Revised Edition of Poems Part 1

Revised Edition of Poems.

by William Wright.

PREFACE

The Author respectfully submits to the general public of his native town and district, this volume of poems, containing some of the chief results of his musings for the past thirty years. He hopes that the volume, which is in reality the production of a life-time, will in many ways be deemed worthy of the kind and courteous approbation of his numerous patrons and friends, as well as the indulgence of literary critics.

In launching forth the work, the Author begs to tender to his patrons and the public generally, his most sincere and hearty thanks for the a.s.sistance they have ever rendered him so as to enable him to acquire the necessary leisure for the cultivation of his muse. The result now achieved is not the comprehensive collection of the efforts of the author, but it may he taken as a selection and a representation of his more generally interesting productions from time to time.

Various reasons have operated in the time of the publication and the curtailment of this volume; but it is now submitted with every respect to the public for their perusal. Many of his poems, which are not found in the present volume, the author trusts will be deemed worthy of being treasured in the sc.r.a.p books of his friends. Of the literary merits of the composition, it would ill become the author in any way to descant upon; but in regard to these he leaves himself entirely and absolutely in the hands of a critical, and, he hopes, an indulgent public, feeling a.s.sured that he may trust himself in the hands of his readers.

No formal dedication is here made to any particular patron, but the book is submitted without the powerful influence of any conspicuous name or the commendation of any well-known literary friend; and like Dr. Johnson of old, failing patrons, he trusts that his work will, in the midst of his numerous compet.i.tors, locally and generally, be thought worthy of the attention of the various cla.s.ses of the public.

AUGUST, 1891.

The Grand Old Man of Oakworth.

Come, hand me down that rustic harp, From off that rugged wall, For I must sing another song To suit the Muse's call, For she is bent to sing a pan, On this eventful year, In praise of the philanthropist Whom all his friends hold dear- The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, Beyond his eightieth year!

No flattery! My honest Muse, Nor yet be thou servile; But tinkle up that harp again, A moment to beguile.

Altho' the bard be rude and rough, Yet, he is ever proud To do the mite that he can do, And thus proclaim aloud- The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, Of whom we all are proud!

For base indeed were any bard That ever sang on earth, Did he not wish his neighbour well, And praise his sterling worth.

Leave state affairs and office To those of younger blood, But I am with the patriot, The n.o.ble, wise, and good- The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, The wise, the great, the good!

This worthy old philanthropist, Whom all his neighbours greet; Who has a smile for every one Whom he may chance to meet- Go to yon pleasant village, On the margin of the moor, And you will hear his praises sung By all the aged poor- The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, A friend unto the poor!

Long may he live! and happy be, The patriot and the sire; And may some other harp give praise, Whose notes will sound much higher.

His thirst for knowledge, worth, and lore- His heart was ever there- This worthy old philanthropist, Beyond his eightieth year!- The Grand Old Man of Oakworth, Beyond his eightieth year.

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED ON HEARING Dr. Dobie's Lecture on Burns.

Though murky are the days and short, And man he finds but little sport, These gloomy days, to cheer him; Yet, if a Dobie should, perchance, Come out before an audience, 'Tis worth our while to hear him.

Right pleased was I, dear sir, to hear Your lecture on that subject dear, So grand and superhuman; For all the world doth pay regard To Bobbie Burns, the Scottish bard, The patriot and the ploughman.

Your words, indeed, were pa.s.sing good, On him who kenned and understood The kirk and all its ranting; Who "held the mirror" up, indeed, To show the "muckle unco-guid"

Their double-dyed canting.

You painted him sometimes in glee While other times in poverty- To gold without alliance; Yet, after all he kept his pace, And looked grim fortune in the face, And set him at defiance.

But, alas! the picture, was it true?

Of Burns' parents, poor and low- So furrowed and so h.o.a.ry- It makes our very hearts to burn To think that "man was made to mourn,"

And tell the sad, sad story.

You brought me back to days bygone, When glad its banks I strolled upon, The river Doon so bonnie; The roofless kirk and yard so green, Where many a tombstone may be seen, With Tam and Souter Johnnie.

And when ye spake of yond bright star That lingers in the lift afar, Where Burns was never weary Of gazing on the far-off sphere, Where dwells his angel la.s.sie dear- His ain sweet Highland Mary!

But here my Muse its wings may lower; Such flights are far beyond its power; So I will stop the jingle.

Sir, I am much obliged to you, And I am much indebted to The Choir and Mr. Pringle.

[Picture: Picture of bowl of fruit]

What Profits Me.

What profits me tho' I sud be The lord o' yonder castle gay; Hev rooms in state to imitate The princely splendour of the day For what are all my carved doors, My chandeliers or carpet floors, No art could save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Decked i' costly costumes grand, Like the Persian king o' kings, Wi' diamond rings to deck my hand: For what wor all my grand attire, That fooils both envy and admire, No gems could save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Thy worthy host, O millionaire, Hev cent. for cent. for money lent; My wealth increasing ivvery year.

For what wor all my wealth to me, Compared to immortality, Wealth could not save me from the grave.

What profits me tho' I sud be Even the gert Persian Shah, My subjects stand at my command, Wi' fearful aspect and wi' awe; For what wor a despotic rule, Wi' all the world at my control, All could not save me from the grave.

The Death of Gordon.

From the red fields of gore, 'midst war's dreadful clang, I hear a sad strain o'er oceans afar: Oh, shame, shame upon you, ye proud men of England, Whose highest ambition is rapine and war!

Through your vain wickedness Thousands are fatherless, False your pretensions old Egypt to save; Arabs with spear in hand Far in a distant land Made our brave Gordon a sad and red grave.

On Nile's sunny banks, with the Arab's great nation, Brave Gordon was honoured and wors.h.i.+pped by all, The acknowledged master of the great situation, Until England's bondholders caused Egypt to fall.

Another great blunder, Makes the world wonder, Where is Britannia's sword, sceptre and s.h.i.+eld?

War and disaster Come thicker and faster, Oh, for the days of the Great Beaconsfield!

Oh, Great Beaconsfield! the wise and the clever, When will thy place in our nation be filled?

Britannia's shrill answer is never, oh never, My Beaconsfield's dead, and my Gordon is killed!

Oh, blame not my foemen Or a Brutus-like Roman, Or Soudanese Arabs for Gordon's sad doom; But blame that vain Briton Whose name is true written, The slayer of Gordon, who fell at Khartoum.

[Picture: Crest of arms]

The Earl of Beaconsfield.