Poetry

great city hospital
There lay poor Mary Crosby small,
She had no friends her heart to cheer,
So time with her passed sad and drear.

She sought for ease but all in vain,
Month after month she passed in pain,
She had no relative nor friend
Who aid or comfort could her lend.

A surgeon saw her cheerless state,
And deplored the poor child’s fate,
She tried to make doll of her finger,
And sang to it poor little singer.

Hers indeed was an awful lot,
The weary days she spent in cot,
For the poor child she could not walk,
And it soon exhausted her to talk.

But surgeon bought her ribbon gay,
And with it she all day did play,
The giver often she did bless,
And thought sometimes she was princess.

For in it she did take such pride,
She fancied she was beauteous bride,
And was possessed of great riches,
Or thought herself a wealthy Duchess.

And she would bind it round her hair,
Imagining that she was fair.
But poor child feels that she must die,
She asks the surgeon to come nigh.

And kindly o’er her he doth stand,
She asked him for to take her hand,
Thanked him for ribbon green and blue,
Then evermore bade him adieu.

Power of Love

Love it is the precious loom,
Whose shuttle weaves each tangled thread,
And works flowers of exquisite bloom,
Shedding their perfume where we tread.

Her Lover’s Step

Step, step, step, ’tis her lover’s walk,
She knows his step as well’s his talk;
He is the favorite of her choice,
So his step’s familiar as his voice.

Step, step, step, she now is wed,
And it is now her husband’s tread;
His homeward step it cheers her life,
For she is a kind faithful wife.

But he the husband and yet lover,
His steps at last do cease forever;
And she doth soon hear the tread
Of men who do bear out the dead.

Her heart it now doth throb with pain,
Though she knows sorrow is but vain;
For him she never can recall,
And no more hear his footsteps fall.

But still she hopes he yet will come
And visit her in their old home;
But time approaches, she must die,
Her husband’s footsteps she hears nigh.

Step, step, step, we ne’er shall part,
I hear the echo in my heart;
Now happiness dispels the gloom,
Radiant with joy my face doth bloom.

Pain and suffering all are past,
She joyous cried he’s come at last;
And soon she breathes out her last breath,
He guides her through the vale of death.

The Useful Weed

Do not despise the humble weed,
For the Lord He first sowed the seed,
Perhaps it bears most precious fruit,
And useful leaves and potent root.

Though it seems now a useless weed,
Countless millions it yet may feed,
Or future ages it may prize,
Finding in it beauteous dyes.

Or a valued healing balm,
Will make the heated pulse beat calm,
And the future men of science,
May place on it strong reliance.

And it may play important part,
In advancing skill and art,
And no person now doth know
How useful are the weeds that grow.

Weeds we now look on with loathing,
They may yet be used for clothing,
Producing silken glossy coat,
Or paper fine for the bank note.

But you at present must take heed,
And do not grow the cumbrous weed,
Either in garden or in field,
Where plants with profit now do yield.

Golden Egg

In ancient times we have been told
A goose did lay an egg of gold,
She did produce one every day,
So regular this goose did lay.

But her stupid foolish master
Wanted her to lay them faster,
And he at last the goose did kill,
Gold grist no more came to his mill.

But a strange tale we now unfold,
In California’s mines of gold,
There they keep both hens and chickens,
’Mong the gravel scratching pickings.

But hens do find the golden shiner,
Is too heavy for their dinner,
For it they cannot well digest,
As it lies solid in their breast.

Then they are slain and you behold
In their craw the shining gold,
Made up of particles so fine,
The purest gold in all the mine.

Then how happy is the miner,
When he has sweet fowl for dinner,
And he doth find within its craw,
A little golden bonanza.

And in Ontario the hen
Is worthy of the poet’s pen,
For she doth well deserve the praise
Bestowed on her for her fine lays.

Little Dora

I tell you what my little Dora,
You do cause my heart to sorrow,
Tell me now you little misses
What you do with all your kisses.

I see you get them by the dozen
From each aunt and little cousin,
Said she I do intend dear pa
To give them all to you and ma.

And not a single one I’ll miss,
But I will give you back each kiss,
And both of you will feel you’re blest
When I pay you interest.

You’ll better in my bank invest
And put my principle to test,
And you can dividend partake,
For my bank will never break.

Lines on the Death of a Farmer’s Wife

This good woman when in this life,
She was kind mother and good wife,
And managed her household with care,
She and her husband happy pair.

And her name it will long be praised
By the large family she has raised,
She laid up treasures in the skies,
And now enjoys the Heavenly prize.

She rose each morn with happy smile,
And ardent all the day did toil,
For work it to her had a charm,
And busy was each hand and arm.

Fighting for Home

A hawk while soaring on the wing,
O’er a tiny sparkling spring,
Beheld a sleek and beauteous mink,
Was enjoying a bath and drink.

And though the hawk was bent on slaughter
The mink was more at home on water,
And it is strange this curious quarrel
All occurred in a sunk barrel.

In the Township of Nissouri,
There the hawk it came to sorrow,
But it strove often for to sink,
In vain it strove to drown the mink,

But mink it did successful balk,
All the attacks were made by hawk,
The bird was drenched, it could not fly,
And ne’er again it soared on high.

Every Rose Hath Its Thorn

There was a maiden all forlorn,
She loved a youth, his name was Thorn,
But he was shy for to disclose
How he loved dear the sweet May Rose.

Lustre sweet it would give to Thorn,
If this fair flower