BY
CROCKET McELROY.
St. Clair, Michigan.

CHICAGO,
SCROLL PUBLISHING COMPANY,
1900.

Copyrighted, 1900,
BY CROCKET McELROY.

TO

Hon. Thomas W. Palmer, Detroit, Michigan;
Hon. Joseph B. Moore, Lansing, Michigan;
Captain Byron Whitaker, Detroit, Michigan;
Henry C. French, Esq., Buffalo, New York;
Charles A. Calzin, Esq., Marine City, Michigan;
and all my other friends, this book is dedicated.
Crocket McElroy.

INDEX.

PART I.
POEMS OF PATRIOTISM

OUR COUNTRY AND OUR FLAG.

At morning light October twelfth,
In fourteen hundred ninety-two,
With shouts of joy and dreams of wealth,
Columbus and his happy crew,
Sang land ahoy! Sweet land ahoy!
And landing on the virgin soil,
Gave thanks to God, in tears of joy,
And laughed at danger, care and toil.

And thus became our country known
A short four hundred years ago,
And yet in greatness it has grown
Beyond the reach of man to know;
The forests vast have given way
Before man’s mighty march and hand,
And prairie wastes like night to day
Have changed to blooming garden land.

The savage hosts that here were found
Living like roving beasts of prey,
Have given up their hunting ground,
And thrown their poisoned darts away;
Now turning to the arts of peace,
And living on the white man’s plan,
Their wasted numbers will increase,
While they respect the rights of man.

The howling wolf and dreaded bear,
The buffalo and antelope,
And all the beasts not in man’s care,
Are going down the western slope;
Whate’er obstructs the onward tread,
Of the overwhelming march of man,
Must soon be numbered with the dead,
All sacrificed on nature’s plan.

The mighty rivers and great lakes,
Where once did float the bark canoe,
Are but the means that nature makes,
To push man’s grand endeavors thru;
And now upon these waters floats
A commerce of a size so vast,
(In more than seven thousand boats)
It never yet has been surpassed.

And pressing on for conquests new,
The teeming millions reach our shore,
And bore the very mountains thru,
In eager reaching out for more;
The earth gives up its lead and gold,
Its silver, copper, salt, and oil,
And countless wealth will yet unfold,
Ere man has ceased to think and toil.

A thousand cities now we show,
And eighty million freemen rule,
Where but four hundred years ago,
There was no house, or church, or school,
And not a white man yet had trod
The fairest portion of the earth,
The land where all may worship God,
Where liberty was given birth.

In seventeen hundred seventy-six,
The brave forefathers of this land,
Tired of tyrannic laws and tricks,
Resolved to take a noble stand;
So on the fourth day of July
They said this country must be free,
And pledged themselves to win or die,
In fighting for its liberty.

Then thirteen states together joined
And declared themselves a nation,
And prouder names were never coined
Than endorsed that declaration.
Our country now must have a flag,
To be praised in song and story,
No silly or unmeaning rag,
But an emblem of our glory.

Flags are made of various types,
Our Congress chose for us the best,
And with our handsome stars and stripes,
We do not care for all the rest;
With seven red and six white bars,
A corner field of pretty blue,
In which to set the coming stars,
Now counting three and forty-two.

Each star a state does represent,
A powerful aggregation,
And each one has a government,
For its local regulation;
So great we’ve grown in width and length,
The truth can hardly be believed;
We do not boast of size or strength,
But of the work we have achieved.

We sixty thousand schools maintain
For the children of our nation,
Where free of cost they can obtain
A liberal education;
And sixty thousand churches, too,
Where people freely worship God,
Learn how to love, be good and true,
For that’s the style on freedom’s sod.

We make ships go ’gainst wind and tide,
Our steamers sail to ev’ry shore,
And on our railroads one can ride
Two hundred thousand miles and more;
Our Franklin brought the lightning down,
Morse made it talk thru miles of wire,
And Edison has gained renown,
By using it for light and fire.

We now can hear a thousand miles,
The ever welcome voice of friends,
And on our little waxen files
Preserve it till life’s journey ends;
The sweetest music in the world
Is sung and played for all mankind,
The notes are caught and then unfurled,
And lift man’s heart and cheer his mind.

With gratitude our hearts are filled
For the triumphs of our nation,
We’ll not forget good blood was spilled
In fighting for its salvation;
We love our country and our flag,
And know not how to amend it,
And when it calls we will not lag
In rallying to defend it.

O how it inspires one to hear,
When passing by upon the street,
The children sing in school house near,
“Forever float that standard sheet,”
And changing time to music true
“The star spangled banner shall wave,”
Following with “Red, white and blue,”
And cheers for the flag of the brave.

In many nations of the earth,
Where kings and other tyrants rule,
The people’s rights are little worth,
Until they learn from freedom’s school;
But monarchs now are growing wise,
And hearts rejoice o’er all the world,
As freedom’s fires light the skies,
Where’er our noble flag’s unfurled.

For justice and for liberty,
Our country is the champion,
We’ll advocate humanity,
Where’er man’s rights are trampled on;
In quiet peace we aim to live,
Avoiding war whene’er we can,
But life and gold we’ll freely give
To help our suff’ring fellowman.

There is no nation that we fear
However skilled in war or arts,
We need no standing army here,
Our bulwark’s made of human hearts;
We have no lords, no king to crown,
But mindful of the bitter past,
We’ve anchored all our virtues down,
And nailed our banner to the mast.

Respected now o’er all the earth,
In ev’ry country great and small,
The flag that crowned our nation’s birth,
Floats proudly with the best of all:
And now from school house top it flies,
And on all ships we send to sea,
The grandest flag beneath the skies,
The glorious flag of liberty.

THE FLAG OF HOBSON’S CHOICE.

A SONG.

Written June 10th, 1898, to commemorate in verse the great achievement of Richard P. Hobson and his crew of seven men, in sinking the steamer “Merrimac,” in the mouth of Santiago harbor, island of Cuba, under orders of Admiral Sampson.

When Hobson saw his country’s need,
Demanded human sacrifice,
He asked that he might do the deed,
And give his life to pay the price.

CHORUS.

Three cheers now, boys, for liberty,
Three cheers again in louder voice,
For Hobson and his victory,
And for the flag of Hobson’s choice.

He knew the course that he must take
Would lead him to the mouth of hell,
And boldly for his country’s sake,
He braved the storm of shot and shell.

He knew that mines beset the place,
Where he must go to sink his ship,
And death would meet him face to face,
Ere he had time to make the trip.

He knew his ship was weak and frail,
And could not stand the Spanish fire;
But all the signs that he would fail,
Served but to raise his courage higher.

He knew that bombs embraced his boat,
And one good shot would send her high,
But lose or win, and sink or float,
He was ready to do and die.

Advised to hoist the flag of Spain,
And thus deceive his watchful foe,
He could not bear his name to stain,
And quickly gave a manly “No.”

“The stars and stripes, I love the name,”
(Thus spake the grand heroic voice.)
“Whether I fall, or rise to fame,
My country’s flag shall be my choice.”

His mother’s home might soon be sold,
But surely this can never be,
His life should take the place of gold,
When given for humanity.

He gaged his countrymen right well,
And left his mother in their hands;
No mortgagee could ever sell,
A nation’s hero’s mother’s lands.

Seven brave men composed his crew,
All volunteers from Sampson’s fleet,
And ev’ry man a hero true,
Knowing the danger he must meet.

His ship was called the Merrimac,
A noted name in history.
And soon she’ll sink and block a track,
A sacrifice to victory.

At morning dawn the start was made,
And quick he reached the chosen spot,
’Mid storms of shell from hill and glade,
And hundreds of death dealing shot.

The cannons roared, the engine stop’d,
The anchor then was quickly dumped,
All hands ran aft, a float was drop’d,
And onto it eight heroes jumped.

The fuse was lit, the ship blew up,
And sank upon the proper site,
Cervera’s fleet was bottled up,
And lost all chance to win the fight.

A braver deed was never done,
In all the ages of mankind,
Since Adam faced the morning sun,
Or Christ inspired the human mind.

Their duty done, no longer use
To risk their lives upon that trip,
And hoisting up a flag of truce
Were taken to Cervera’s ship.

The Admiral, a gallant man,
As ever storm of battle braved,
Altho he did not like the plan,
Rejoiced that our brave men were saved.

And then he did a noble act,
As human ear has ever heard,
By telling us the joyful fact,
And sending our brave Sampson word.

A thousand cheers now rent the air,
And echoed all around the world,
Where freedom’s sons and daughters fair,
Will keep our hero’s flag unfurled.

Brave Hobson has adorned his age,
And nobly won immortal fame,
His deed will blaze on hist’ry’s page,
And all the world will praise his name.

THE OLD SOLDIER.

Make your walks level and see they are straight
And hang sweet flowers on your open gate,
Throw the blinds apart, raise the curtains high,
Swing the door open and then stand near by,
For an old soldier is coming along.

His step now is short and not very strong,
He uses a crutch to help him along,
His heart is honest and his head is clear,
He blossoms with love and brings you good cheer,
For he’s a good soldier hobbling along.

He has but one eye and that is quite weak,
But thanks to his God his good tongue can speak,
He stops to converse and rest him awhile,
And meets an old friend who greets with a smile
The gallant old soldier coming along.

The little dogs bark when they see the crutch,
For fear he will give them a gentle touch,
The little boys laugh and he speaks no blame,
But stops and helps them finish their game,
For he’s a kind soldier coming along.

The boys admire him and bring him a seat,
And gather about to hear him repeat
The stories of war in the field and camp,
In the fort and trench, or on the long tramp,
As the brave soldier was talking along.

He tells them slowly how the battle begun,
With rattle of muskets and booming gun,
How the soldier’s hopes arose and then fell,
As cheers were followed by bursting shell,
As the old soldier was marching along.

How the orders were given fast and thick,
The first one to march, then the double quick;
How the brave Colonel led into the fight,
Where the battle was hot on left and right,
As the old soldier was running along.

How the boys in blue gave the rebels fits
As they pop’d their heads out of rifle pits.
And soon drove them behind their breastworks strong,
Where they stood their ground bravely and long,
And stop’d the old soldier coming along.

How the cannons roared and the bullets hissed
And many comrades from the ranks were missed;
How the Captains shouted high and higher
“Stand your ground, boys, load and fire, load and fire,”
As the old soldier was fighting along.

How just as the works of the rebels fell,
His eye was ruined by a piece of shell,
And just as the boys were scaling the wall,
His leg was broken by a cannon ball,
Broken and smashed by a cannon ball.

How sad his thoughts as he lay on the ground,
And felt he was dying from his death wound;
But roused by the cheers for victory won,
And sweet consolation for duty well done,
The old hero is still coming along.

How he thought as he lay a plan to contrive,
To show his comrades he still was alive,
And held up his cap with his musket high,
So the boys could see it as they passed by,
Poor suff’ring soldier not ready to die.

How the boys soon came with an ambulance,
And gathered him in by good luck and chance,
For holding up his cap was taking his breath,
And well they knew he was bleeding to death,
The brave old soldier was bleeding to death.

How the surgeons laid him on a rough board,
And took off his leg not saying a word,
They looked at his eye, “ ’Tis useless,” they said,
“Boys, take him away and put him in bed,”
The helpless soldier now lying in bed.

How six long weeks in hospital he lay,
And prayed for his wife and children each day,
“How to support them, Lord, give me some plan,
Tho broken in pieces I still am a man,”
The poor broken soldier still is a man.

Paid off and discharged when able to go,
With heart as light and pure as the snow,
He steps on the cars and away is whirled,
To realms of love in his own little world,
The loving old soldier coming along.

He has plenty to eat and plenty to wear,
And draws a pension that frees him from care,
His wife’s contented, his children as neat,
As any children you see on the street,
He’s a happy soldier coming along.

“Boys, don’t run away when your country’s in need,
But prove your courage by brave act and deed,
And if you should fall, for you is the fame,
On tablets of honor, you’ve written your name,”
Said the brave old soldier coming along.

WASHINGTON.

History tells of noble men,
Of soldiers brave and statesmen great,
And how they wrought with sword and pen,
To raise man to a higher state:
The good and wise in ev’ry age,
Left honored names to lean upon;
But not a name on hist’ry’s page
Shines brighter than George Washington.

Great Hannibal the Alps did cross,
And proudly march on Italy;
But suffered a tremendous loss,
By giving way to revelry;
Philip won at Charonea,
And Caesar crossed the Rubicon;
Alexander conquered Persia;
But nobler was our Washington.

Cromwell wielded a dreaded sword.
And thousands fell beneath his stroke;
Cruelty stained his ill gained hoard,
Nor could time mend the hearts he broke.
Peter the Great was truly great
But tortured to death his own son;
He builded up a mighty state,
But does not rank with Washington.

Cincinnatus was good and brave,
And fought for country, not for fame;
He left his plow his state to save,
And gave the world an honored name.
Mighty in war, in council strong,
Was the world famed Napoleon,
But oft ambition led him wrong;
This was not true of Washington.

Great warriors and statesmen wise,
Have filled the world with their renown,
And often when they gained a prize,
Have placed upon their heads a crown;
And frequently by deeds of shame,
Have lost the glory they had won,
No hero e’er had purer fame,
Than modest, honest Washington.

His brave soldiers he grandly led,
With frosted feet and hands all bare,
Over the cold earth’s frozen bed,
Across the icy Delaware;
And when they met the foes of right,
They shouted loud, “Come on! Come on!!”
And cheered as they went in the fight,
“Hurrah! Hurrah!! for Washington.”

A famous battle then was fought,
That spread our glory far and wide,
And tho thru suff’ring dearly bought,
It turned the tide to freedom’s side;
Not ice, nor cold, nor frozen feet,
Could stop our heroes marching on,
So eager they the foe to meet,
And fight for love of Washington.

When victory at last was won,
And the foe driven from our sod,
The people said, “Well done, well done,”
Our hero said “Thanks be to God.”
Some wanted him to be their King,
But not a crown would he put on;
Did ever King a nobler thing,
Than patriot soldier Washington?

“The first in war and first in peace,
And the hearts of his countrymen,”
A grateful nation ne’er will cease,
To class him with the wisest men:
For freedom’s cause o’er all the world,
He prayed and labored, fought and won,
Where’er his country’s flag’s unfurled,
There cheers will rise for Washington.

A VOICE FOR FREEDOM.

Written in 1856, during the struggle in Kansas, between the pro-slavery and anti-slavery settlers.

Freemen of the north, why stand you still,
While fiends in Kansas your brothers kill,
Will you bow down to the tyrant’s God,
And worship slavery beneath the rod?

No, never! you cry, no God have we,
But the God of love and liberty,
To Him we’ll bow, and for Him we’ll fight,
For liberty, justice and our right.

Then shoulder your arms, prepare for the west,
A rifle provide, take one of Sharp’s best,
For there on the soil of Kansas do trod,
The foes of man and blasphemers of God.

March to the battle, assist the brave few,
Now fighting nobly and looking to you,
Let them not look in vain, but lend a hand,
That will bring freedom and peace to their land.

Hark! hear the patriots cry from their graves,
“Liberty for Kansas, freedom for slaves,
Drive out the foul demons that curse your land,
And rule you like slaves with a tyrant’s hand.

“For freedom we lived, for country we died,
And may many heroes lie by our side,
Ere the tyrant wins, to curse with the slave,
‘The land of the free and home of the brave’.”

The heart cries vengeance and justice says fight,
For peace in Kansas, liberty and right,
Vengeance for our martyrs, peace by their tomb,
Where God in mercy may grant us a home.

Remember for God and freedom you fight
And never forsake liberty and right,
But stand like a rock and fight to the last,
With eyes on the future, hearts on the past.

When you meet your enemies in the field,
Go fight them bravely with no thought to yield,
But boldly cry out at ev’ry breath,
“Give us liberty, or give us death.”

THE RECONCENTRADOS.

A Spanish physician on his way from Cuba to Spain, on arriving at New York about October 1, 1898, was asked about the reconcentrados, and answered sarcastically, “There are no reconcentrados now.” This answer was understood to mean that they had all died of starvation excepting the few that were saved by the United States.

Lives there a man in the United States,
That knows of the Cubans’ horrible fates,
Whose cheeks do not burn with the blush of shame,
When he hears these reproachful words of blame—
“There are no reconcentrados now?”

Where are the parents feeble, old and gray,
Driven from their own quiet homes away?
Where are the children, are they too all dead?
Is it a fact, can it truly be said—
“There are no reconcentrados now?”

Where are the mothers with babes at the breast?
Where are the infants, are they too at rest?
Where are the sick and all in need of care?
Were they left to perish, they are not there?
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Where are the crops of food once stored in domes,
Around ten thousand humble Cuban homes?
Devoured by fire and borne in flames away,
No wonder then that men can truly say—
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Robbed of their cattle, crops and homes destroyed,
Years of hard labor in hours rendered void,
Huddled near cities, watched like beasts of prey,
Deprived of food they all have passed away,
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Shorn of liberty, bound in lines of death,
They know their fate and dread the buzzard’s breath;
They pray for mercy, turn their eyes to God,
Then fall in death on their loved Cuban sod,
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

They beg for bread, but cruel Spain denies,
She does not heed heartrending children’s cries,
Nor the mother pleading in anguish wild,
“Pray give a morsel to my starving child.”
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

No father’s prayer, however strong and good,
Can draw from Spain a single ounce of food;
No mother’s tears, however freely shed,
Can make one less among the Cuban dead:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

See the starving babe, hear its wailing cry,
Searching for food it finds the fountain dry;
What sorrow racks the dying mother’s head,
The babe must die, alas! the mother’s dead:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

See the hollow cheeks, see the sunken eyes,
See the shrivelled limbs, hear the children’s cries,
Their flesh all gone, reduced to skin and bone,
With scarcely strength to give a dying moan:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

See the poor creatures dropping to the ground,
And ravenous vultures hov’ring around,
Watching life flicker, and with ghoulish shout,
Greedy to come and tear the vitals out:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Hear the brave father plead in manly tones,
“Starve me, tyrant, but spare my little ones,
Then take your dagger and with demon’s art,
Plunge it to the hilt in my broken heart:”
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Many are the crimes cruel man has done,
From the early ages to the present one,
But of all crimes against the human race,
This great crime of Spain brought the most disgrace:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Who would think a so called Christian nation,
Would kill the innocent by starvation,
When before did the non-combatant’s cry,
Receive the answer—you must starve and die?
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Listen, Christendom, hear these people pray,
Poor fellow creatures, turn them not away,
Haste to bring them food, take a manly part,
If they perish ’twill grieve the Christian heart,
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

THE PRAYER.

“Where is the God that tribes with manna fed?
Where is the Christ that gave the thousands bread?
Where are the men with noble heart and mind?
Where, O where! is the love of human kind?

“Where is liberty, is there ground for hope?
Where is charity, where’s the blessed Pope?
Where is Germany, freedom loving land?
Where’s the Emperor with his helping hand?

“Where is Russia, nation great and strong,
With mighty power to rectify wrong?
Where is France, rich and beautiful France,
Will she not give us one sweet loving glance?

“Where is Great Britain, land of wealth and fame,
Whose acts of kindness glorify her name?
Oft has she helped the starving sick and sore,
Pray come, kind nation, and do so once more.

“Where is America, land of the free?
Most noble country, we appeal to thee;
We know you pity our sorrow and need,
And our sore distress must make your heart bleed.

“You are a nation powerful for good,
Your cars and ships are loaded down with food,
Mighty with inventions, speedy with plans,
What is the matter, brave Americans?

“Arouse, great country, and if need there be
Break the Spanish bonds and set Cuba free;
Remember Spain is feeble, old and slow,
And lost her glory many years ago.

“Wars just for conquest there should never be,
But for the cause of life and liberty,
Nations may grasp the sword of righteousness,
Crush out tyranny and relieve distress.

“No other nation has courage to come,
All other countries to our cries are dumb,
Our prayers will be to our latest breath,
Come, blessed country, and save us from death.”

Thank God! our country heard the Cuban plea,
And gave notice to Spain: “This shall not be;
You must not murder and starve any more,
The innocent people so near our shore:”
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Fired with pity, the American heart,
For humanity’s sake took Cuba’s part,
And with our heroes on sea and on land,
Soon opened the way for charity’s hand:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Forts were destroyed and the proud Spanish fleet,
And the Spanish army forced to retreat,
And soon as ever we possibly could,
We sent to the starving ship loads of food:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

There has not been since history began
A grander act in the progress of man,
By so nobly taking poor Cuba’s part
A load was lifted from the human heart:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

No braver men e’er fought for liberty,
Than risked their lives that Cuba might go free;
No holier triumph was ever won,
Since the record of war was first begun:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

No other nation, either young or old,
Ever gave so many millions in gold,
To feed the starving and set the bond free,
In the grand cause of human liberty:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Henceforth this saying our maxim shall be,
We’ll bear it aloft o’er land and o’er sea,
And that all civilized nations may know,
Will proudly proclaim wherever we go,
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Wherever our grand old flag is unfurled,
In Cuba, or any part of the world,
Love, mercy, and peace will go with it there,
And bring the oppressed full freedom to share:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Nations respect us for the good work done,
And freely concede the glory we won;
We get the honor, the world gets the gain,
Mankind is lifted to a higher plain,
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

United for peace all nations should be,
Protecting man in his right to be free,
And if one nation man’s freedom restrain,
The rest should join and restore it again:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

Humanity’s cause henceforth must prevail,
No nation will dare man’s rights to assail,
The example we set lays down the plan,
Nations will follow in lifting up man:
“There are no reconcentrados now.”

THE CELEBRATION.

The following verses were written in November, 1889, when it was supposed the World’s Fair at Chicago, to celebrate the four hundreth anniversary of the discovery of America, would be held in 1892.

In eighteen hundred ninety-two
We will have a celebration,
And prove our manners good and true,
By inviting ev’ry nation;
We’ll advertise from shore to shore,
And tell how we have expanded,
For just four hundred years before,
Christopher Columbus landed.

We will build a mighty tower,
Much higher than any steeple,
And give it the strength and power,
To hold twenty thousand people;
We’ll build it strong and very high,
And elegant in size and form,
So it will please the cultured eye,
And ride triumphant ev’ry storm.

A thousand feet we’ll raise the pile,
Yes, a thousand feet high and more,
Twelve hundred feet, a quarter mile,
Where never building reached before;
For it is our real intent,
To gage its height by measure true,
To finding of this continent,
In fourteen hundred ninety-two.

And in the top we’ll place a light,
One hundred thousand candle strong,
To guide the trav’ler in the night,
More than a hundred miles along;
And over all a flag will fly,
The largest, handsomest and best,
That ever charmed the human eye,
Or fired the love in loyal breast.

When independence day shall come,
In eighteen hundred ninety-two,
We’ll march to tune of fife and drum,
In every state the union thru,
And bless the land we love so dear,
United States of America,
Ten million voices then will cheer,
Hip, hip, hurrah! hurrah!! hurrah!!!

ODE TO ONTARIO.

Hail, Ontario, dear land of my birth,
Blessed Ontario, rich spot of earth;
Born upon the mountains,
I’ve played at thy fountains,
And drank from the sweet rills,
At the foot of thy hills.

Lovely Ontario, land of the free,
Happy Ontario, blessings on thee;
I have played with thy boys,
And partook of their joys,
Before school and after,
With shouts and with laughter.

Glorious Ontario, land of delight,
Peaceful Ontario, great is thy might;
I have loved thy sweet girls,
And have toyed with their curls,
Kissed the rose on their cheeks,
And then laughed at their freaks.

Gallant Ontario, land of glory,
Blooming Ontario, grand in story;
Thy ladies are truthful,
Lovely and beautiful,
Safe will the nation be,
While they have liberty.

Sparkling Ontario, land of brave acts,
Roaring Ontario, with cataracts;
Thy men are heroes born,
Brave both at night and morn,
Nobly they stand and fight,
For God, truth and the right.

Beaming Ontario, with beautiful fields,
Teeming Ontario, with bountiful yields,
Rich in great mines of wealth,
Filled with large stores of health,
Great is the love we owe,
Beautiful Ontario.

THE UNITED STATES AND CANADA.

On the manner in which the union of these countries should take place, from an address delivered at Niagara Falls, Ontario, July 4th, 1888.

Let it come as the seasons come,
With gradual change of weather;
Let it come as the waters come,
And quietly mingle together.

Let it come as the gentle rain,
Refreshing the air and the land;
Let it come as the golden grain,
With promise of harvest at hand.

Let it come as the evening sun,
With the peace and quiet of night;
Let it come as the morning sun,
In a blaze of glory and light.

ODE TO OUR COUNTRY.

The following blank verse was written in January, 1864, during the war of the rebellion, when many people in the northern states were advocating peace on almost any terms.

The constitution our fathers made,
Long may it protect us.
The fine example our fathers set,
Long may we follow it.
The pure principles our fathers loved,
Long may we cherish them.
The perfect laws that our fathers made,
Long may we obey them.
Sacredly they pledged their lives and their honor,
All for their country’s sake, freedom not power;
Freely their blood was spilled, battling for justice,
All for their country’s sake, they were not selfish;
Boldly the trial made, God crowned their efforts,
Thanks to His providence their country was saved.
Grandly their thoughts were framed glowing with wisdom,
Wise were the laws they made, all the world blessed them;
Gray hairs honored them, old age and glory,
Then was their noble work left for their children.
Shall we their descendants forget the pure motives,
That guided our fathers in times of distress?
Shall we prove unworthy the boon they left us,
Or bravely defend the cause of liberty?
Large is the sacrifice, greatly ’tis needed,
Freely we grant it, for in God is our trust;
Our lives and fortunes like our fathers before,
Are pledged to the cause of justice and freedom,
Bravely we’ll defend it, let no traitor destroy,
The land of our fathers, the home of the free,
With strong arms and stout hearts we’ll continue to fight,
In perfect faith that God will favor the right.

PART II.
POEMS OF SENTIMENT

THE MILK OF HUMAN KINDNESS.

What is it lures the tender heart,
From paths of joy and pleasures sweet,
To rush into the crowded mart,
And lift the fallen to their feet?

What is it prompts the loving soul,
To go among the poor and sick,
Where sorrow and the empty bowl,
Stir one’s compassion to the quick?

Why should one go where hunger reigns,
And meet the dreaded starving face,
Where life is full of aches and pains,
And sickness finds a brooding place?

Why go where dread disease prevails,
And screams and groans afflict the heart,
Where death the struggling life assails,
And feel the pang of sorrow’s dart?

Why go not to the palace grand,
Where fruits and wines await the guest,
With works of art on ev’ry hand,
And bask in comfort, peace and rest?

Why go not where the flowers bloom,
And birds make music in the trees,
Where all is joy, there is no gloom,
And life and health ride on the breeze?

Is it for love of doing good,
And working out the Master’s plan,
Or doing as all others should,
To elevate our fellow man?

There is a motive in the mind,
That moves to noble, gen’rous deeds,
To sacrifice and actions kind,
And to relieving human needs.

Some ruling thought, some spirit fair,
Or inward spring I can not see,
Whate’er it is, love must be there.
O that I knew what it can be.

Arouse, my soul, increase my sight,
Awake, my muse, stay my blindness,
Ah! now I see by brighter light,
’Tis the milk of human kindness.

There is a fountain whence it flows,
A source from whence it takes its start,
Reviving hopes as on it goes,
That fountain is the human heart.

God bless the hearts that feed the stream,
That fills the soul with tenderness,
God bless the lives that yield the cream,
From the milk of human kindness.

THE WORKING GIRL.

Text: A newspaper item said that shop girls are often insulted on the streets by men who assume that they are immoral because they are poor.

I am only a working girl, ’tis true,
And my mother a widow poor and weak;
I am glad when I find some work to do,
For the bloom has faded from mother’s cheek.

There are four little ones to clothe and feed,
And mother must work sixteen hours a day;
She struggles hard to provide what they need,
And I know is wearing her life away.

I am old enough to go out and work,
And healthy and strong, thanks to mother’s care,
I could not bear my duty to shirk,
And mother’s burdens I am pleased to share.

The money I earn pays for coal and rent,
And mother furnishes the food we eat,
Ev’ry dollar she gets is wisely spent,
And our cottage is always clean and neat.

Mother takes washing and sewing to do,
And works like a slave until late at night,
I help her each evening an hour or two,
And don’t complain for I know it is right.

I go to the church and the Sunday School,
And perform all my duties well and true,
I strive hard to live by the golden rule,
And that’s about all a poor girl can do.

We’re not so unhappy as you might think,
For love reigns supreme in our humble dome,
And tho often near to starvation’s brink,
No money could coax me to leave my home.

Mother is cheerful and good as can be,
And sings to us nightly songs that are choice,
No sound ever heard is so dear to me,
As the rich sweet sound of my mother’s voice.

I met a strange man on the street one day,
With a dashing style and a brazen cheek,
Who said “Good night, my dear, just come my way,”
And alarmed me so that I could not speak.

I hastened to mother’s protecting arms,
And asked if a poor girl must be on guard,
Who claims neither beauty, nor loving charms,
And whose dress cost only five cents a yard.

“I’ll tell you, my dear, for I understand,
Why that bold bad man set your head awhirl.
He saw that poverty held you in hand,
And you were only a poor working girl.”

“But tell me, mother, have the poor no rights,
Must one be rich to command respect?
Our minister tells us that God delights,
In the honest and poor of ev’ry sect.”

“I know, my dear, what the ministers preach,
But I state the fact so well as I can,
Tho Christ has proclaimed what his priests shall teach,
They have not overcome the sin in man.

“Some men are good as they know how to be,
While others repel life’s chastening rod,
The rich meet temptations we never see,
The good honest poor are nearest to God.”

Thanks, my dear mother, your life is my guide,
I will work night and day just as you do,
When temptation comes I’ll thrust it aside,
Grow nearer to God and nearer to you.

When my work in this life has all been done,
I will wend my way to the gates of pearl,
And present this plea to the Holy One:
“Dear Lord, I am only a working girl.”

THE WAYWARD GIRL.

Suggested by reading the testimony of the severe whippings given with the “cat o’ eight tails” in the Industrial School for Girls at Adrian, Michigan. Written May, 1899.

Strip off my clothes, expose my back,
From shoulder to the hip,
Hold fast my hands in vise like rack,
Nor once let go the grip.

Now raise your weapon high in air,
And strike with all your might,
On my poor back now white and fair,
Nor hide the brutal sight.

A single lash is not enough
To bring the color quick,
A “cat o’ eight tails” strong and tough,
Will sooner make me sick.

Rain down the blows nor halt to rest,
Till you are out of breath,
Another brute with equal zest,
Will whip me most to death.

See now the color pinky bright,
But just over my heart,
There still remain some streaks of white,
Don’t miss this vital part.

Measure your blows and deal them straight,
Bring out the redder hue,
Nor let your cruel strokes abate,
Till all is black and blue.

Now burns my back as if by fire,
Red roasted in a flame,
What more can cruel fate require,
Of my poor trembling frame?

I shrink with fear, I scream with pain,
I pray “O spare my life,”
So squeals the pig and squeals in vain,
For deeper goes the knife.

My voice is hushed, I faint, I choke,
Death hovers closely by,
Down falls another last hard stroke,
“Take that, you wretch, and die.”

O Michigan, my Michigan,
Let your heart strings unfurl,
Blot out the stain of Adrian,
And pity the wayward girl.

THE ROSE CURE.

Written for Rose Gearing, a grandchild seven years old, while at Lorain, O., November, 1897.

One day I went out walking,
And the road was hard and long,
No friend was with me talking,
And no bird gave out a song.

The air was raw and chilly,
The warm summer days had past,
My path was rough and hilly,
The flowers were fading fast.

The winds were blowing madly,
Lake Erie was lashed to foam,
And I was feeling sadly,
Two hundred long miles from home.

I tried to stop that feeling,
And remove it from my mind,
But what would do the healing,
Was a thing I had to find.

I thought of a nice river,
Where the water ever flows,
But God the mighty giver,
Soon reminded me of Rose.

My heart with joy went beaming,
My spirits were lifted up,
Away went idle dreaming,
I had found the healing cup.

Hereafter when in sadness,
Bewailing ill-fortune’s blows,
My thoughts will turn with gladness,
To the love of my sweet Rose.

And when I need elixir,
That is pleasant, safe and sure,
I’ll go to my sweet mixer,
And quickly take—The Rose Cure.

I know of nothing neater,
Than my darling’s love for me,
And none more pure, or sweeter,
Than my love for her shall be.

TO A SNOW DROP.

The following verses were suggested by seeing a large and beautiful drop of snow, in the form of a star, descend slowly and gradually melt away on my clothing. The first three verses came to me spontaneously and come the nearest to being an inspiration of anything I have written up to January, 1888. I had only to write down the words, which were ready without the labor of composition. I mention this fact not because there is any merit in the verses, but because I had a touch of inspiration, and have ever since believed that writers and speakers are sometimes inspired with thoughts that come to them without passing thru the process of thinking. Written December, 1859.

A little thing of icy clearness.
Came dropping from the sky above,
Filling joyful hearts with gladness,
And others with the tears of love.

For while hearts are upward bending,
Humbly praying for food to eat,
Others joy and mirth are blending,
Making their many pleasures sweet.

Yet this little drop keeps falling,
And covers up man’s darkest deeds,
As if ’twere its only calling,
To drive temptation from our heads.

Then let this pure emblem’s features,
Teach what we owe to God above
And to all our fellow-creatures,
Make a payment with our love.

A FAMILY SONG.

Tune: A Life on the Ocean Wave.

A home with my darling wife,
Along with my children dear,
Away from trouble and strife,
From sorrow, danger and fear;
Let some be gloomy and sad,
I shall be happy and free,
My wife be joyful and glad,
And our children full of glee.

No storms shall darken our path,
The way is open and straight,
Ne’er yield our reason to wrath,
But aim for Heaven’s wide gate;
’Twill open and let us in,
And the Lord be glad to see,
Living in Heaven with Him,
My wife and children and me.

THANKSGIVING DAY.

In this beautiful world,
Where love’s flag is unfurled
And given free scope to wave and entwine;
It does not become man
To complain of the plan,
Established by a Creator divine.

And on Thanksgiving Day
While we sing and we pray,
And give thanks for the rich stores we possess;
Our hearts should open wide,
To the poor by our side,
And take measures to relieve their distress.

For happy is the part,
Where there’s love in the heart,
To lighten the sorrows of one in need;
And peace comes to the breast,
When we help the distrest,
And, O God, what joy comes from a good deed.

PARENTAL ADVICE.

Composed for the occasion of the marriage of my daughter, Flora, to Howard C. Beck, June 17th, 1891.

Howard and Flora, there’s a beautiful land,
Where trees and flowers grow pretty and sweet,
Where many kind friends will lend you a hand,
And line with pleasure a path for your feet.

’Tis not among stars that twinkle with light,
’Tis not in the moon so cheerless and cold,
’Tis not just beyond great shadows of night,
To reach it requires no silver or gold.

This beautiful land is easily found,
Its gates are open to virtue and worth,
Where peace and good will and reason abound,
This beautiful land is this lovely earth.

If you would enjoy this beautiful land,
And crown with glory the days you have spent,
Let heart beat to heart and hand join with hand,
And travel thru life in peace and content.

Your aim should be high, your walk should be straight,
Your lives fill with joy your parents and friends,
Your record keep bright and honor your state,
And tread the true path where happiness tends.

Howard, should Flora once chance to go wrong,
With kind loving words the stain wash away,
When she shows weakness then you should be strong,
And quarrels never will darken your way.

Flora, should Howard a moment be weak,
And stray from the path that leads men above,
Don’t hasten to bring a blush to his cheek,
But cover his fault with mantles of love.

Thus in harmony and peace may you dwell,
Your knowledge expand, your pleasures increase,
Always be happy and always be well,
And end your journey in Heaven and peace.

THE DOCTOR.

Who is it drives thru mud and sleet,
At break-neck speed along the street,
Nor stops for cold nor stops for heat,
Until he rests close by your feet?
The Doctor.

Who is it comes at dead of night,
When thieves are out and dogs do bite,
And hastens to the dismal light,
And greets you with a warm good-night?
The Doctor.

Who is it asks the reason why,
That on a sick bed you should lie,
And answers to the sad reply,
“My friend, I will not let you die?”
The Doctor.

Who is it startles in his dream,
And thinks he hears his patient scream,
And gives of life its very cream,
To save you from the downward stream?
The Doctor.

Who is it takes his life in hand,
And promptly comes at your command,
When cholera is in the land,
Or small-pox with its dreaded brand?
The Doctor.

Who is it comes with gentle tread,
When life is hanging by a thread,
And racks the brain within his head,
To lift you from a dying bed?
The Doctor.

Who is it tells the loving friend,
In kindest words that tongue can bend,
All things in nature have an end,
And my poor patient cannot mend?
The Doctor.

Who is it knows our secrets best,
The failing arm, the weakened chest,
And keeps those secrets in his breast.
Until we reach our final rest?
The Doctor.

Then to the man whose heart is true,
Who does for us all man can do,
We’ll render love and honor due,
And trust our lives forever to—
The Doctor.

BROTHERLY LOVE.

O may our hearts in love unite,
Our spirits shun all temptation,
Our souls incline to truth and right,
Our minds in love to all creation.

Each other’s faults let us retrieve,
And our portion of love divide,
Each other’s loads a share receive,
And bear with them on ev’ry side.

Let conscience dictate, our minds obey,
Our erring footsteps be retraced,
Our fallen brother gone astray,
Be welcomed back, in love embraced.

Then will God be pleased to bless us,
And fill our lives with love and light,
Then will He sweet mercy grant us,
While we uphold the truth with right.

THE MINISTER’S WIFE.

Written on the occasion of the marriage of my daughter, Worthy, to Rev. G. N. Kennedy, October 17th, 1892.

A beautiful crown awaits you,
In the realm of your chosen life,
No higher duty commands you,
Than to be a minister’s wife.

The road you are now to travel,
Is high over the common plain,
But when you have reached its level,
You must rise above it again.

You must go onward and upward,
Nor halt in your journey thru life,
There’s always work in Christ’s vineyard,
For the faithful minister’s wife.

’Tis a difficult role to fill,
And the work will never be done,
But if you take hold with a will,
Then half the victory is won.

Grapple with boldness and courage,
The duties to which you’re assigned,
And use all your strength and knowledge,
In work for the good of mankind.

Always be pleasant and cheerful,
Forgiving, consoling and kind,
Speak soothing words to the tearful,
Bring light to the hearts of the blind.

Help, O help the poor and the sick,
Help them with tears, labor and love,
Help them out when sorrows are thick,
Help them in the kingdom above.

There’s a veil that obstructs our view,
From the beautiful higher life,
You should try hard to break it thru,
For you are a minister’s wife.

Be a helpmeet to your husband,
Relieve him of burdens and care,
And the noble work of his hand,
Will bring you in glory to share.

Wherever duty may place you,
In all the relations of life,
Remember, father commands you,
Be a model minister’s wife.

NOTHING TO SAY.

You ask me some verses to write,
But when I have nothing to say,
I had much rather keep quiet,
Than write in a roundabout way.

But as nature is always kind,
Perhaps she’ll assist me today,
And thus I’ll be able to grind
Some verses on—nothing to say.

’Tis a splendid maxim, I’m told,
And I do not doubt what they say,
It will do for young and for old,
Never speak when you’ve nothing to say.

Now if you will let me advise,
This maxim you’ll always obey,
Do just like the good and the wise,
Never speak when you’ve nothing to say.

THE HEART.

The heart like a sponge may drink to its fill,
But unlike the sponge there is room in it still,
Fill it with sorrow and pack it with pain,
One touch of sweet love revives it again.

Crush it, abuse it, it bleeds like a sieve,
Tender it kindness, it holds all you give,
Pound it, and shake it, until it is sore,
Its love is as sweet as ever before.