho' it may not read easy an' free. 
 It's good to be pushin' ideas along 
 
 To add to the wisdom o' men, 
 So I feel the old longin' for writin' grow strong 
 
 'Cause I've got a new pen. 
 
 15
 
 MEMORIES. 
 * + 
 
 The pale moon sends its mellow silvery beams 
 In faintly glowing shimmers through the trees, 
 Casting the shadows of the limbs and leaves 
 In myriad forms, changing with every pulse 
 Of passing fancy that the mind creates. 
 Soothing the soul to sleep with that quiet peace 
 That fills its slumbers with refreshing dreams 
 And memories of the past. We live again 
 The boyhood days with every escapade 
 And petty prank our quarrels with our friends 
 Forgiven in a day the pretty petite form 
 And dreamy eyes of her for whom we first 
 Conceived the subtle sentiment of love ; 
 And all the likes and dislikes of our youth, 
 Passing before us in the softened light 
 Formed by the moonbeams and the lapse of time. 
 Again we play the truant from the school, 
 And wander off with some congenial mate 
 Into the woods, where flows the mountain brook 
 In tiny foaming cataracts where lurks 
 The speckled trout. With angle worms for bait, 
 A slim birch sapling fitted for a rod 
 And twine well knotted to the pole and hook, 
 We seek with patience worthy of success, 
 To lure the wary beauties to their death. 
 And when at last we land a hungry fish, 
 Less cautious than the rest, that takes the bait 
 Our crude art has prepared, we leap with joy, 
 And all the dread we had of going home ; 
 The fear of father's vigorous reproof; 
 The earnest admonition mother gave, 
 The angry master waiting at the school ; 
 Are driven from our thoughts, lost for a time, 
 16
 
 Or buried in the raptures of the hour. 
 We stroll once more across the pasture field 
 Dotted with daisies, common as the grass 
 That grows beneath our feet. Nor do we see 
 The beauty of their bloom until in later years, 
 Far distant from the spot whereon they grew, 
 In some vast town where flowers are seldom seen 
 Fresh from the fields, when slowly on our minds 
 The truth begins to dawn with growing force 
 That these pale petals with a heart of gold, 
 Passed by unheeded in the country fields, 
 Are worthy of a place in men's esteem 
 Who love pure beauty just for beauty's sake. 
 The sultry summer day we spend with glee 
 Lolling about or swimming in the hole 
 That deepens in the stream above the spot 
 Where creek and river join. The hot sun glares 
 Upon our naked forms and burns the skin 
 'Till crimson blisters raise upon our backs. 
 We heed it not until the chafing clothes, 
 Erstwhile put on, reminds us of the truth 
 That no great pleasure ever comes to man 
 That does not bring its counterpart of pain. 
 We fear to tell the torture we endure 
 'Till night comes on and mother finds it out. 
 Allays the pain with buttermilk or cream 
 Cool from the cellar, while she gently scolds 
 And sends us sobbing early off to bed. 
 And thus the moonbeams play upon the mind, 
 Rousing to life the sentimental traits 
 Long dormant from disuse or other cause. 
 That man is hard beyond the wont of men 
 Who does not dream of better things to be 
 Or send his feelings floating o'er the past 
 Beneath the pleasant mapic of the moon. 
 
 17
 
 THE EXPLOSION. 
 * * 
 
 Deep beneath the rolling -prairie 
 
 Shone the miner's feeble light ; 
 All around a dreary darkness, 
 
 Blacker than eternal night. 
 Hundreds there with pick and shovel, 
 
 Eking out their daily bread, 
 Heedless of the dang'rous gases 
 
 Or the treach'rous roof o'erhead ; 
 Hundreds, who for years had labored 
 
 In the mines, from harm exempt, 
 Knowing well its many dangers 
 
 Held those dangers in contempt. 
 It was early in the evening, 
 
 Tools were being laid away, 
 For a week of labor ended 
 
 With the ending of the day. 
 Men with muscles sore and weary 
 
 With a week of toil oppressed, 
 Thanked the Lord who gave the Sabbath 
 
 Gave it for a day of rest ; 
 Thanked the Lord, yet while those feelings 
 
 From their honest bosoms start, 
 Hark ! A rumbling in the distance 
 
 Strikes a terror to the heart. 
 Oh ! how well they knew the meaning 
 
 Of that distant, dismal roar, 
 Quick they drew their coats about them, 
 
 Threw themselves upon the floor. 
 Through the headings, airways, chambers, 
 
 Every open space it came, 
 With a voice more loud than thunder, 
 
 With a solid wall of flame. 
 
 IS
 
 Rails and sleepers, doors and brattice, 
 
 Cars and timbers, coal and rock, 
 Crashing, tearing, rushing, roaring, 
 
 Flew before the mighty shock. 
 Stalwart men were but as feathers 
 
 Driven with a cyclone's ire, 
 Fast their flesh and sinews shriveled, 
 
 Scorched and roasted with the fire. 
 Some were hurled against the pillars, 
 
 Mangled, bleeding, dying, dead; 
 Arms and legs torn from the body. 
 
 Bodies severed from the head. 
 Loud the shrieks of burned and wounded, 
 
 Prayers and curses rent the air, 
 Strong men wept for helpless families, 
 
 Tore their garments in despair. 
 Soon the shocking crash was over, 
 
 Deadly vapors round them crept, 
 Wrapt them in a veil of poison, 
 
 Lulled the living 'till they slept. 
 Never men slept more intensely, 
 
 Never miner breathed more deep, 
 Not a soul in all the number 
 
 Ever wakened from that sleep. 
 
 Through the village on the prairie 
 
 Fast the fatal tidings sped, 
 And the rumors, wildly flying, 
 
 Told them all below were dead. 
 Wives and mothers madly weeping, 
 
 Frantic with a weight of woe, 
 Clasping babies to their bosoms, 
 
 Calling loved ones dead below, 
 Rushed to where the shattered debris 
 
 From the mine was strewn around, 
 
 iv
 
 There in agony and terror 
 
 Falling, fainting on the ground. 
 Brave men from adjoining places, 
 
 Noble, hardy, tried and true, 
 Held the women back from danger, 
 
 Meanwhile planning what to do. 
 Busy toilers aid preparing 
 
 Soon were ready for descent, 
 And, into the deadly chasm 
 
 Sturdy-hearted miners went; 
 Leading air, repairing brattice, 
 
 Working ever, night and day, 
 Till the airways all were opened 
 
 And the rubbish cleared away. 
 
 One by one the charred and mangled 
 
 Bodies of the men were found, 
 And with gentle hands were carried 
 
 To the rough morgue over ground. 
 Many hearts were rent with anguish, 
 
 Many tears of sorrow shed, 
 As with each arrival, loving, 
 
 Loved ones recognized their dead. 
 
 One there was, a pale-faced woman, 
 
 Waiting with her children five, 
 Hoping that each cage would quickly 
 
 Bring her husband home alive. 
 When at last they brought him to her, 
 
 Not a spark of life was there, 
 Then she threw herself upon him, 
 
 Clasped him with a calm despair, 
 Not a word of grief escaped her, 
 
 Not a tear bedimmed her eyes, 
 
 20
 
 Not a sign betrayed her sorrow, 
 
 Save her deep-drawn, sobbing sighs. 
 
 In the gloaming, when the babies 
 
 All were wrapt in silent sleep, 
 Long that mother sat and pondered 
 
 With a heart too sore to weep. 
 Musing on the past and future, 
 
 Thinking of her husband, dead, 
 Grieving till her mind was broken 
 
 And her powers of reason fled. 
 Springing up she crossed the kitchen, 
 
 Cautiously she closed the door, 
 Then with oil besmeared the bedding, 
 
 Sprinkled oil upon the floor, 
 Lit a match ; the fire fast spreading 
 
 Burned the building to the ground, 
 On the morrow six charred bodies 
 
 Were among the ruins found. 
 Thus were six more victims added 
 
 To the great explosion's claim, 
 And, although the jury rendered 
 
 That, "No person was to blame," 
 There is yet a Court of Justice 
 
 From the power of money free, 
 Where the Judge the Great Jehovah- 
 Will pronounce the just decree, 
 That all those who that day perished, 
 
 In the mines and fire, were slain 
 As a sacrifice to Mammon's 
 
 Overweening greed for gain. 
 
 21
 
 MY FATHER'S DAY DREAM. 
 
 / 
 
 * * 
 
 One evening last June when the day's work was over, 
 
 I sat all alone in my cozy arm chair, 
 And drank the perfume of the sweet-scented clover 
 
 That floated along on the cool, balmy air. 
 My trusty clay pipe 'tween my thumb and forefinger 
 
 I puffed with a lazy, luxuriant ease, 
 The smoke curling up for a moment to linger, 
 
 Then fade from my sight as it mixed with the breeze. 
 
 And as I sat thinking, the smoke curling o'er me, 
 
 There rose up a mirror-like vision of yore, 
 The land of my fathers lay plainly before me 
 
 A beautiful picture from memory's store. 
 Yes, there stood the mill,'neath the wide spreading rowans, 
 
 The miller's neat cot on the brow of the hill. 
 I saw the broad fields dotted over with gowans 
 
 And heard once again Avon's murmuring rill. 
 
 Bathed my hot limbs on its cool, rippling bosom, 
 
 Roved through the woodlands that rise from its side, 
 Plucked the bluebell and the hawthorn blossom 
 
 That flourish so full on the banks of the Clyde. 
 Gathered the woodbine and fragrant wild roses, 
 
 The daisy, the primrose and sweet heatherbell. 
 Chased the wild bee from its place on the posies 
 
 And searched for birds' nests on the trees in the dell. 
 
 There by the road stood the one-story houses, 
 The thin strip of woodland just over the way 
 
 Where the robin, the sparrow and little titmouses 
 Were chirping their praise to the glorious day. 
 
 22
 
 And far up the hill with the stone wall around it 
 The high park in glory looked down on the plain, 
 
 While the stately old oaks in the center resounded 
 With winds that to fell them blew fiercely, but vain. 
 
 I saw there the deer when the cannon's loud rattle 
 
 'Re-echoed like thunder o'er valley and hill, 
 Gallop off then come back, form like soldiers in battle, 
 
 Gaze wild at the cannon ; excited but still, 
 Till another report sent them off in a hurry, 
 
 A frightened, excited, disorderly train, 
 Away round the hill in a terrible flurry 
 
 Then back through the same old maneuver again.* 
 
 And here, too, the native white cattle came bounding 
 
 Out through the dense wood with a wild savage grace, 
 The forest behind them with echoes resounding 
 
 Of huntsmen and dogs that took part in the chase. 
 I thought of the time when the forest extended 
 
 O'er nearly the whole of old Scotia's domain, 
 When cattle and deer from the mountain descended 
 
 To crop the luxuriant herbs of the plain. 
 
 When Wallace ere yet his fond hopes had been blighted 
 
 By cruel oppression's dire death dealing sting, 
 In hunting the game of his country delighted, 
 
 Content in the shade of oblivion's dark wing. 
 But the scene seemed to change to a ship on the ocean 
 
 Bound far to the West with its cargo and crew. 
 I gazed from its deck with a heartfelt emotion, 
 
 As slowly old Scotia receded from view. 
 
 * High Park or "Whaum," as it is commonly called, is a private deer park 
 owned by the Duke of Hamilton, and on the brow of the hill facing the Royal 
 Borough of Hamilton, several cannon are placed. On all gala days these cannon 
 are charged and fired, producing the effect upon the deer, herein described. 
 
 23
 
 And when the last trace of her outline was fading, 
 
 I stood on my tip-toe with uplifted hand 
 Laid over my temples, my strained vision shading, 
 
 To catch one more glance of my dear native land. 
 Then out from my dreaming the vision before me 
 
 Like Scotia's sweet shore faded slowly away ; 
 A dull, heavy feeling of sadness came o'er me, 
 
 And deep in my heart's inmost recesses lay. 
 
 True, there stood Penn's forest as stately as ever, 
 
 And, there, the wide meadows and tall growing grain, 
 And down in the valley the swift flowing river 
 
 Fast winding its way to the billowy main. 
 Yet though my heattloves them with loyal devotion, 
 
 My memory dwells on sweet visions of yore, 
 And pictures that country far over the ocean, 
 
 The land of my fathers, old Scotia's loved shore. 
 
 + * * * * 
 THE COAL MINER. 
 
 + + 
 
 A slight little fellow, not yet in his teens, 
 His arms to his elbows tucked down in his jeans, 
 No cares of the present, no thoughts of the past, 
 No plans for the future, no troubles that last ; 
 No bird as it sings o'er its nest in the tree 
 Its ode to the morning, more happy than he. 
 His loud ringing whistle, clear, piercing and shrill, 
 Re-echoes the joys of his heart o'er the hill 
 He is starting in life as a miner. 
 
 /- 
 A youthful-like personage, wiry and strong, 
 
 Deep-chested, broad-shouldered, limbs supple and long. 
 The coal seems today to be flying more thick 
 Than ever before from the point of his pick. 
 24
 
 Fast flows the sweat from each pore in his face, 
 As blow after blow brings the coal from its place. 
 What pride in his voice as she says : "By the way, 
 I want you to know I am sixteen today, 
 And I want a 'full turn* as a miner." 
 
 A middle-aged man with a calm, pleasant air, 
 His face and his brow slightly furrowed with care ; 
 Fighting life's battles with stubborn will, 
 Doing his work with a masterly skill. 
 Leading his comrades in honors grown gray, 
 Taking their laurels triumphant away. 
 High as a workman has risen his fame, 
 Till over all others is spoken his name 
 He is just in his prime as a miner. 
 
 An old gray-haired person who walks with a cane, 
 
 Every wrong step brings a volley of pain. 
 
 Walks a short distance, then stops for a rest 
 
 From difficult breathing, pains all through his breast. 
 
 Telling with glee and a care for the truth, 
 
 Great tales of the digging he did in his youth, 
 
 The "soft snaps" he had and the hard work he'd done, 
 
 The foes he defeated, the laurels he won 
 
 He has worked all his life as a miner. 
 
 A plain, common coffin, no trimmings of gold, 
 
 Its occupant lifeless, rigid and cold ; 
 
 Gone from this life with its pleasures and pains, 
 
 Its rises and downfalls, losses and gains. 
 
 Now all his work as a miner is o'er, 
 
 And the tales he once told he will never tell more. 
 
 Green o'er his grave, let sweet immortelles grow, 
 
 Now since he's gone where all mortals must go 
 
 All mortals as well as a miner. 
 
 25
 
 THE PATRIOT'S OATH. 
 
 + * 
 
 (A Tale of the Convict Labor System. ) 
 * * 
 
 Scene First. A street in a mining village. Brown and 
 Graeme meeting. 
 
 Graeme : 
 
 Good evening, stranger, whither are you bound, 
 On such a night, winds howling all around ? 
 When keen, hard snow, fast driven by the storm, 
 Pierces and chills the warmest covered form 
 That dares to venture from a cozy hearth 
 Into the stormy elements of earth. 
 Whence are you bound ? I ask, on such a night, 
 In such a garb, torn, comfortless and light, 
 Out through whose tattered shreds the rude winds blow, 
 And toss the shattered fragments to and fro. 
 Your cheeks already seem extremely pale 
 Beneath the biting fierceness of the gale ; 
 . Your hands are numb, enfeebled with the cold ; 
 Your legs so weak they scarce your weight uphold. 
 Why not ere bedtime some warm shelter seek? 
 And leave the storm so fiercely cold and bleak. 
 
 Brown : 
 
 Ah, friend, (for friend you are indeed, 
 Else my poor hopeless lot you would not heed, 
 But pass me as some pass me whom I meet, 
 As though I were a reptile on the street) . 
 It matters little whither I may go, 
 As there seems nothing left me now but woe. 
 But since you ask me in so kind a strain, 
 I'll tell you that I seek, but seek in vain, 
 
 26
 
 A chance to trade some honest toil for bread, 
 
 That my poor wife and babies may be fed. 
 
 Tis not the cold alone that pales my cheek, 
 
 And makes my legs and arms so numb and weak, 
 
 But hunger, gnawing hunger, thought and care; 
 
 Each help a portion, each have done their share. 
 
 For months and months I've tramped for many a mile 
 
 In search of some remunerative toil ; 
 
 For weeks on weeks I've faced the tempest rude, 
 
 For days on days without a bite of food, 
 
 Borne on by hope, surmounting every care, 
 
 Till hope gave way to sullen sad despair. 
 
 Still on I tramped, yet dared not shelter ask, 
 
 Lest I be thrown in prison for my task ; 
 
 There, like a worthless, mischief -making scamp 
 
 To serve a sentence, though an honest tramp. 
 
 Graeme : 
 
 But surely, stranger, there is something wrong 
 That you should be in search of work so long. 
 Why did you leave the work you had at home 
 Ere thus you started out the land to roam ? 
 
 Brown : 
 
 The tale is lengthy too long to be told 
 Out here where all the elements are cold. 
 I must be moving, else the storm's keen breath 
 Will freeze this poor unsheltered frame to death. 
 
 Graeme : 
 
 Not so now, stranger, better come with me, 
 
 A bite to eat, a good warm cup of tea, 
 
 A cozy bed, a night of needed rest 
 
 May cheer you on to-morrow's cares to breast. 
 
 27
 
 Brown : 
 
 A thousand thanks ! God knows I need it sore ; 
 It ne'er could be man's lot to need it more. 
 May God reward you from the stores of heaven 
 For this great kindness to a stranger given. 
 
 Scene Second. Graeme's house, supper table set. 
 Graeme : 
 
 Come now, stranger, just bring up your chair 
 And help yourself from this our humble fare. 
 We boast no dainties delicately good, 
 But pure, substantial, health-sustaining food; 
 To that yoju're welcome as the birds that sing 
 The sweetest carols to returning spring. 
 And yet, my friend, I do not know your name, 
 As for my own, 'tis simply William Graeme, 
 A miner trained to shovel, dig and blast. 
 
 Brown : 
 
 I'm Thomas Brown, a true knight of the last, 
 And now I'll tell you how I came to be 
 Out in the cold, when first you spoke to me. 
 You see, when first I called my Susie wife, 
 We hadn't much to start us out in life, 
 But through my work, her thriftiness and skill, 
 We soon had placed some coppers in our till. 
 Then came the panic, wages smaller grew, 
 Work grew more scarce, our family growing, too ; 
 To keep ahead we made a stubborn fight, 
 But could not do it, struggle as we might. 
 What little money we had laid in store, 
 Soon went to keep starvation from the door. 
 Then came a change, the panic passed away, 
 
 28
 
 Our hopes increased, but not a whit my pay. 
 
 Up went provisions ten per cent or more, 
 
 And made us poorer than we were before. 
 
 I and my shopmates thought it just to ask 
 
 For greater wages for our daily task. 
 
 We held a meeting, made a just request, 
 
 But our employers seemed to think it best 
 
 To crush their toilers that the men might still 
 
 Be wage-slaves to a cruel tyrant's will. 
 
 They therefore told us they would pay no more 
 
 In wages than the price they paid before. 
 
 We argued, pleaded, threatened for a while, 
 
 Yet they refused, and we refused to toil. 
 
 They murmured vengeance, but we scorned their threat? 
 
 Until they hired a gang of "prison pets." 
 
 Then we protested, but it was no use, 
 
 Law backed them up, and that was their excuse. 
 
 Seven cents an hour per head, they paid the State, 
 
 And we were launched to breast the storms of fate. 
 
 I left my wife, my family and abode, 
 
 And ever since have been upon the road 
 
 Searching for work my family to maintain. 
 
 Struggling 'gainst fate, yet struggling in vain, 
 
 Hoping for better, ever growing worse 
 
 Till now I'm branded as my country's curse. 
 
 East and West, and North and South I've been, 
 
 City and hamlet each my face have seen; 
 
 Go where I will, the same words greet my ear : 
 
 "We need no help, we can not hire you here." 
 
 I've sold and bartered everything I could 
 
 That I might get me necessary food, 
 
 And that, my friend, is why I am so nude. 
 
 I know not yet how Susie may have fared, 
 
 But if a few more days my life is spared, 
 
 29
 
 Her tears of grief shall mingle with my own ; 
 Unless (Oh, God forbid !) her spirit's flown. 
 
 Graeme : 
 
 Oh, fair Columbia ! Land that gave me birth ! 
 
 Where is your justice? Where your boasted worth? 
 
 Why are your honest, hardy sons of toil 
 
 Cursed by a system foreign to our soil ? 
 
 Why force them thus stern winter's storms to face 
 
 By putting convict toilers in their place, 
 
 At such a wage they scarce enough can gain 
 
 Their paltry prison diet to maintain. 
 
 Was it for this your noble Warren died ? 
 
 Was this the reason Washington defied 
 
 The power of all that Britain could command 
 
 To make a serfdom of his native land ? 
 
 Was this what Henry's eloquence inspired ? 
 
 Was this the end that Jefferson desired? 
 
 Was this the freedom Adams proudly sought? 
 
 Was this for which your sons so proudly fought, 
 
 Each one preferring, resolute and brave, 
 
 To die in freedom than to live a slave ? 
 
 Cursed be such laws, and doubly cursed the knave 
 
 Who through them makes his fellow-man a slave. 
 
 Oh ! for a spark of good old Yankee fire 
 
 To thrill our slumbering souls with that desire 
 
 For freedom, which from many a humble hearth, 
 
 Was taught to those who gave our nation birth. 
 
 Then would these slavish laws be rent in twain 
 
 And freedom greet us with her smile again. 
 
 Those who desire the race for wealth to win, 
 
 By patronizing such a hellish sin, 
 
 May purchase goods by convict labor made, 
 
 And sell their souls to Satan in the trade, 
 
 30
 
 But by that right hand now upraised in air, 
 With God and you as witnesses I swear 
 Never to purchase while life's breath I draw, 
 Convict goods made under such a law. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 UNES ON LEAVING HOME WHEN BLACKLISTED. 
 
 4- * 
 
 The dark shades of night on the mountain are falling ; 
 
 The clouds over head are all tinted with gold ; 
 The shepherd his sheep from the hillside is calling 
 
 And gathers them tenderly into the fold. 
 The air with the whipporwill's song is vibrating ; 
 
 The low of the cattle sweeps over the plain ; 
 All glad, though my bosom with pain is dilating, 
 
 For soon I must part from my Agnes again. 
 
 Agnes, whose smile fills my bosom with pleasure, 
 
 Whose slightest caress is a fountain of joy. 
 Agnes, my darling, my heart's sweetest treasure, 
 
 So tender and loving, so gentle and coy. 
 Oh! cruel misfortunes have gathered around us, 
 
 All our fond hopes have been severed in twain. 
 Broken, the fond expectations that bound us, 
 
 For soon I must part from my Agnes again. 
 
 Happy the moments, unheeded their fleeting, 
 
 When clasping my darling's sweet form in my arms, 
 Kissing her lips and a story repeating 
 
 That added a bright blushing grace to her charms. 
 Softly I sigh in the depth of my sorrow, 
 
 Since all those pleasures have turned into pain, 
 Soon will appear the gray dawn of the morrow 
 
 And then I must part from my Agnes again. 
 
 31
 
 BLUE EYES. 
 * * 
 
 There's an exquisite something about her, 
 
 Some undefinable grace 
 Of spirit or form, that without her 
 
 Dear presence about the place, 
 Sends the covetous heartaches thronging 
 
 Each other in wild surprise, 
 That I can not control the longing 
 
 To gaze in her sweet blue eyes. 
 
 Such eyes : In their limpid beauty, 
 
 So pleasant and strong and true, 
 Urging me on, when duty 
 
 Seems more than my strength can do. 
 I toil, and deem it a pleasure, 
 
 Yet, pray that God may devise 
 For me a lifetime of leisure 
 
 To gaze in her sweet blue eyes. 
 
 THE LOG CABIN. 
 * * 
 
 The old log house, it stands there yet, 
 
 Low, nestling in the hollow. 
 Its drooping eaves in summer, 
 
 Shelters many a brooding swallow. 
 The rough-hewn hickory timbers now 
 
 Are mouldering in decay, 
 And many a chink and crevice gaps 
 
 That once was filled with clay. 
 The great stone chimney, torn and rent 
 
 With years of changing weather, 
 32
 
 Leans hard against the gable end 
 
 Still holding well together ; 
 Though here and there the stone and clay 
 
 Is tumbling to the earth, 
 And debris from the chimney top 
 
 Lies scattered o'er the hearth. 
 The latch string long since disappeared 
 
 From off the cabin door, 
 And time has worn holes out through 
 
 The good old oaken floor. 
 The pleasant yard, where mother used 
 
 To spend her leisure hours, 
 Is covered o'er with ugly weeds 
 
 Instead of pretty flowers. 
 The little springhouse, frail at best, 
 
 The storms have torn away, 
 And all around the scattered boards 
 
 Lie crumbling in decay. 
 
 Oh, dear old house, I love thee yet, 
 
 Though tattered, torn and rent, 
 Within thy rough-hewn, sturdy walls, 
 
 My happiest hours were spent. 
 In childhood's days, when childish ways, 
 
 Filled life with sunny beams ; 
 And when in budding manhood, first, 
 
 My heart dreamt love's sweet dreams. 
 But all those happy times are now 
 
 Sweet memories of the past, 
 The sunny rays of childhood's days 
 
 Were too sublime to last. 
 Yet while one spark of life remains 
 
 My heart and veins to thrill, 
 And thy rough sides together stand, 
 
 Old house, I'll love thee still. 
 
 33
 
 34 
 
 JOHN WELSH'S DOG IS DEAD. 
 
 * * 
 
 (A True Tale.) 
 
 * + 
 
 John Welsh is a good old fellow 
 
 That lives in our little town, 
 Who's only friend and comrade 
 
 Was his dog a curly brown. 
 For many a year it had followed 
 
 Wherever its master led, 
 But now in yon shaded hollow 
 
 John Welsh's dog lies dead. 
 
 A friend more loving and faithful, 
 
 John never again will find. 
 No matter whither he wandered, 
 
 Drake plodded along behind. 
 Went with him by day to his labor, 
 
 By night kept watch by his bed. 
 Who would not pity our neighbor 
 
 John Welsh, his dog is dead. 
 
 Old John (the more's the pity) 
 
 Is fond of his "barley bree," 
 And the other night in the "City" 
 
 He went upon the spree. 
 Poor Drake still faithfully followed 
 
 The bent of his drunken tread, 
 But when the sun rose in the morning 
 
 John Welsh's dog was dead. 
 
 John started home in the darkness 
 When the midnight hour was nigh,
 
 But he soon was sleeping softly 
 'Neath a moonless starry sky. 
 
 While the dog lay down beside him, 
 Watching o'er his earthen bed. 
 
 But before his slumbers ended, 
 John Welsh's dog was dead. 
 
 Two travelers found John lying 
 
 Asleep on the dusty road, 
 And were stooping down to take him 
 
 With them to his quiet abode, 
 When Drake, still faithful as ever, 
 
 Thought they meant him harm instead, 
 Sprang up to defend his master, 
 
 And John Welsh's dog is dead. 
 
 For the man that the dog encountered, 
 
 Drew out from his pocket a knife, 
 And slashing around in his anger, 
 
 Soon bereft the poor dog of its life, 
 For a blow struck it fair on the jug'lar, 
 
 Nearly severing body and head, 
 And there by the roadside, bleeding, 
 
 John Welsh's dog lay dead. 
 
 Aimlessly hither and thither 
 
 The old man wanders alone, 
 Sorely his heart is aching 
 
 For the good old friend that is gone, 
 For the life of a noble being 
 
 Passed out when its spirt fled, 
 And there, as a proof of its valor, 
 
 John Welsh's dog lay dead. 
 
 35
 
 No wonder the tear drops glisten 
 
 Like dew on the old man's cheeks, 
 And his voice grows hoarse and husky 
 
 When of his poor dog he speaks, 
 And the children watch, as he passes, 
 
 The careworn droop of his head, 
 And whisper the one to the other, 
 
 That "John Welsh's dog is dead." 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 TO A LADY, WITH A PRESENT OF AN ALBUM. 
 
 * * 
 
 Dear lady, permit me to proffer to thee, 
 
 As a token of deepest respect, 
 This autograph album slight gift though it be, 
 
 To use as thy mind may elect. 
 And as on life's highway we journey along, 
 
 Be thy life free from sorrow and care. 
 May thy heart be as light as the thrush in its song 
 
 Pouring out its sweet notes on the air. 
 And if fate in anger should drift us apart 
 
 Filling each of our bosoms with pain. 
 Yet may we still live with the hope in each heart 
 
 Of the pleasure of meeting again. 
 
 + * + 
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. 
 
 Sweet fruit the prickly chestnut burrs contain, 
 Bright flowers oft blossom in the midst of tares. 
 
 So treat no man's position with disdain, 
 
 Nor rashly judge him by the coat he wears. 
 36
 
 NANCY. 
 
 Who would not love sweet Nancy 
 
 With her lovely raven hair, 
 With her eyes so full of humor, 
 
 With her lips so rich and rare, 
 With her cheeks like budding roses 
 
 And a heart that's free from guile, 
 All her features softly glowing 
 
 In a sweet enchanting smile. 
 
 When the gloaming o'er the hill-tops 
 
 Throws a wierd and phantom light, 
 And the twilight slowly fading, 
 
 Ushers in the hour of night, 
 Then my heart beats wild within me 
 
 As I gaze into her face, 
 And I clasp her to my bosom 
 
 In a passionate embrace. 
 
 Oh ! the pleasures of the moment, 
 
 Oh ! the happiness and bliss, 
 When our lips are pressed together 
 
 In a sweet love-sealing kiss. 
 But the joy that fills my bosom, 
 
 Mortal never can express 
 When I ask her if she loves me 
 
 And she softly murmurs "Yes." 
 
 37
 
 A LETTER HOME. 
 
 (Written while on a trip through the Anthracite region, looking for aid for the 
 striking miners of Dubois, Pa.) 
 
 * * 
 
 Dear Agnes : I'm up in the mountains, 
 
 In the woods, with the sun peeping through 
 As I sit down to write you this letter, 
 
 About what I am trying to do. 
 I know you'll be glad to receive it, 
 
 Though written half prose and half rhyme, 
 When I tell you 'tis helping me greatly 
 
 To pass off this wearisome time. 
 For I'm only engaged in the evening, 
 
 With nothing to do through the day, 
 And living so much among strangers 
 
 Time seems to pass slowly away. 
 I would like to see you and the babies, 
 
 And hear Adam's bright boyish talk. 
 (I was very near asking the question 
 
 Are the babies beginning to walk ?) 
 I can't tell exactly the reason, 
 
 When you tell me how lovely they grow, 
 Why, I scarce can believe that the babies 
 
 Were born such a short time ago. 
 We are still fighting on for the measures 
 
 Our men started out to defend ; 
 But although we have justice to back us, 
 
 God only knows where it will end. 
 Still we pray to the God of our fathers 
 
 To strengthen a cause that is just, 
 And give us the power of a David 
 
 To crush this Goliath to dust. 
 38
 
 And while we are praying to heaven 
 
 To give what assistance it can, 
 I am pleading the best I am able, 
 
 To get some assistance from man. 
 And I feel that the efforts I'm making 
 
 Are being productive of good, 
 For the men of the Anthracite region 
 
 Are helping our men to get food. 
 I did not intend when I started 
 
 To write you so lengthy a song, 
 So I hope you will not be angry 
 
 If I've happened to make it too long. 
 How long it will be ere I see you 
 
 Is more than I'm able to tell, 
 But I hope that this letter will find you, 
 
 Adam, Agnes and Hughey all well. 
 
 *J* *I* "I* *!* *!* 
 
 SUNSET. 
 4- + 
 
 September's sun, with autumn's glow, 
 Behind the hills was setting low, 
 Reflecting on Tioga's streams 
 The varied tinting of its beams. 
 And looking o'er to Barney's hill, 
 Where loudly sang the Whip-poor- Will, 
 His last clear song ere boreal time 
 Should force him to a warmer clime, 
 It tipped the tree tops with its light, 
 And kissed them, one and all, good-night. 
 The dusky shadows falling fast 
 A gloaming through the valley cast, 
 And when the russet glow had ceased, 
 It awed to stillness man and beast. 
 
 39
 
 Each hill and valley, field and wood, 
 
 Seemed but a mighty solitude, 
 
 So calm and quiet the night had grown 
 
 Where nature called the scene her own. 
 * * * * * 
 
 HOME. 
 * * 
 
 Land of Penn, dear land of Penn, 
 
 Home of brave and honest men, 
 Land of women sweet and fair, 
 Pure as their native mountain air. 
 Let me view thee once again, 
 Fair, though rugged, Land of Penn. 
 Fondly now my mem'ry clings 
 To thy cool and limpid springs, 
 Forest glades and babbling brooks, 
 Sunny spots and shady nooks, 
 Rocky glens and mountains green, 
 Glistening in their summer sheen, 
 Miles of multi-colored trees 
 Bending to the autumn breeze, 
 Mountain ridges wreathed in snow 
 With the sunshine all aglow, 
 Till my spirit breaks control 
 And stirs the longings of my soul. 
 Land that soothed the savage breast 
 Bent its will to love's behest, 
 Trusting in the powers above, 
 Preaching peace and God is love. 
 Land where monarch power was shorn, 
 Land where Liberty was born, 
 On thy past I look with pride, 
 With thee, now, my thoughts abide, 
 Let me view thee once again, 
 Fair, though rugged, Land of Penn. 
 40
 
 DO YOU CALL THIS SPRING? 
 * * 
 
 Little Johnny Jump-Up peeping through the ground, 
 Long before the other flowers know that spring's around. 
 Laughing at us cutely with your merry yellow face, 
 While the chilly breezes keep a blowing round the place, 
 And the glistening icicles to the eavespouts cling. 
 Tell me, Johnny Jump-Up, 
 Do 
 You 
 Call 
 This 
 
 Spring ? 
 
 Modest little Meadow Lark tripping o'er the sod, 
 Looking for a nesting place where man has seldom trod. 
 Coming to us early when the fields are brown and bare, 
 Singing through the meadows just as though you do not care 
 How the hoary frosts may bite or pelting sleet may sting. 
 Tell me, modest birdie, 
 Do 
 You 
 Call 
 This 
 
 Spring ? 
 
 Little Robin Redbreast sitting on a limb, 
 Cheering all the neighborhood with your morning hymn. 
 Loud your notes of welcome on the morning breezes float, 
 While your human neighbor wears his winter overcoat. 
 Through the dreary winter we have longed to hear you sing. 
 Tell me, Robin Redbreast, 
 Do 
 You 
 Call 
 This 
 Spring ? 
 
 41
 
 A PRESENTATION. 
 * * 
 
 Sweetest maid in all creation, 
 
 I revere the ground you stand on, 
 And my heart is palpitating 
 
 With a reverent abandon. 
 For although the ground is honored, 
 
 And because of that I love it, 
 All my veins thrill with devotion 
 
 To the girl who stands above it. 
 
 In the fullness of my passion 
 
 I present this little token 
 Of the thoughts I dare not utter, 
 
 Of the words as yet unspoken. 
 Then accept the gift and wear it, 
 
 And for me, life's largest measure 
 Will be filled to overflowing 
 
 With the sweetest kind of pleasure. 
 
 * * * * * 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY. 
 
 * * 
 Hark ! the cannon's deafening roar, 
 
 Fiery flash and voice of thunder. 
 Symbol of those guns of yore 
 
 Tearing tyrants' chains asunder. 
 Hear the bells of freedom chime 
 
 Clearly, from yon ancient steeple, 
 Pealing for the hundredth time, 
 
 Warning to a f reeborn people. 
 Hark ! the cannon's deafening roar 
 
 Echoes as in days of yore. 
 May they, with their voice of thunder 
 
 Keep the tyrant's chains asunder. 
 
 42
 
 Freemen, from your hearts rejoice 
 
 That your rights are in your keeping. 
 Many with no other choice 
 
 'Neath a tyrant's power are weeping. 
 On your Unity depends 
 
 All your rights that's worth possessing. 
 Break it, and your freedom ends, 
 
 Keep it, and you keep a blessing. 
 Freemen ! from your hearts rejoice. 
 
 Many with no other choice 
 'Neath a tyrant's power are weeping, 
 
 But, your rights are in your keeping. 
 * * * * * 
 
 (Lines inscribed to Nichol Ferguson, familiarly known as the "Bard of Cum- 
 bernauld.") 
 
 * * 
 
 Auld Nichol, lad, my heart is wae 
 Ta see ye toddlin' doon the brae. 
 That pow o' yours noo turnin' grey, 
 
 Has seen its share 
 0' life, an' had its ain adae 
 
 Wi' Daddy Care. 
 
 But still ye aye hae warstled through, 
 Though whiles, nae doot, frae han' to mou. 
 When work was scarce, and wages grew 
 
 Amaist ower sma' 
 Tae buy the necessaries due 
 
 Tae ane an' a'. 
 
 Noo, Nicol, I hae aften thoucht 
 
 Hoo, in the pit, sa lang ye've wroucht, 
 
 An' a' your work has come to noucht 
 
 That's worth a stime, 
 While auld age tae your door is broucht 
 
 Afore its time. 
 
 43
 
 So when I read that letter f rae 
 Yon "Miner" chiel, the ither day, 
 Thinks I, "That's no' just Nicol's way, 
 
 Though by my hutch 
 'Tis kindly o' thae chapies tae, 
 
 Tae say as much." 
 
 Then up I gat an' swore an' aith, 
 Quo' I, "By a' the powers o' death 
 I'll gather up my writin' graith 
 
 An' write a letter ; 
 An' in it something I will breath 
 
 Will suit you better." 
 
 So, Nicol, wi' your kind consent 
 
 This proposition I present : 
 
 I'd like to see your works in print 
 
 Ere very lang, 
 Makin' auld Scotish hearts content 
 
 Wi' mony a sang. 
 
 Just gather up your rymin, ware, 
 "Auld Piper Jock" an' mony mair, 
 Syne pit them in the printer's care 
 
 Tae print an' edit ; 
 An' be the author e'er sae puir 
 
 They'll dae him credit. 
 
 An' if the printin' has tae staun 
 
 For want o' siller in your haun, 
 
 Just hint the way that things are gaun 
 
 Wi' pen or mou', 
 An' plenty here ilk steek would pawn 
 
 Tae see ye through. 
 
 44
 
 An' noo, my auld poetic friend, 
 My best respects tae you I send, 
 An' hope before this year shall end 
 
 A buck to claim, 
 Upon whose title page is penned 
 
 Your honored name. 
 
 THE EDITOR'S FATE. 
 * * 
 
 Dear Brothers, weep not at the Editor's fate, 
 
 Your hearts can be proud though your grief may be great. 
 
 What good would it do you to weep yourselves blind, 
 
 When you know that his fate is the fate of mankind ? 
 
 But a short time ago he was happy and free, 
 
 Could either stay sober or go on a spree 
 
 As his thoughts might incline, without any fear 
 
 Of a bitter tirade from a "sweet little dear." 
 
 No troubles to bother, no cares to distress him, 
 
 No sweetheart to torture. or wife to oppress him, 
 
 But free as the winds on a Western plain, 
 
 Or the dark rolling waves of the "billowy main," 
 
 He went when he pleased and came when he would 
 
 And scorned womankind as a bachelor should. 
 
 But, Alas ! What a change can take place in a day, 
 
 The man who at present may be the most gay 
 
 May tomorrow be led to the very same doom 
 
 That has laid the poor Editor low in his tomb. 
 
 The lamb that today gambols guileless at heart 
 
 May tomorrow be doomed to the caterer's cart ; 
 
 Yea, the noble old eagle, our nation's delight, 
 
 That today spread his wings in a heavenward flight, 
 
 Ere another day more shall have passed o'er his head, 
 
 May be laid in the dust with his kindred dead. 
 
 45
 
 And so in the bachelor's case 'twas the same, 
 In the height of his glory the fatal blow came. 
 While struggling on to accomplish his part 
 In the battle of life, he was struck by a dart 
 That a fellow called Cupid threw at him in sport, 
 Never stopping to think that the weapon might hurt. 
 Yet the Editor laughed with the merriest zest, 
 If we mentioned the arrow still fast in his breast. 
 When asked if it hurt him his humor increased 
 And he always would answer us "Not in the least." 
 
 But the wound kept on growing more broad and more 
 
 deep, 
 
 Till at last 'twas so great that he couldn't get sleep. 
 It gnawed at his heart till a fever came on, 
 And we knew from that moment his chances were gone. 
 He raved like a maniac, talked like a fool, 
 While a salt and ice pack couldn't keep his head cool. 
 So we called in the parson to soothe his distress 
 To counsel and guide him, to pray for and bless, 
 And the parson spoke comforting words in his ear. 
 He bade him take courage and be of good cheer 
 On the well-beaten pathway across the divide 
 Known only to those on the opposite side. 
 "For you know the Good Father, supreme over all, 
 Without whose consent e'en a sparrow can't fall, 
 Will guide you along on this desolate path, 
 'Tis the other ones only that feeleth his wrath." 
 Now the Editor blushed to a bright rosy red 
 When he found that his bachelor dreaming was dead. 
 And we knelt at the altar beside its remains, 
 Though we knew he had only been paid for his pains, 
 Thus proving the adage that sages have given : 
 "Those who lose hope on earth, look for comfort to 
 Heaven." 
 
 46
 
 And now all ye bachelors bold have a care, 
 Take a brother's advice, I beseech you, beware. 
 Cure the wounds of Dan Cupid before 'tis too late 
 Or you'll surely be doomed to the Editor's fate. 
 
 +;'*> + 
 
 GRACE. 
 
 * * 
 
 Our Heavenly Father, being all divine, 
 We now return our thanks to Thee and Thine, 
 For these few dainties from Thy bounteous store, 
 And when we need it, Lord, provide us more. 
 
 ***** 
 
 COAL. 
 
 * * 
 
 Across the lapse of Ages that have rolled 
 Into the Past since first the Ocean waves 
 Receded from the land, our fancies roam, 
 Resting at last upon a mammoth plain 
 Dense with the verdure that a tropic clime, 
 A virgin soil and moisture have produced. 
 The tall, majestic trees that kiss the skies, 
 The ferns and tangled shrubbery beneath, 
 Each in its own "Divine appointed way," 
 Thrives for a time, to reproduce its kind, 
 And thus its mission seemingly fulfilled 
 It dies and crumbles into dust. The earth 
 Brings forth another generation which 
 Follows the course its predecessors ran, 
 And others come and live and cease to live 
 Leaving their mould'ring forms black with decay 
 Encumbering the land. Though mammals brouse 
 Upon the tender branches that shoot forth, 
 
 47
 
 No master mind of man is there to change 
 
 The course of Nature's well directed plans 
 
 Or murmur at the needless waste of wealth 
 
 Grown in profusion in its varied forms 
 
 Only to perish and to decompose 
 
 Upon the earth, for no apparent good. 
 
 The molten lava seething underneath 
 
 The crust that forms our planet's outer frame, 
 
 Thunders against the weaker spots with all 
 
 The great, expansive force of heat, and lo, 
 
 Mountains arise, with grey and rugged peaks 
 
 Towering in massive splendor from the plains. 
 
 And here and there a sparkling spring breaks out 
 
 And trickles onward in its winding course 
 
 To meet the waters of another spring, 
 
 And others still, until a babbling brook 
 
 Is formed that plunges down the mountain side 
 
 To merge with other brooks, each rushing on 
 
 To spread its waters o'er the land below. 
 
 And ever as the seasons come and go 
 
 The humid atmosphere produces rain 
 
 That falls in more abundance than the soil 
 
 Can well absorb. Adown the rocky slope 
 
 The surplus waters flow with rapid force, 
 
 Grinding great fissures in the land and rock 
 
 From which the forms of future valleys spring. 
 
 And, pouring down its full, mud-laden stream 
 
 Upon the peat the forests have produced, 
 
 It leaves, as time goes on, a sediment 
 
 Of sand and soil a hundred fathoms deep 
 
 That hides the black deposit underneath. 
 
 And, erstwhile, man appears upon the earth, 
 
 Walking upright, the image of his God. 
 
 Master of all the beasts that walk or creep 
 
 48
 
 Upon the land, and all the birds that spread 
 
 Their fluffy wings to catch the changing breeze, 
 
 And all the fish of every class and kind 
 
 That live within the waters of the brook, 
 
 The lake, the river or the mighty sea. 
 
 The wealth of vegetation on the soil 
 
 And all the riches that the earth contains 
 
 Are subject to his genius and his will. 
 
 Proud of his heritage from God he grows 
 
 In wisdom, gathered in the passing years, 
 
 And handed down, increased, from sire to son. 
 
 A great ambition wells within his soul 
 
 To know the earth and all that in it lies ; 
 
 To harness Nature's forces to the car 
 
 Of Progress^ for the welfare of his race. 
 
 He delves and from the bowels of the earth 
 
 Reclaims the long lost peat, a dusky mass 
 
 That time and Nature, working hand in hand, 
 
 Have transformed into coal. The furnace glows, 
 
 Creating light and heat in volumes great 
 
 That rivals in intensity the Sun. 
 
 The massive locomotive speeds along 
 
 The hillsides and the valleys of the land, 
 
 Panting beneath the burden of its load 
 
 It laughs at space and makes the Plymouth Rock 
 
 A nearby neighbor to the Golden Gate. 
 
 Over the Seas the floating palace glides 
 
 And in its wake the freighter moves apace, 
 
 Bringing to us the luxuries that men 
 
 In other lands and other climes produce. 
 
 And thus the long stored energy of coal 
 
 Springs into life at wisdom's magic touch, 
 
 Giving to man a masterful control 
 
 Of nature's forces far beyond the dreams 
 
 49
 
 Of any former time, and now mankind 
 
 Rejoices in a closer Brotherhood. 
 
 And through it all a mighty unseen hand 
 
 Moves with a skill so deft, the narrow mind 
 
 Fails to foresee the consequence or grasp 
 
 The purposes for which It acts until 
 
 The end is near, when, from the furnace gleams 
 
 New life, new thought, new action and new hope 
 
 And then the coal, its mission at an end, 
 
 Its force exhausted for the common good 
 
 Returns to dust, its destiny fulfilled. 
 
 50 
 
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