Revised Edition of Poems

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 poean, 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 noble, 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 passing 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 hoary-- 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 lassie 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.

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 worshipped 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 shield? 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.

The Earl of Beaconsfield.

I sing no song of superstition, No dark deeds of an Inquisition, No mad-brain'd theme of wild ambition, For lo, their doom is sealed! But I will use my best endeavour, To praise the good, the wise, the clever, Who will remember'd be for ever, The Earl of Beaconsfield.

When England was without alliance, He bid the Russians bold defiance, On Austria had no reliance In either flood or field; He proudly sent to Hornby message, The Dardanelles! go force the passage In spite of Turkey, Bear, or Sausage, The dauntless Beaconsfield!

At Berlin, he with admiration Was gazed upon by every nation, And, master of the situation, Vow'd Britons ne'er would yield. For I am here, you may depend on't, This Eastern brawl to make an end on't, To show both plaintiff and defendant I'm Earl of Beaconsfield!

Britannia now doth weep and ponder, Bereaved of him, her child of wonder, No earthly power could break asunder His love for England's weal. And now those locks once dark as raven (For laurel leaves ne'er deck'd a craven) Wear a laurel crown in Heaven, Glorious Beaconsfield!

Come, Nivver Dee i' Thi Shell.

"Come, nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad," Are words but rudely said; Though they may cheer some stricken heart, Or raise some wretched head; For they are words I love mysel, They're music to my ear; They muster up fresh energy An' chase each doubt an' fear.

Nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad, Though tha be poor indeed; Ner lippen ta long i' th' turnin' up Sa mich ov a friend in need; Fur few ther are, an' far between, That help a poor man thru; An' God helps them at help therseln, An' they hev friends enew.

Nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad, Whativver thi creditors say; Tell um at least tha'rt foarst ta owe, If tha artant able ta pay; An' if they nail thi bits o' traps, An' sell tha dish an' spooin; Remember fickle forten lad, Shoo changes like the mooin.

Nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad, Though some may laugh an' scorn; There wor nivver a neet afore ta neet, Bud what ther' com a morn; An' if blind forten used tha bad, Sho's happen noan so meean; Ta morn al come, an' then fer some The sun will shine ageean.

Nivver dee i' thi shell, owd lad, Bud let thi motto be,-- "Onward!" an' "Excelsior;" An' try for t' top o't' tree: An' if thi enemies still pursue, Which ten-ta-one they will, Show um owd lad, tha'rt doin' weel, An' climin' up the hill.

Owd Betty's Advice.

So Mary, lass, tha'rt bahn to wed It mornin', we young Blacksmith Ned, An' though it maks thi mother sad, It's like to be; I've nowt ageean yond dacent lad, No more ner thee.

Bud let me tell tha what ta due, For my advise might help tha thru; Be kind, and to thi husband true, An' I'll be bun Tha'll nivver hev a day ta rue For owt that's done.

Nah, try to keep thi former knack, An' du thi weshin' in a crack, Bud don't be flaid to bend thi back, Tha'll nobbut sweeat; So try an' hev a bit o' tack, An' du it neeat.

Be sure tha keeps fra bein' a flirt, An' pride thysel i' bein' alert,-- An' mind ta mend thi husband's shirt, An' keep it cleean; It wod thi poor owd mother hurt, If tha wur meean.