• WHERE THERE'S A WILL THERE'S A WAY Poem 1

WE Have faith in old proverbs full surely,

For Wisdom has traced what they tell,

And truth may be drawn up as purely

From them, as it may from "A well."

Let us question the thinkers and doers,

And hear what they honestly say;

And you'll find that they believe, like bold wooers,

In "Where there's a will there's a way."

The hills have been high for men's mounting,

The woods have been dense for his axe,

The stars have ben thick for his counting,

The sands have been wide for his tracks.

The sea has been deep for his diving,

The poles have been broad for his sway,

But bravely he's proved in his striving,

That "Where there's a will there's a way."

Have ye vices that ask a destroyer?

Or passions that need your control?

Let Reason become your employer,

And your body be ruled by your soul.

Fight on, though ye bleed in the trail,

Resist with all strength that ye may;

Ye may conquer Sin's host by denial;

For "Where there's a will there's a way."

Have ye Poverty's pinching to cope with?

Does Suffering weigh down your might?

Only call up a spirit to hope with,

And dawn may come out of the night.

Oh! Much may be done by defying

The ghosts of Despair and Dismay;

And much may be gained by relying

On, "Where there's a will there's a way."

Should ye see afar off that worth winning,

Set out on the journey with trust;

And ne'er heed if your path at beginning

Should be among brambles and dust.

Though it is but by footsteps ye do it.

And hardships may hinder and stay,

Walk with faith, and be sure you'll get through it;

For "Where there's a will there's a way."

Eliza Cook

IT COULDN"T BE DONE Poem 2

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,

But he with a chuckle replied

That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one

Who wouldn't say so till he tried.

So he buckled right in with a trace of grin

On his face, if he worried he hid it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed, "Oh, you'll never do that;

At least no one has ever done it";

But he took off his coat, and he took off his hat,

And the first thing we new he'd begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

There are thousands to prophesy failure;

There are thousands to point out to you one by one,

The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start to sing as you tackle the thing

That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.

Edgar A. Guest

SONG OF THE CRUCIFIXION Poem 3

An angel spoke to me last night,

He stood by my bed in his garments white.

He said I had been good about giving alms,

The bedraggled head did he hold in his palms.

He licked my wounds, gave me back my pride,

Stitched up the hole in my bleeding side,

Recovered the scars on my feet and hands

And ushered me into the promised land.

Where love was the order of the day,

It was here for all and here to stay.

He ushered me into the golden gate,

What awaited me there was my glorious fate.

Where lepers and lunatics, crippled and blind

Besieged by the storms of life so unkind,

Knew no mental torture, sick humor or fear

The table was set for everyone here.

Each had come with his woes and had left overjoyed,

These were the ones that God had employed.

He took me up to the golden street

To a home with my name on it, furnished complete.

Then to the throne where the holy one waited,

My loneliness, fears and ills were abated.

Trust and warmth filled my weary heart,

They were here to stay and never to part.

An angel spoke to me late last night,

And the arms of God embraced me tight.

Gillian Shirreff

THE LOOM OF TIME Poem 4

Man's life is laid in the loom of time

To a pattern he does not see,

While the weavers work and the shuttles fly

Till the dawn of eternity.

Some shuttles are filled with silver threads

And some with threads of gold,

While often but the darker hues

Are all that they may hold.

But the weaver watches with skilful eye

Each shuttle fly to and fro,

And sees the pattern so deftly wrought

As the loom moves sure and slow.

God surely planned the pattern:

Each thread, the dark and fair,

Is chosen by His master skill

And placed in the web with care.

He only knows its beauty,

And guides the shuttles which hold

The threads so unattractive,

As well as the threads of gold.

Not till each loom is silent,

And the shuttles cease to fly,

Shall God reveal the pattern

And explain the reason why.

The dark threads were as needful

In the weaver's skillful hand

As the threads of gold and silver

For the pattern which He planned.

Unknown

THE HELL-BOUND TRAIN Poem 5

A Texas cowboy lay down on the barroom floor,

Having drunk so much he could drink no more;

So he fell asleep with a troubled brain

To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.

The engine with murderous blood was damp

And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp;

An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones,

While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.

The boiler was filled with lager beer

And the Devil himself was the engineer;

The passengers were a most motley crew-

Church member, atheist, Gentile and Jew,

Rich men in broadcloth, beggars in rags,

Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags,

Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white,

And chained together-O God, what a sight!

While the train rushed on at an awful pace-

The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face;

Wider and wider the country grew;

As faster and faster the engine flew.

Louder and louder the thunder crashed

And brighter and brighter the lightening flashed;

Hotter and hotter the air became

Till the clothes were burned from each quivering frame.

And out of the distance there arose a yell,

"Ha, Ha," said the Devil, "we're nearing hell!"

Then oh, how the passengers shrieked with pain

And begged the Devil to stop the train.

But he capered about and danced for glee,

And laughed and joked at their misery.

"My faithful friends, you have done the work

And the Devil never can a payday shirk.

"You've bullied the weak, you've robbed the poor;

The starving brother you've turned from the door;

You've laid up gold where the canker rust,

And have given free vent to your beastly lust.

"You've justice scorned, and corruption sown,

And trampled the laws of nature down.

You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered and lied,

And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.

"You have paid full fare, so I'll carry you through,

For it's only right that you should have your due.

Why, the laborer always expects his hire,

So I'll land you safe in the lake of fire,

"Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar,

And my imps torment you forevermore."

Then the cowboy awoke with an anguish cry,

His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high

Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour

To be saved from his sin and the demon's power;

And his prayers and his vows were not in vain,

For he never rode the hell-bound train.

Unknown

THE ROSE STILL GROWS BEYOND THE WALL Poem 6

Near a shady wall a rose once grew,

Budded and blossomed in God's free light,

Watered and fed by morning dew,

Shedding its sweetness day and night.

As it grew and blossomed fair and tall,

Slowly rising to loftier height,

I came to a crevice in the wall,

Through which there shone a beam of light.

Onward it crept with added strength,

With never a thought of fear or pride.

It followed the light through crevice's length

And unfolded itself on the other side.

The light, the dew, the broadening view

Were found the same as they were before;

And it lost itself in beauties new,

Breathing its fragrance more and more.

Shall claim of death cause us to grieve,

And make our courage faint and fail?

Nay! Let us faith and hope receive:

The rose still grows beyond the wall.

Scattering fragrance far and wide,

Just as it did in days of yore,

Just as it did on the other side,

Just as it will for evermore.

A. L. Frink

ST. PETER AT THE GATE Poem 7

[This poem originally appeared in the Brooklyn Eagle, under the title of THIRTY YEARS WITH A SHREW. It was founded upon the incidents of a case in the local police court. A women had her husband haled before a city magistrate for alleged offences of cruelty and neglect. The wife was such a garrulous witness against her husband that the judge became wearied with the woman's tongue, and he asked the husband how long he had been married. "Thirty years," replied the defendant. "Well," said the judge, "A man who has lived with this woman for thirty years has had punishment enough, Defendant you are discharged."]

St. Peter stood guard at the golden gate,

With solemn mien and air sedate,

When up to the top of the golden stairs,

A man and a woman ascending there,

Applied for admission. They came and stood

Before St. Peter, so great and good,

In hopes the City of Peace to win,

And asked St. Peter to let them in.

The woman was tall, and lank, and thin,

With a scraggly beadlet upon her chin.

The man was short, and thick, and stout,

The stomach was built so it rounded out;

His face was pleasant, and all the while

He wore a kindly and pleasant smile.

The choirs in the distance the echoes awoke,

And the man kept still while the woman spoke.

"O, thou who guards the gate," said she,

"We two came hither, beseeching thee

To let us enter the heavenly land

And play our harps with the angel band.

Of me, St. Peter, there is no doubt.

There is nothing from heaven to bar me out;

I've been to meetings three times a week,

And almost always I'd rise and speak.

"I've told the sinners about the day

When they repent of their evil way;

I've told my neighbors-I've told 'em all-

'Bout Adam and Eve and the Primal Fall;

I've shown them what they have to do

If they'd pass in with the chosen few;

I've marked their path of duty clear-

Laid out the plan for their whole career.

I've talked and talked with 'em loud and long

For my lungs are good, and my voice is strong,

So good, St. Peter, you'll clearly see

The gate of heaven is open for me.

But my old man, I regret to say,

Hasn't exactly walked in the narrow way;

He smokes and swears, and grave faults he's got,

And I don't know wether he'll pass or not.

"He never would pray with an earnest vim,

Or go to revival, or join a hymn,

So I had to leave him in sorrow there

While I, with the chosen, united in prayer;

He ate what the pantry chanced to afford,

While I, in my purity, sang to the Lord.

"And if cucumbers were all he got

It's a chance if he merited them or not.

But, O St. Peter, I love him so.

To the pleasures of heaven, please let him go.

I've done enough, a saint I've been,

Won't that atone? Can't you let him in?

By my grim gospel I know 'tis so

That the unrepentant must try below,

But isn't there some way you can see

That he may enter, who's dear to me?

"It's narrow gospel by which I pray,

But the chosen expect to find some way

Of coaxing, or fooling, or bribing you

So that their relations can amble through,

And say, St. Peter, it seems to me

The gate isn't kept as it ought to be.

You ought to stand by the opening there,

And never sit down in that easy chair.

And say, St. Peter, my sight is dimmed,

But I don't like the way your whiskers are trimmed;

They're cut to wide and outward toss;

They'd look better narrow, cut straight across.

Well, we must be going, our crown to win,

So open, St. Peter, and we'll pass in."

St. Peter sat quiet and stroked his staff,

But, inspite of his office, he had to laugh,

Then said with a fiery gleam in his eye,

"Whose tending this gateway, You or I?"

And then he arose in his stature tall,

And pressed a button upon the wall,

And said to an imp, who came all aglow,

"Escort this women to the regions below."

The man stood still as a piece of stone-

Stood sadly, gloomily, there alone.

A lifelong settled idea he had

That his wife was good and he was bad;

He thought if the women went down below

That he would certainly have to go;

That if she went to the regions dim

There wasn't a ghost of a chance for him.

Slowly he turned, by habit bent,

To follow wherever the women went.

St. Peter, Standing on duty there,

Observed that the top of his head was bare.

He called the gentlemen back and said;

"Friend how long have you been wed?"

"Thirty years" (with a heavy sigh),

And then he thoughtfully added, "Why?"

St. Peter was silent, with head bent down,

He raised his head and scratched his crown.

Then seeming, a different thought to take,

Slowly, half to himself, he spake;

"Thirty years with that woman there?

No wonder the man hasn't any hair.

Swearing is wicked; smoking's not good;

He smoked and swore-I should think he would.

"Thirty years with that tongue so sharp?

O Angel Gabriel, give him a harp,

A jeweled harp with a golden string.

Good sir, pass in where the angels sing;

Gabriel, give him a seat alone-

One with a cushion-up near the throne.

Call up some angels to play their best;

Let him enjoy the music-and rest.

"See that on the finest ambrosia he feeds;

He's had about all the hell he needs;

It isn't just hardly the thing to do-

To roast him on earth and the future, too."

They gave him a harp with golden strings,

A glittering robe and a pair of wings,

And he said as he entered the Realms of Day;

"Well, this beats cucumbers, anyway."

And so the Scriptures had come to pass-

"The last shall be first and the first shall be last."

Joseph Bert Smilely

A CREED Poem 8

There is a destiny that makes us brothers;

None goes his way alone:

All that we send into the lives of others

Comes back into our own.

I care not what his temples or his creed,

One thing holds firm and fast-

That into his fateful heap of days and deeds

The soul of man is cast.

Edwin Markham

THE PREACHER'S MISTAKE Poem 9

The Parish Priest

Of austerity,

Climb up in a high church steeple

To be nearer God,

So that he might hand

His word down to His people.

When the sun was high,

When the sun was low,

The good man sat unheeding

Sublunary things.

From transcendency

Was he forever reading.

And now and again

When he heard the creak

Of the weather vain a-tuning,

He closed his eyes

And said, "Of a truth

From God now I am learning."

And in sermon script

He daily wrote

What he thought was sent from heaven,

And he dropped this down

On his people's heads

Two times one day in seven.

In his age God said,

"Come down and die!"

And he cried out from the steeple,

"Where art thou, Lord?"

And the Lord replied,

"Down here among the people."

William Croswell Doane

GRANDFATHER'S CLOCK Poem 10

My Grandfather's clock was to large for the shelf,

So it stood ninety years on the floor;

It was taller by half than the old man himself,

Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.

It was bought on the morn of the day he was born

And was always his treasure and pride,

But it stopped short-never to go again-

When the old man died.

Ninety years without slumbering-

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

His life seconds numbering-

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

It stopped short-never to go again-

When the old man died.

In watching its pendulum swing to and fro

Many hours had been spent while a boy;

And in childhood and manhood the clock seemed to know

And to share both his grief and his joy,

For it struck twenty-four when he entered the door

With a blooming and beautiful bride,

But it stopped short-never to go again-

When the old man died.

My grandfather said to those he could hire,

Not a servant so faithful he found,

For it wasted no time and had but one desire-

At the close of each week to be wound.

And it kept in its place-not a frown upon it's face,

And its hands never hung by its side;

But it stopped short-never to go again-

When the old man died.

It rang an alarm in the dead of night-

An alarm that for years had been dumb.

And we knew that his spirit was pluming for flight,

That his hour for departure had come.

Still the clock kept the time with a soft and muffled chime

As we silently stood at his side;

But it stopped short-never to go again-

When the old man died.

Henry Clay Work

GROWING OLDER Poem 11

A little more tired at the close of day,

A little more anxious to have our way,

A little less ready to scold and blame,

A little more care for the brother's name;

And so we are nearing the journey's end,

Where time and eternity meet and blend.

A little less care for bonds and gold,

A little more zeal for the days of old;

A broader view and a saner mind,

And a little more love for all mankind;

And so we are fairing down the way

That leads to the gates of a better day.

A little more love for the friends of youth,

A little more zeal for established truth,

A little more charity in our views,

A little less thirst for the daily news;

And so we are folding our tents away

And passing in silence at close of day.

A little more leisure to sit and dream,

A little more real the things unseen,

A little nearer to those ahead,

With visions of those long loved and dead;

And so we are going where all must go-

To the place the living may never know.

A little more laughter, a few more tears,

And we shall have told our increasing years.

The book is closed and the prayers are said,

And we are part of the countless dead;

Thrice happy, then, if some soul can say,

"I live because of their help on the way."

R. G. Wells

LIGHT Poem 12

The night has a thousand eyes,

The day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies

With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies

When its love is done.

Frances W. Bourdillon

A SOUL'S SOLILOQUY Poem13

Today the journey has ended,

I have worked out the mandates of fate;

Naked, alone, undefended,

I knock at the Uttermost Gate.

Behind is life and its longing,

Its trail, its trouble, its sorrow;

Beyond is its Infinite Morning

Of a day without a tomorrow.

Go back to dust and decay,

Body, grown weary and old;

You are worthless to me from today-

No longer my soul can you hold.

I lay you down gladly forever

For a life that is better than this;

I go where parting ne'er sever

You into oblivions's, abyss.

Lo, the gate swing wide at my knocking,

Across endless reaches I see

Lost friends with laughter come flocking

To give a glad welcome to me.

Farewell, the maze has been threaded,

This is the ending of strife;

Say not that death should be dreaded-

Tis but the beginning of life.

Wenonah Stevens Abott

"I HEAR IT SAID" Poem 14

Last my friend-he says he is my friend-

Came in and questioned me. "I hear it said

You have done this and that. I come to ask

Are these things true?" A glint was in his eye

Of small distrust. His words were crisp and hot.

He measured me with anger, and flung down

A little heap of facts that had come to him.

"I hear it said you have done this and that."

Suppose I have? And are you not my friend?

And are you not my friend enough to say,

"If it were true, there would be reason in it.

And if I cannot know the how and why,

Still I can trust you, waiting for a word,

Or for no word, if no word ever come!"

Is friendship just a thing of afternoons,

Of pleasuring one's friend and one's dear self-

Greed for sedate of approval of his pace,

Suspicion if he take one little turn

Upon the road, one flight into the air,

And has not sought you for your Yea or Nay!

No. friendship is not so. I am my own.

And however near my friend might draw

Unto my soul, there is a legend hung

Above a certain straight and narrow way

Says, "Dear my friend, ye may not enter here!"

I would the time has come-as it has not-

When men shall rise and say, "He is my friend.

He has done this? And what is that to me!

Think you I have a check upon his head,

Or cast a guiding rein across his neck?

I am his friend. And for that cause I walk

Not over close beside him, leaving still

Space for his silences, and space for mine."

Barbara Young

A MILE WITH ME Poem 15

O who will walk a mile with me

Along lifes merry way?

A comrade blithe and full of glee,

who dares to laugh out loud and free,

And let his frolic fancy play,

Like a happy child, through the flowers gay

That fill the field and fringe the way

Where he walks a mile with me.

And who will walk a mile with me

Along lifes weary way?

A friend whose heart has eyes to see

The stars shine out o'er the darkening lea,

And the quiet rest at the end o' the day,-

A friend who knows, and dares to say,

The brave, sweet words that cheer the way

Where he walks a mile with me.

With such a comrade, such a friend,

I fain would walk to journey's end

Through summer sunshine, winter rain,

And then? -Farewell we shall meet again!

Henry Van Dyke

THE COMMON ROAD Poem 16

I want to travel the common road

With the great crowd surging by,

Where there's many a laugh and many a load,

And many a smile and sigh.

I want to be on the common way

With its endless tramping feet,

In the summer bright and winter gray,

In the noonday sun and heat,

In the cool of the evening with shadows nigh,

At dawn, when the sun breaks clear,

I want the great crowd passing,

To ken what they see and hear.

I want to be one of the common herd,

Not live in a sheltered way,

Want to be thrilled, want to be stirred

By the great crowd day by day;

To glimpse the restful valleys deep,

To toil up the rugged hill,

To see the brooks which shyly creep,

To have the torrents thrill.

I want to laugh with the common man

Wherever he chance to be,

I want to aid him when I can

Whenever there's need of me.

I want to lend a helping hand

Over the rough and steep

To a child too young to understand-

To comfort those who weep.

I want to live and work and plan

With the great crowd surging by,

To mingle with the common man,

No better or worse than I.

Silas H. Perkins

THE VAGABONDS Poem 17

We are two travelers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog-come here, you scamp!

Jump for the gentlemen, -mind your eye!

Over the table, -look out for the lamp!

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've trampled through wind and weather,

And slept out doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank-and starved-together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!

The paw he holds up there has been frozen),

Plenty of cat gut for the fiddle

(This outdoor business is bad for strings),

Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle,

And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank you sir, -I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,-

Aren't we Roger? -see him wink!

Well something hot, then, we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty, too-see him nod his head?

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,-

And he knows good milk from water and chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect

(Here's to you sir!) even of my dog.

But he sticks by, through thick and thin;

And this old coat, with its empty pockets,

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster,

So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

To such a miserable, thankless master!

No, sir! -see him wag his tail and grin!

By George! it makes my old eyes water!

That is, there is something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you are willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!)

Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Stand strait! 'Bout face! Salute your officer!

Put up the paw! Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see.) Now hold your

Cap while the gentleman give a trifle

To aid a poor patriot soldier.

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes

When he stands up to hear his sentence.

Now tell how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that's five! He's mighty knowing!

The night's before us, fill the glasses!

Quick, sir! I'm ill, my brain is going;

Some brandy, -thank you; there, -it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment,

Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,

That poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,

I'd sell out heaven for something warm

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,

A dear girls love, -but I took to drink,-

The same old story; you know how it ends.

If you could have seen these classic features,-

You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then

Such a burning libel on God's creatures;

I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young,

Who's head was happy on this breast!

If you could have heard the songs I sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you tonight for a glass of grog!

She's married since, -a parson's wife;

'Twas better for her that we should part,-

Better the soberest, probiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent

On the dusty road; a carriage stopped;

But little she dreamed as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

You've set me talking, sir, I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change!

What do you care for a beggar's story?

It is amusing? You find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!

'T was well she died before-Do you know

If the happy spirits in heaven see

The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start.

I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,

Aching thing in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,

No doubt, remembering things the way they were,-

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself, a respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming.

You rascal! Limber your lazy feet!

We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.

Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we'll go where lodgings are free,

And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink;

The sooner the better for Roger and me!

John Townsend Trowbridge

THE SHIP Poem 18

A King, a pope, and a kaiser,

And a queen-most fair was she-

Went sailing, sailing, sailing,

Over a sunny sea.

And amid them sat a beggar,

A churl of low degree;

And they all went sailing, sailing,

Over the sunny sea.

And the king said to the kaiser,

All his comrades fair and free,

"Let us turn adrift this beggar,

The churl of low degree,

For he taints the balmy odors

That blow to you and me,

As we travel-sailing, sailing,

Over the sunny sea."

"The ship is mine," said the beggar-

That churl of low degree-

"And we're all of us sailing, sailing,

To the grave o'er the sunny sea;

And you may not and you cannot

Get rid of mine, or me;

No! Not for your crowns and septres-

And my name is death!" Quoth he.

Charles Mackay

BORN WITHOUT A CHANCE Poem 19

[The time is Napoleonic in Europe - Jeffersonian America.

The scene is an out lying border state - The Dark & Bloody Ground

The date is February 12, 1809]

A Squalid Village set in wintery mud.

A hub-deep oxcart slowly groans and creaks.

A horsemen hails and halts. He shifts his cud

And speaks:

"Well, did you hear? Tom Lincon's wife today.

The devil's luck for folk as poor as they!

Poor Tom! poor Nance!

Poor youngun born without a chance!

"A baby in that God forsaken den,

That worse than cattle pen!

Well, what are they but cattle? Cattle? Tut!

A critter is beef, hide and tallow, but

Who swap one for the critters of that hut?

White trash! small fry!

Whose ownly instincts are to multiply!

They're good at that,

And so, today, God wot! another brat!

Another squawking, squalling, red faced good for naught

Spilled on the world, heaven only knows for what.

Better if he were black,

For then he'd have a shirt upon his back,

And something in his belly, as he grows.

More than he's like to have, as I suppose.

Yet there be those

Who claim 'equality' for this new brat,

And that damned democrat

Who squats today where Washington once sat,

He'd have it that this Lincoln cub might be

Of even value in the world with you and me!

"Yes Jefferson, Tom Jefferson, who but he?

Who even hints that black men should be free.

That featherheaded fool would tell you maybe

A president might lie in this new babe!

In this new squawker born without a rag

To hide himself! Good God, it makes me gag!

This human spawn

Born for the world to wipe its feet upon

A few years hence, but now

More helpless than the litter of a sow,

And--Oh-well! send the womenfolks to see to Nance.

"Poor little devil born without a chance!"

Edmund Vance Cooke

THE MONEYLESS MAN Poem 20

Is there no secret place on the face of the earth,

Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth,

Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave,

When the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive?

Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor

Will bring a kind angel to open the door?

Ah, search the wide world wherever you can,

There is no open door for the Moneyless Man!

Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light

Drives off with its splendor the darkness of light,

Where the rich hanging velvet in shadowy fold

Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold,

And the mirrors of silver take up and renew

In long-lighted vistas the 'Wildering view.

Go there, at the banquet, and find, if you can,

A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man!

Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire,

Which gives to the sun his same look of fire,

Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within,

And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin;

Walk down the long isle, see the rich and the great

In the pomp and pride of their worldly estate;

Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can,

Who opens a pew to the Moneyless Man!

Go, look in the banks, where mammon has told

His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold;

Where, safe from the hands of starving and poor,

Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore!

Walk up to their counter-ah, there you may stay

Till your limbs grow old, till your hairs grow grey,

And you'll find at the banks not one of the clan

With money to lend to a Moneyless Man!

Go, look to yon judge, in his dark, flowing gown,

With the scales wherein law weigheth equity down;

Where he frowns at the weak and smiles at the strong

And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong;

Where juries to their lips to the Bible have laid,

To render a verdict-they've already made:

Go, there to the courtroom and find, if you can,

Any law for the cause of the Moneyless Man!

Then go to your hovel-no raven has fed

The wife who has suffered too long for her bread.

Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death frost

From the lips of the angel your povert lost,

Then turn in your agony, upward to God,

And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod,

And you'll find, at the end of your life's little span,

There's a welcoming above for a Moneyless Man!

Major Henry T. Stanton

Feet Poem 21

I had a dream the other night

That everything had gone alright

In waking they had learned to dance,

They ne'er gave me a fleeting chance,

They caught me crying in the street,

For fun they called me "Mutton Feet".

I could have exercised my eyes,

I wore my burden in disguise.

They said I had a pretty face,

That glasses would just take up space;

I never learned to read or write,

To be a brat I thought was right.

I wanted to be teacher's pet,

I couldn't charm the teacher yet,

With nuggets gleaned from golden books,

I thought I could get by on looks.

My looks, I found out weren't okay,

"I was good looking", They would say,

The truth was being held at bay.

I had a dream the other night,

I dreamed I learned to read and write,

The words they hid inside big books

And came to me like lively brooks,

I awoke and found this dream was true,

And now I'd like to write to you.

If you are dubbed illiterate,

Go for help, it's not to late.

Gillian Shirreff

Happiness Poem 22

The relentless pursuit of

peace and happiness

which leads us down the

garden path

not knowing what we'll

find there

it is a journey

we all must take

hoping that we will find

that magical place

which we can come to

embrace

which is the true meaning

of all life called happiness

ALL TO MYSELF Poem 23

All to myself I find away

Back to each golden yesterday,

Faring in fancy until I stand

Clasping your ready, friendly hand;

The picture seems half true, half dream,

And I keep its color and its gleam

All to myself.

All to myself I hum again

Fragments of some old-time refrain,

Something that comes at fancy's choice,

And I hear the cadence of your voice:

Sometimes 'tis dim, sometimes 'tis clear,

But I keep the music I hear

All to myself.

All to myself I hold and know

All of the days of long ago-

Wonderful days when you and I

Owned all the sunshine in the sky:

The days come back as the old days will,

And I keep their tingle and their thrill

All to myself.

All to myself! My friend, do you

Count all the memories softly, too?

Summer and Autumn, Winter, Spring,

The hopes we cherish and everything?

They course my veins as a draft divine,

And I keep them wholly, soly mine-

All to myself.

All to myself I think of you,

Think of the things we used to do,

Think of the things we used to say,

Think of each happy, bygone day;

Sometimes I sigh, sometimes I smile,

But I keep each olden, golden while

All to myself.

Wilbur Dick Nesbit

LIFES SCARS Poem 24

They say the world is round and yet

I often think it is square,

So many little hurts we get

From corners here and there.

But one great truth in life I've found,

While journeying to the west-

The only folks who really wound

Are those we love the best.

The man you thoroughly despise

Can rouse your wrath, tis true;

Annoyance in your heart will rise

At things mere strangers do;

But those are only passing ills;

This rule all lives will prove;

The rankling wound which aches or thrills

Is dealt by hands we love.

The choicest grab, the sweetest grace,

Are oft to strangers shown;

The careless mien, the frowning face,

Are given to our own.

We flatter those we scarcely know,

We please the fleeting guest,

And deal many a thoughtless blow

To those who love us best.

Love does not grow on every tree,

Nor true hearts yearly bloom.

Alas for those who only see

This cut across a tomb!

But, soon or late, the fact grows plain

To all through sorrow's test;

The only folks who give us pain

Are those we love the best.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS Poem 25

I looked far back into other years, and low, in bright array

I saw, as in a dream, the form of ages passed away.

It was an old and stately convent it's old and lofty walls,

And gardens with their broad green walks, where soft the footsteps

fall;

And o'er the antique dial stones the creeping shadows passed,

And all around the noonday sun a drowsy radiance cast.

No sound of busy life was heard, save from the cloisters dim

The tinkling of the silver bell, o'er the sisters' holy hymn.

And there five noble maidens sat beneath the orchard trees,

In that first budding spring of youth, when all its prospects please;

And little recked they, when they sang, when knelt at vesper prayers

The Scotland knew no prouder names-held none more dear than

theirs;

And little even the loveliest thought, before the Virgin's shrine,

Of royal blood and high descent from the ancient Stuart line,

Calmly her happy days flew on, uncounted in their flight,

And as they flew they left behind a longer-continuing light.

The scene was changed: it was the court, the gay court of Bourbon,

And 'neath a thousand shining lamps a thousand courtiers throng;

And proudly kindles beneath Henry's eye-well pleased I ween, to see

The land, assemble all its wealth of grace and chivalry;

But fairer far than all the rest who bask in fortune's tide,

Enffulgent in the light of youth is she, the new-made bride!

The homage of a thousand hearts-the fond deep love of one-

The hopes that dance around a life whose charms are but begun-

They lighten up her chestnut eyes, they mantle o'er her cheeks,

They sparkle on her open brow, and high-souled joy bespeak,

Ah, who shall blame, if scarce that day, through all its brilliant

hours,

She thought of the quiet convenent's calm, its sunshine and its

flowers?

The scene was changed: it was a barque that slowly held its way,

And o'er its lee the coast of France in light of evening lay;

And on its deck a lady sat, who gazed with tearful eyes

Upon the fast-receding hills that, dim and distant, rise.

No marvel that the lady wept-there was no land on earth

She loved like that dear land, although she owed it not her birth.

It was her mother's land, the land of childhood and of friends,

It was the land where she had found for all her griefs amends;

The land where her dead husband slept, the land where she had known

The tranquil convent's hushed repose, and the splendors of a throne.

No marvel that the lady wept-it was the land of France,

The chosen home of chivalry, the garden of romance.

The past was bright, like those dear hills so far behind her banque;

The future like the gathering night, was ominous and dark

One gaze again-one long last gaze, "Adieu, fair France, to thee!"

The breeze comes forth-she is alone on the unconscious sea!

The scene was changed: it was an eve of raw and surly mood,

And in a chamber high and of ancient Holyrood

Sat Mary listening to the rain and singing with the winds

That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanched her check, her smile was sadder now,

The weight of royalty had pressed too heavy on her brow;

The traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field;

The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could not

wield.

She thought of all her blighted hopes, the dreams of youth's brief

day,

And summoned Rizzio, with his lute, and bade the minstrel play

The songs she loved in earlier days-the songs of gay Navarre,

The songs that perchance erst were sung by gallant Chattilor.

They half beguiled of her cares, they soothed her into smiles,

They won her thoughts from bigot zeal and fierce domestic broils;

But hark the tramp of armed men, the Douglas battle cry!

They come! They come! and lo, the scowl of Ruthvin's hollow eye!

The swords are drawn, the daggers gleam, the tears and words are

vain-

The ruffian steal are in his heart, the faithful Rizzio's slain!

Then Mary Stuart dashed away the tears that trickling fell:

Now for my father's arm!" She cried; "my woman's heart farewell!"

The scene was changed: a royal host of royal banner bore,

And the faithful of the land stood round their smiling Queen once

more;

She stayed her steed upon the hill-she saw them marching by-

She heard their shouts-she read success in every flashing eye.

The tumult of the strife begins-it roars-it dies away;

And Mary's troops and banners now-and courtiers-where are they?

Scattered and strewn, and flying far, defenceless and undone;

Alas, to think what she had lost, and all the guilt had won!

Away! away! the noble steed must act no laggard's part;

Yet vain his speed, for thou dost bare the arrow in thy heart!

The scene was changed: it was a lake, with one small lonely isle,

And there, within the prison walls of its baronial pile,

Stern men stood menacing their Queen, till she should stoop to sign

The traitorous scoll that snatched the crown from her ancestral line;

"My lords, my lords," the captive said, "were I but once more free,

With ten good knights on yonder shore to aid my cause and me,

This parchment would I scatter wide to every breeze that blows,

And once more rein a Stuart queen over my remorseless foes!"

A red spot burned upon her cheek, streamed her rich tresses down,

She wrote the words, she stood erect, a queen without a crown!

The scene was changed: beside the block a sulem headsman stood,

And gleamed the broad axe in his hand, that soon must drip with

blood.

With slow and steady step there came a lady through the hall,

And breathless silence chained the lips and touched the hearts of

All.

I knew that queenly form, so blighted was its bloom;

I saw the grief and decked it out-an offering for the tomb!

I knew that eye, though faint its light, that once so brightly shone;

I knew the voice, though feeble now, that thrilled with every tone;

I knew the ringlets almost grey, once threads of living gold;

I knew the bounding grace of step, that symmetry of mould!

Even now I see her far away in that calm convent aisle,

I hear her chant her vesper hymn, I mark her holy smile;

Even now I see her bursting forth on the bridal morn,

A new star in the firmament, to light and glory born!

Alas, the change! she placed her foot upon a triple throne,

And on the scaffold she stands-beside the block-alone!

The little dog that licks her hand the last of all the crowd

Who sunned themselves beneath her glance, and round her foot steps

bowed.

Her neck is bared-the blow is struck-the soul is passed away!

The bright-the beautiful-is now a bleeding piece of clay.

The dog is moaning piteously, and as it girgles o'er,

Laps the blood that trickling runs unheeded to the floor.

The blood of beauty, wealth and power, the heart-blood of a queen,

The noblest of the Stuart race, the fairest earth has seen,

Lapped by a dog! Go think of it, in silence and alone;

Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne.

Henry Glassford Bell

INVICTUS Poem 26

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced or cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scrolls,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

BREATHES THERE THE MAN Poem 27

From "The lay of the Last Minstrel," Canto VI.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead

Who never to himself has said,

This is my own, my native land!

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned,

As home his footsteps he has turned

From wandering on foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go mark him well;

For him no minstrels raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim,

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, cocentred all in self,

Living, shall forfeit far renown,

And, doubly dieing, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott

I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH Poem 28

I have a rendezvous with death

At some disputed barricade,

When Spring comes back with rustling shade

And apple blossoms fill the air-

I have a rendezvous with death

When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand,

And lead me into his dark land,

And close my eyes, and quench my breathe-

It may be I shall pass him still.

I have a rendezvous with death

On some scarred slope of battered hill,

When Spring time comes around this year

And the first meadow flowers appear.

God knows twere better to be deep

Pillowed in silk and scented down,

When love throbs out in blissful sleep,

Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,

When hushed awakenings are dear...

But I've a rendezvous with death

At midnight in some flaming town,

When Spring trips north again this year,

And I to my pledged word am true,

I shall not fail that rendezvous.

Alan Seeger

THE REVEL Poem 29

(East India)

We Meet 'neath the surrounding rafter,

And the walls around are bare;

As they shout back our peals of laughter

It seems that the dead are there.

Then stand to your glasses, steady!

We drink in our comrades' eyes:

One cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets glowing,

Not here is the vintage sweet;

"Tis cold as our hearts are growing,

And dark as the doom we meet.

But stand to your glasses, steady!

And soon shall our pulses rise:

A cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's many a hand that's shaking,

And many a cheek that's sunk;

But soon, though our hearts are breaking,

They'll burn with the wine we've drunk.

Then stand to your glasses, steady!

"Tis here the revival lies:

Quaff a cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies.

Time was when we laughed at others;

We thought we were wiser then;

Ha! Ha! Let them think of their mothers,

Who hope to see them again.

No! stand to your glasses, steady!

The thoughtless is here the wise:

One cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,

Not a tear for the friends that sink;

We'll fall, 'Midst the wine-cup's sparkles,

As mute as the wine we drink.

Come, stand to your glasses, steady!

'Tis this that the respite buys:

A cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's a mist on the glass congealing,

"Tis the hurricanes sultry breath;

And thus does the warmth of feeling

Turn ice in the grasp of death.

But stand to your glasses, steady!

For a moment the vapor flies:

Quaff a cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Who dreads to the dust returning?

Who shrinks from the sable shore,

Where the high and haughty yearning

Of the soul can sting no more?

No, stand to your glasses, steady!

The world is a world of lies:

A cup to the dead already-

And hurrah for the next that dies!

Cut off from the land that bore us,

Betrayed by the land we find,

When the brightest have gone before us,

And the dullest are most behind-

Stand, stand to your glasses, steady!

"Tis all we have left to prize:

One cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Bartholomew Dowling

(The above poem was supposed be written in India while plague was Playing havoc among the British residents & troops there.)

CITY ROOFS Poem30

ROOF-TOPS, roof-tops, what do you cover?

Sad folk, bad folk, and many a glowing lover;

Wise people, simple people, children and despair-

Roof-tops, roof-tops, hiding pain and care.

Roof-tops, roof-tops, O what sin your knowing,

While above you in the sky the white clouds are blowing,

While beneath you, agony and dolor and grim strife

Fight the olden battle, and olden war of life.

Roof-tops, roof-tops, cover up their shame-

Wretched souls, prisoned souls too piteous to name;

Man himself has built you to hide away the stars-

Roof-tops, roof-tops you hide ten million scars.

Roof-tops, roof-tops, well I know you cover

Many solemn tragedies, and many a lonely lover;

But, ah! You hide the good that lives in the throbbing city-

Patient wives, and tenderness, forgiveness, faith, and pity.

Roof-tops, roof-tops, this is what I wonder:

You are thick as poisonous plants, thick the people under;

Yet roofless, and homeless, and shelterless they roam,

The driftwood of the town who have no roof-tops, and no home!

Charles Hanson Towne

THE BALLAD OF YUKON JAKE Poem 31

Begging Robert W. Service's Pardon

Oh the NORTH COUNTREE is hard countree

That mothers a bloody brood;

And its icy arms hold hidden charms

For the greedy, the sinful and the lewd.

And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust

That sears the Northland soul,

But the wickedest born, from the Pole to the Horn,

Is the hermit of Shark-Tooth Shoal.

Now Jacob Kaime was the Hermit's name

In the days of his pious youth,

Ere he cast a smirch on the Baptist Church

By betraying a girl named Ruth.

But now men quake at "Yukon Jake,"

The Hermit of Shark-Tooth Shoal,

For that is the name of Jacob Kaime

Is known by from Nome to the Pole.

He was just a boy and the parson's joy

(Ere he fell for the gold and the muck),

And had learned to pray, with the hogs and the hay

On a farm near Keoluk.

But a service tale of an illicit Kale,

And whiskey and women wild,

Drained the morals as clean as a soup tureen

From this poor but honest child.

He longed for the bite of a Yukon night

And the Northern Light's weird flicker,

Or a game of stud in the frozen mud,

At the taste of raw red licker.

He wanted to mush along in the slush,

With a team of husky hounds,

And to fire his gat at the beaver hat

And knock it out of bounds.

When the boys on a spree were drinking it free

In a Malamute saloon

And Dan Megrew and his dangerous crew

Shot craps with the piebald coon;

When the kid on his stool banged away like a fool

At a jag time melody,

And the barkeep vowed, to the hard-boiled crowd,

That he'd cree-mate Sam Mcgee-

Then Jacob Kaime, who had taken the name

Of Yukon Jake, the Killer,

Would rake the dive with his forty-five

Till the atmosphere grew chiller.

With a sharp command he'd make 'em stand

And deliver their hard-earned dust,

Then drink the bar dry of rum and rye,

As a Klondike bully must.

Without coming to blows he would tweak the nose

Of Dangerous Dan Megrew,

And, becoming bolder, throw over his shoulder

The lady that's known as lou.

Oh, tough as a stake was Yukon Jake-

Hard-boiled as a picnic egg.

He washed his shirt in the Klondike dirt,

And drank his rum by the keg.

In fear of their lives (or because of their wives)

He was shunned by the best of his pals

An outcast he, from the comradery

Of all but wild animals.

So he bought him all of the Shark-Tooth Shoal,

A reef in the Bering Sea,

And he lived by himself on a lion's shelf

In lonely iniquity.

But miles away in Keoluk, la.,

Did a ruined maiden fight

To remove the smirch from the Baptist Church

By bringing the heathen light;

And the Elders declared that all would be spared

If she carried the holy words

From her Keoluk home to the hell-town Nome

To save those sinful birds.

So two weeks later, she took a freighter,

For the gold-cursed land near the Pole,

But heaven an't made for a lass that's betrayed-

She was wrecked on Shark-Tooth Shoal!

All hands were tossed into the sea, and lost-

All but the maiden Ruth,

Who swam to the edge of the sea lion's ledge

Where abode the love of her youth.

He was hunting a seal for his evening meal

(He handled a mean harpoon)

When he saw at his feet, not something to eat,

But a girl in frozen swoon,

Whom he dragged to his lair by her dripping hair,

And rubbed her knees with gin.

To his great surprise she opened her eyes

And revealed his Original-Sin!

His eight months beard grew stiff and weird,

And it felt like a chestnut burr,

And he swore by his gizzard, and Arctic Blizzard

That he'd do right by her.

But the cold sweat froze on the end of his nose

Till it gleamed like a Tecla pearl,

While her bright hair fell, like a flame from hell,

Down the back of the greatfull girl.

But hopeless rake was Yukon Jake,

The hermit of Shark-Tooth Shoal!

And the dizzy maid he betrayed

And wrecked her immortal soul!...

Then he rowed her ashore, with a broken oar,

And he sold her to Dan Megrew

For a husky dog and some hot eggnog,

As rascals are wont to do.

Now ruthless Ruth is a maid uncouth

With scarlet cheeks and lips,

And she sings rough songs to the drunken throngs

That come from the sealing ships.

For a rouge-stained kiss from this unfamous miss

They will give a seal's sleek fur,

Or perhaps a sable, if they are able;

It's much the same to her.

Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree,

That mothers a bloody brood;

And it's icy arms hold hidden charms

For the greedy, the sinful and lewd.

And strong men rust, from the gold and lust

That sears the Northland soul,

But the wickedest born from the Pole to the Horn

Was the Hermit of Shark-Tooth Shoal!

Edward E. Paramore Jr.

THE RIGHT KIND OF PEOPLE Poem 32

Gone is the city, gone is the day,

Yet still the story and the meaning stay:

Once where a prophet in the palm shade basked

A traveler chanced at noon to rest his miles.

"What sort of people may they be," he asked,

"In this proud city on the plains o'erspread?"

"Well, friend, what sort of people whence you came?"

"What sort?" the packman scowled; "why, knaves and fools."

"You'll find the people here the same," the wise man said.

Another stranger in the dusk drew near,

And pausing, cried "what sort of people here

In your bright city where yon towers arise?"

"Well, friend what sort of people whence you came?"

"Good, true and wise."

"You'll find the people here the same,"

The wise man said.

Edwin Markham

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG Poem 33

Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man

Of whom the world might say,

That still a Godly race he ran-

When e'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes:

The naked every day he clad-

When he put on his clothes.

And in the town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets

The wondering neighbors ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite such a good man!

The wound it seemed both sore and sad

To every Christian eye:

And while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,

That showed the rogues had lied:-

The man recovered of the bite,

The dog it was that died!

Oliver Goldsmith

LOYALTY Poem 34

He may be six kinds of liar,

He may be ten kinds of a fool,

He may be a wicked high flyer

Beyond any reason or rule;

There may be a shadow above him

Of ruin and woes to impend,

Because-because, because he's my friend.

I know he has faults by the billions,

But his faults are a portion of him;

I know that his records vermillion,

And he's far from the sweet Seraphim;

But he's always been square with yours truly,

Ready to give or to lend

And if he is wild and unruly,

I like him-because he's my friend.

I criticize but I do it

In just a frank, comradely key,

And back-biting gossips will rue it

If ever they knock him to me!

I never make diagrams of him,

No maps of his soul have I penned;

I don't analize-I just love him,

Because-well, because he's my friend.

Berton Braley

WHERE ARE YOU GOING, GREAT HEART? Poem 35

Where are you going, Greatheart,

With your eager face and your fiery grace?

Where are you going, Greatheart?

"To fight a fight with all my might,

For truth and justice, God and right,

To grace all life with His fair light."

Then God go with you, Greatheart!

Where are you going, Greatheart?

"To beard the Devil in his den;

To smite him with the strength of ten;

To set at large the souls of men."

Then God go with you, Greatheart!

* * * * * *

Where are you going, Greatheart?

"To cleanse the earth of noisome things;

To draw from life its poison stings;

To give free play to Freedom's wings."

Then God go with you, Greatheart!

Where are you going, Greatheart?

"To lift Today above the Past;

To make Tomorrow sure and fast;

To nail God's colors to the mast."

Then God go with you, Greatheart!

Where are you going, Greatheart?

"To break down old dividing lines;

To carry out my Lord's designs;

To build again His broken shrines."

Then God go with you, Greatheart!

Where are you going, Greatheart?

"To set all burdened people free;

To win for all God's liberty;

To 'stablish His sweet sovereignty."

God goeth with you, Greatheart!

John Oxenham

DERELICT Poem 36

"Fifteen Men on the Dead Man's Chest-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the Devil had gone for the rest-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"

The mate was fixed by the bos'n pike,

The bos'n brained with a marlenspike,

And Cookey's throat was marked belike

It had been gripped

By fingers ten;

And there they lay,

All good dead men,

Like break-o'-day in a boozing-ken-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of a whole ship's list-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Dead and bedamned and the rest gone whist!-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

The skipper lay with his nob in gore

Where the scullion's ax his cheek had shore

And the scullion he was stabbed times four

And there they lay,

And the soggy skies

Dripped all day long

In upstairing eyes-

At murk sunset and at foul sunrise-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of 'em stiff and stark-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Ten of the crew had the murder marked-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

"Twas a cutlass swipe, or an ounce of lead,

Or a yawing hole in a battered head-

And the skippers glut with a rotting red.

And there they lay-

Aye, damn my eyes!-

All lookouts clapped

On paradise-

All souls bound contrariwise-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen men of 'em good and true-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Every man jack could ha' sailed with old Pew-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

There was chest on chest full of Spanish gold,

With a ton of plate in the middle hold,

And the cabins riot of stuff untold.

And they lay there,

That had took the plum,

With sightless glare

And there eyes struck dumb,

While we shared all by the rule of thumb-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

More was seen through the sternlight screen-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Chartings on doubt where a women had been!-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

A flimsy shift on a bunker cot,

With a thin dirk slot through the bosom spot

And the lace stiff-dry in a purplish blot.

Or was she wench...

Or some shuddering maid...?

That dared the knife-

And that took the blade!

By God, she was stuff for a plunky jade-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Fifteen Men on the Dead Man's Chest-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Drink and the Devil had done for the rest-

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

We wrapped 'em all in a mains'] tight

With twice ten turns of a hawser's bight,

And we heaved 'em over and out of sight-

With a yo-heave-ho!

And a fare-you-well!

And a sullen plunge

In a sullen swell,

Ten fathoms deep on the road to hell!

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!

Young E. Allison

CONCORD HYMN Poem 37

(Sung at the completion of the Concord Monument, April 19, 1836)

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard around the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror sleeps;

And time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps,

On this green bank, by this soft stream,

We set to-day a votive stone;

That memory may their deed redeem,

When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirits that made our heroes dare

To die, and leave their children free,

Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

THE LAST HYMN Poem 38

The Sabbath day was ending in a village by the sea,

The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly,

And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, light west,

And then hastened to their dwellings for God's blessed boon of rest.

But they looked across the waters, and a storm was raging there;

A fierce spirit moved above them-the wild spirit of the air-

And it lashed, and shook, and tore them till they thundered, groaned and boomed,

And, alas! For any vessel in their yawning gulfs entombed.

Very anxious were the people on that rocky coast of Wales,

Lest the dawns of coming morrows should be telling awful tales,

When the sea had spent its passion and should cast upon the shore

Bits of wreck, and swollen victims, as it had done heretofore.

With the rough winds blowing round her a brave women strained her eyes

As she saw along the billows, a large vessel fall and rise.

Oh! it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be,

For no ship could ride in safety near the shore on such a sea.

Then the pitying people hurried from their home and thronged the beach

Oh, for power to cross the waters and the perishing to reach!

Helpless hands were rung in terror, tender hearts grow cold with

dreads,

And the ship urged by the tempest to the fatal rock-shore sped.

"She has parted in the middle! Oh, the half of her goes down!

God have mercy! Is His heaven far to seek those who go down?"

Lo! what next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the sea,

Ownly one last clinging figure on a spat was seen to be.

Near to the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave,

And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth could

save.

"Could we send him a short message? Here's a trumpet shout away!"

"Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to say.

Any memory of his sermon? Firstly? Secondly? Ah, no

There was but one thing in that awful woe.

So he shouted through the trumpet, "Look to Jesus! Can you here?"

And "Aye, aye, sir!" Rang the answer o'er the water loud and clear.

Then they listened, "He is singing, 'Jesus, lover of my soul,'"

And the winds brought back the echo, "While the nearer waters roll."

Strange indeed it was to hear him, "Till the storm of life has past,"

Singing bravely o'er the waters,, "Oh, receive my soul at last."

He could have no other refuge-"Hangs my helpless soul on thee."

"Leave, Oh! Leave me not"--The singer dropped at last into the sea.

And the watcher's looking homeward, through their eyes tears made dim,

Said, "He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of the hymn."

Marianne Farningham

THE SAILOR'S GRAVE Poem 39

Our Bark was out-far, far from land,

When the fairest of our gallant band

Grew sadly pale, and waned away

Like the twilight of an autumn day,

We watched him through long hours of pain;

But our cares were lost, our hopes were vain;

Death brought from him no coward alarm,

For he smiled as he died on messmate's arm.

He had no costly winding sheet,

But we placed a round shot at his feet;

He slept in his hammock as safe and sound

As a king in his lawn shoud, marble bound

We proudly decked his funeral vest

With the English flag on his breast;

We gave him that as the badge of the brave,

And then he was fit for his sailor's grave.

Our voices broke-our hearts turned weak-

Hot tears were seen on the brownest cheek-

And a quiver played on the lips of pride,

As we lowered him down the ship's dark side.

A plunge-a splash-and our task was o'er;

The billows rolled as they rolled before;

But many a rude prayer hallowed the wave

That closed above the sailor's grave.

Eliza Cook

THE YARN OF THE NANCY BELL Poem 40

"I was on the shores that round our coast

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone, on a piece of stone,

An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

And weedy and long was he;

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,

In a singular minor key:

"O, I am a cook and a captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sum tight, And a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking,

And so I simply said:

"O elderly man, it's little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea,

And I'll eat my hand if I understand

How you can possibly be

"At once a cook and a captain bold,

And the same mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bo'sum tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig!"

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which

Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of thumping quid

He spun this painful yarn:

" ' T was the good ship Nancy Bell

That we sailed to the Indian sea,

And there on a reef we come to grief,

Which has often occurred to me.

" And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned

(There was seventy seven o' soul);

And only ten of the Nancy's men

Said 'here' to the muster-roll

"There was me and the cook, and the captain bold,

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bo'sum tight and the midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig.

"For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and, accordin', shot

The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,

And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite with the midshipmite

We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bo'sum tight,

And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,

On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,

And the delicate question, 'Which

Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,

And we argued it out as such.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did

And the cook he worshipped me;

But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed

In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom.

'Yes, that, says I, you'll be.

I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I;

And 'Exactly so, quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me

Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,

While I can-and will-cook you?'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot,

And some sage and parsley too.

"Come here, says he,' with a proper pride,

Which his smiling features tell;

''T will soothing be if I let you see

How extremely nice you'll smell.'

"And he stirred it round, and round, and round,

And he sniffed at the froaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smoothers his squeals

In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,

And as I eating be

The last of his chops, why I almost drops,

For a vessel in sight I see.

"And I never larf, and I never smile,

And I never lark nor play;

But I sit and croak, and a single joke

I have-which is to say:

"O, I am the cook and the captain bold

And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And a bo'sum tight, and a midshipmate,

And the crew of the captain's gig!"

William Schwenck Gilbert

THE SHIP THAT NEVER RETURNED Poem 41

On a summer's day when the sea was rippled

By a soft and gentile breeze,

A ship set sail for a harbor laden

To a port beyond the seas.

There were fond farewells and loving signals

While her form was yet discerned,

But they knew not 'twas a solemn parting,

For the ship has never returned.

Chorus:

Did she ever return? No, she never returned,

And her fate is yet unlearned;

And for years and years fond hearts have been waiting

For the ship that never returned.

Said a feeble youth to his aged mother,

"I must cross the wide, wide sea,

For they say perchance in a foreign clime

There is health and strength for me."

'Twas a gleam of hope 'mid a maze of danger,

And her heart for her youngest yearned,

So she set him forth with smiles and blessings

In the ship that never returned.

Henry Clay Work

THE MEN BEHIND THE GUNS Poem 42

A cheer and salute for the Admiral, and here's to the Captain bold,

And never forget the Commadore's debt when the deeds of might are told!

They stand to the deck when the battle's wreck when the great shells roar and screech-

And never they fear when the foe is near to practice what they preach:

But off with your hats and three times three for Columbia's true-blue sons,

The men below who batter the foe-the men behind the guns!

II

Oh, light and merry of heart are they when they swing into port once more

When, with more than enough of the "green back stuff," they start for their leave-o'-shore;

And you'd think, perhaps, for the blue bloused chaps who lull along the street

Are a tender bit, with salt on it, for some fierce "mustache" to eat-

Some warrior bold, with straps of gold, who dazzles and fairly stuns

The modest worth of the sailor boys-the lads who serve the guns.

III

But say not a word till the shot is heard that tells the fight is on,

Till the long, deep roar grows more and more from the ships of "Yank"

And "Don,"

Till over the deep and tempest's sweep of fire and bursting shell,

And the very air is a mad Despair in the throes of a living hell;

Then down, deep down, in the mighty ship, unseen by the midday suns,

You'll find the chaps who are giving the raps-the men behind the guns!

IV

Oh, well they know how the cyclones blow that they loose from their cloud of death,

And they know is heard the thunder-word their fierce ten incher saith!

The steel decks rock with the lightning shock, and shake with the great recoil,

And the sea grows red with the blood of the dead and reaches for his spoil-

But not till the foe has gone below or turns his prow and runs,

Shall the voice of peace bring sweet release to the men behind the guns!

John Jerome Rooney

THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER Poem 43

There's a GRAVEYARD near the White House

Where the Unknown Soldier lies,

And the flowers there are sprinkled

With the tears from mother's eyes.

I stood there not so long ago

With roses for the brave,

And suddenly I heard a voice

Speak from out the grave:

"I am the Unknown Soldier,"

The spirit voice began,

"And I think I have the right

To ask some questions man to man.

"Are my buddies taken care of?

Was their victory so sweet?

Is the big reward you offered

Selling pencils on the street?

"Did they really win the freedom

They battled to achieve?

Do you still respect the Croix Guerre

Above that empty sleeve?

"Does a gold star in the window

Now mean anything at all?

I wonder how my old girl feels

When she hears a bugle call.

"And that baby who sang

'Hello, Central, Give me no man's land'-

Can they replace her daddy

With a military band?

"I wonder if the profiteers

Have satisfied their greed?

I wonder if a soldier's mother

Ever is in need?

"I wonder if the kings, who planed it all

Are really satisfied?

They played their game of checkers

And eleven million died.

"I am the Unknown Soldier

And maybe I died in vain,

But if I were alive and my country called,

I'd do it all over again."

Billy Rose

IN FLANDERS FIELDS Poem 44

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place, and in the sky

The Larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders Fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If yee break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.

John Mccrae

REPLY TO IN FLANDERS FIELD Poem 45

Oh! Sleep in peace where poppies grow;

The torch your failing hands let go

Was caught by us, again held high,

A beacon light in Flanders sky

That dims the stars to those below,

You are our dead, you held the foe,

And ere the poppies cease to blow,

We'll prove our faith in you who lie

In Flanders Fields.

Oh! Rest in peace, we quickly go

To you who bravely died, and know

In other fields was heard the cry,

For freedom's cause, of you who lie

So still asleep where poppies grow,

In Flanders Fields.

An in rumbling sound, to and fro,

The lightening flashes, sky aglow,

The mighty hosts appear, and high

Above the din of battle cry,

Scarce heard amidst the guns below,

And fearless hearts who fight the foe,

And guard the place where poppies grow,

Oh! Sleep in peace, all you who lie

In Flanders Fields.

And still the poppies gently blow,

Between the crosses, row on row.

The Larks, still bravely soaring high,

Are singing now their lullaby

To you who sleep where poppies grow

In Flanders Fields.

John Mitchell

THERE IS NO DEATH Poem 46

There is no death, the stars go down

To rise upon some other shores,

And bright in heaven's jewelled crown

They shine forevermore.

There is no death! The forest leaves

Convert to life the viewless air;

The rocks disorganize to feed

The hungry moss they bear.

There is no death! The dust we tread

Shall change, beneath the summer showers

To golden grain, or mellowed fruit,

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

There is no death! The leaves that fall,

And flowers may fade and pass away-

They only wait, through winter hours,

The warm, sweet breath of May.

There is no death! The choicest gifts

That heaven has kindly left to earth

Are ever first to seek again

The country of their birth.

And all things that for growth or joy

Are worthy of our love and care,

Whose loss has left us desolate,

Are safely garnered there.

Though life become a desert waste,

We know it's fairest, sweetest flowers,

Transplanted into Paradise,

Adorn immortal bowers.

The voice a birdlike melody

That we have missed and mourned so long,

Now mingles with the angel choir

In everlasting song.

There is no death! Even though we grieve

When beautiful, familiar forms

That we have learned to love are torn

From our embracing arms-

Although with bowed and breaking heart,

With sable garb and silent tread,

We bear there senseless dust to rest,

And say that they are "Dead,"

They are not dead! They have but passed

Beyond the mists that blind us here

Into the new and larger life

Of that serener spere.

They have but dropped their robe of clay

To put their shining raiment on;

They have not wandered away-

They are not "Lost" nore "Gone."

Though disenthralled and glorified

They still are here and love us yet;

The dear ones they have left behind

They never can forget.

And sometimes when our hearts grow faint

Amid temptations fierce and deep,

Or when the wildly raging waves

Of grief or passion sweep,

We feel upon our fevered brow

Their gentle touch, their breath of balm;

Their arms enfold us, and our hearts

Grow comforted and calm.

And ever near us, though unseen,

The dear, immortal spirits tread-

For all the boundless universe

Is life-there are no dead!

J. L. Mccreery

MAN'S INHUMANITY TO MAN Poem 47

Many and sharp the numerous ills

Inwoven with our frame;

More pointed still, we make ourselves

Regret, remorse and shame;

And man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn,

Man's inhumanity to man,

Makes countless thousands mour.

Robert Burns

CONSCIENCE Poem 48

I sat alone with my conscience

In a place where time had ceased,

And we talked of my former living

In the land where the years had increased;

And I felt I should have to answer

The question it put to me,

And to face the answer and question

Through all eternity.

The ghosts of forgotten actions

Came floating before my sight,

And things I thought were dead things

Were alive with terrible might.

And the vision of all my past life

Was an awful thing to face,

Alone with my conscience sitting

In that solemnly silent place.

And I thought of a faraway warning,

Of a sorrow that was to be mine,

In a land that was then the future,

But now is the present time.

And I thought of my former thinking

Of the judgement day that was to be;

But sitting alone with my conscience

Seemed judgement enough for me.

And I wondered if there was a future

To this land beyond the grave;

But no one gave me an answer,

And no one came to save.

Then I felt that the future was present,

And the present would never go by,

For it was but the thought of my past life

Growing into eternity.

Then I woke from my timely dreaming,

And the vision past away,

And I knew that the far-off seeming

Was a warning of yesterday;

And I pray that I may not forget it,

In this land before the grave,

That I may not cry in the future

And no one come to save.

And so I have learned a lesson

Which I ought to have known before,

And which, though I learned it dreaming,

I hope to forget no more.

So I sit alone with my conscience

In the place where the years increase,

And I try to remember the future

In the land where time will cease.

And I know of the future Judgement,

How dreadful soe'er it be,

That to sit alone with my conscience

Will be judgement enough for me.

Charles William Stubbs

Return To Home Page