IT
r
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.
Chap. Copyright No.
SheM'.__..3-y'
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.
Pen Pictures
Transmitted Clairaudiently and Telepathicaily
BY-
ROBERT BURNS.
RECEIVED AND EDITED BY
niNA S. SEYMOUR.
WITH COMPLETE GLOSSARY,
LJlv Dale, N. F., 1900, I-
31"41
^
K
69653
Library of ConiTre^.s
1 wu Copies Received AUG 8 1900
Ccpyriphl entry
SECOND COPY. Delivered to
ORDER DIVISION, 5^FP 11 1900
Entered According to the Act of Congress in the 3'ear 1900, by
MINA S. SEYMOUR,
the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington, D. C.
CONTENTS
To The Psychical Research Society 9
To My True Lassie 10
To the Readers of Pen Pictures 12
To The Readers 16
Thanksgiving^ Day 1'^
Lines On a Tablet 26
As You Like 26
Lady Canada To [lucle Sam 27
A Fragment From a Letter 32
To My Lady..... 33
Epitaph 33
An Explanation 34
Rum's Appeal 35
Epitaph To O. S. V 37
The Lily Dale Skellum 38
To Nellie F R : 39
A Response 4-3
A Mithei's Cry 45
Soul Growth 48
The "Woman's Club" 49
A Monody To The Storm 52
A Scorch 54
. L o s h ! Hunter 55
To Carl 57
Birth Of Robert Burns 58
To My Leal Frien's 59
Mephistopheles At The Grave Of a Lawyer 61
To Judge J. B, Fisher 64
CONTENTS.
Pictures From Memory's Palace 65
A Quotation 72
On The Death Of Senator Justin Morrill 73
To Lily Dale 74
To J. W. Dennis 76
A Warning 77
A Chat With The Fire 78
The Peace Commissioners 80
To Col. Robert G. Ingersoll 81
Father Sniffle's Confession 85
The Latest Fad 97
To A. Gaston 98
To Lancelot 99
Quotation 99
To William McKinley 100
A Message 103
Fashionably Dressed 104
To D. B. Merritt 106
To Boss Piatt 107
To Judge Farnu m 109
Falconer J u nc tion 110
To Appolo Ill
To Maurene 112
April In Lily Dale 112
Burn's Cottage 113
To Col. Robert G. Ingersoll ..114
To Robert G. Ingersoll On The Lecture At Lily Dale.115
To J. R. Francis 117
A Comparison 120
To Senor Dc Lome 121
A Scrap From a Letter 125
Quotation : 125
The Soliloquy Of a Mouse 126
The Scotch Thistle 128
To Jennie Hagan Jackson 129
To Thankful Gaston 133
Malabecco 136
CONTENTS.
. V Q 11 a t r a i n 130
Kipling's Muse 137
Acrostic 139
To Senator Rawlins 140
To Jennie Hagan Jackson 143
Quotation From Robert Burns 144
England's Queen 145
Giving Thanks 156
Quotation From Robert Burns 157
Heigh Ho For a Husband! 158
Thc^Fourth Of July 159
A Thought Conception 160
Quotation From Robert Burns 160
To Moses Hull 161
My Robin 162
To Katie 166
How Things Have Changed 167
To Mrs. R. S. Lillie 171
To F. G. N n ; 172
To William McKinley 173
To a Rejected Lover 176
A Message To T. J.- Skidmore ..177
Spirit Kittie To Her Father T. J. Skidmore 179
Quotation From Robert Burns ISO
Loves' Letter 181
Quotation from Robert Burns 182
To Martha and Thomas 183
What my Lover Said 186
Quotation from Robert Burns 187
The Doctor's War 188
Epistle to Dr. Lake 191
Quotation from Robert Burns 192
Kittie to her Mother, Marion Skidmore 193
The Sdiool of the C. L. F. A 195
To the Gude Mother of the Camp 196
"The Brigs of Ayr" 198
Birthdav Greeting- to Marion Skidmore 199
CONTENTS.
Quotatiou from Robert Burns 201
Jamie's Soliloquy 202
Memorial to Angeline Pope 204'
Puir Auld Spain 205
Quotation from Robert Burns 208
To Mrs. Maria R L 209
Scotch Pot Pourri 211
To Frank L. Stanton 220
The Wench's Complaint 221
To Antonelli 224
The Money Bag Lord 225
Memorial to Maj. John A. Logan 229
Three Stars 230
Contentious People 233
Well Behaved Englishmen 236
Metempsj'chosis 237
To the Critics 239
To Mrs. H. S. Lake 241
Aguinaldo' s Esca pe 243
To Alexandria, Princess of Wales 244
A Thought... 247
To The Hon. Joseph Israel Tarte 250
To Joseph Rodes Buchanan 252
Lines in a Letter to Mrs. Elizabeth Buchanan 254
To Dr. Richard Hodgson, L. L. D 25G
To Willard J. Hull 257
"Brave Bill" Anthony 258
Lieutenant John Woodburn Osborne 260
What I Heard 261
To Gladys 265
To A. M. Barnum 266
To Fedora 268
To Angolina 269
Caldwell Park 271
A What-is-it 272
Quotation from Robert Burns 272
To Arms 273
CONTENTS.
To Hudson Tuttle 277
To Mattie Thompson 279
My Murdered Cat 280
I Am My Lady's Friend and Guide 282
The Last Words of an Insane Friend 284
Burns to His Ladye 286
To a Coof. 287
A Memorial 288
Up to Date 289
Cunning Greed 292
To Samuel F. Myers 293
Le Conseil Dc Guerre 294
From May to Flo 296
To a Materializing Medium 299
To Oleida 300
To J. W. Douglass 301
Quotation From Robert Burns 304
To T. W. Litchfield 305
A Conversazione 307
To Nannie Litchfield 311
The Lover's Riddle 313
To S. S. Washburn 315
Banker Shaw 316
To Ex-Governor Campbell 319
To Arthur 320
To A. B. Richmond 321
PEN PICTURES.
DEDICATED TO THE
Psychical ^egeapcli Society,
WITH THE COMPLIMENTS OF
Robert Burns.
Alice mair I cnm afore the warl,
A puzzle to a' mankin'; Nae muzzle can be pat on nie,
This, guid frien's, j^e will fin'. The preachers sent me d d to Hell,
The Deil I hypnotized; I stole the keys, an flew the coop,
Nick was, (I'm sure) surprised.
I've beat auld Death, I write as weel,
As mon3^ in Earth life; I'm taking notes the same auld way,
With fun my buke is rife. My satires are glove-fitting tests,
My cues an' turns 3'e'll min'; Rob Burns is "in it" a' the same,
Rob Burns, mj^ frien's, j-e'll fin'.
Yours Truh', Feb. 11, 1900. Robert Burns.
10 PEM PICTURES.
TO MY TRUE LASSIE.
N LETTERS of gold,
Shall thy name be told; Was said at thy birth By prophets of old. Sep. 1893. Robert Burns.
Slate writing with Maude Gillett.
TO MY FRIEN'S.
Spiritism is na new — nae,
Endlessness is Nature's law; The occult power is supreme,
Materialism may sneer an' caw, An' ca' the Muse a ghaist;
It matters na a whit! 'Tis but the sneer of Ignorance,
Truth is the butt of Jest an' Wit.
The man o' Sorrow seeks the truth,
Grief haunts him nicht an' day; The luved an' lost of yesterday,
"My luved ones — where are the3'?" The ootside w^arl ye set aside,
Spiritism gies clairvoyant sicht; An' whan ye see, wi' your ain een,
Ye ken then, wrang frae richt.
Truth mak's ye bold, 3'e will affirm,
Blessed wi' a spiritual sight; Through your soul's sensitiveness,
PEN PICTURES. 11
Ye'll follow the raid o' Kii;lil.. Ye'll spcik to Ihc wanderer on tlie left,
Gie liini a helpin' lian'; Transition gies her pass to all,
We meet in spirit Ian'.
The man wha proves to be a man.
Is then, but half a man; Celestial agencies with mj^stic power,
Arrogate, subdue, and plan. An' whether good or whether bad.
On us depends not, alone; The man made soul. Aspiration's child,
Ma\' seek for jewels to deck his throne.
The quintessence of spirit life —
The unfoldment lies within; The affinitizing of like to like,
With birth will sure begin. And with the unco birth, Destiny,
Gies a sharp command; Into the whirlpool of Fate,
Aye — are we blessed or damned?
The Oriental Yougec,
The Adept in Catholic m\'stery; Plato, Appolonius, P3'^thagorus,
Wallace, Bruce, Dante, men of history. Washington, La Fa3'ette, Paine,
Lincoln, Gladstone, the warlock Edison, a_Ye! Passive instruments of unseen powers,
Frien's, ye'll understand it b^^ an' bye.
R. R.
12 PEN PICTURES.
TO THE READERS OF PEN PICTURES.
NEED nae introduction,
Yc ken mc vera well; M}^ aulcl bcuk gies mv histor^v,
Mair 1 end na tell. Ye all ken wccl, thc\^ ca'd ine deid,
The kirk sent me to h 1;
But I gied auld Nickie Ben the slip,
I pat oil the cat a bell.
By nature, I was Freedom's chiel,
I cud na be shut up; I rather dine with a decent t\dve,
Than, with a pompous laird to sup. Sac — whan I cam owre on this side,
I fand m^'sel, the same; 1 cud na see much difference,
In manner, form or name.
Just where we stop, there we begin,
Our nature is the same; The jail-bird, lawyer, saunt,
Or the man wha's crouned b\' Fame. We start the loom in spirit life.
With the same kin' o' thread we spun; As fish to the water, 1)irds to the air —
Sae the lines of life will run.
The musician cums back to music. The artist, his kin' will fin';
PEN PICTURES. 13
That's why, I maun %vrite Hke myscl,
I maiiii follow, close to my line. Sac mony ask my Lady,
"Why does he this or that?" I maun be true to m^- ain sel,
Or the writin' wad fa' flat.
Their ain queer style, has ilka ane.
We ken them by what they say; Bj^ron, Sappho, Shelle3^, Burns,
Wrote in their ain guid wa\'. Oar method, manner, expression.
To those, we hand firm an' true. Gin we did na do this, frien's,
We cud na convince you.
I'm Robert Burns, that's what I am,
Alive and real as you; The kirks are catch in' on, ha! ha!
Spiritism, the3^ fin' is true. They're crawlin' oot o' their shells, frien's,
The Orthodox ring is too tight; They are bucklin' on the armor,
They'll join us in the fight.
They fin' they're muckle ahint the times,
A way-back sune they'll be; Oot o' the darkness into the licht.
They'll march wi' the men that arc free. A hunder years has gar't a change,
A change I'm glad to see; I — a martyr to Freedom's cause,
Wi' me frien's, 3^e will 'gree.
I've been writin' an writin', twal lang years,
Owre a nom de plume, I wrote; For this an' that an' the ither,
Mysel oft times I'd quote.
14 PEN PICTURES.
My thochts went oot to the pitir man,
I gied him a ward o' cheer; An' aften I'd hear some caddie say,
"That sounds like Burns, 'tis queer!"
Richt here, frien's, ane thing I will say,
Reincarnated — I never was! That, is a supposed effect,
That never had a cause. The auld Hindoo, caught up that thocht.
In the way back of aulden time; A.n' they've brocht it frac past ages,
Penned in prose an' rh^'me.
Those wha sa}^, they can remember,
Of different lives they've lived; Are hypnotized into that thoclit.
Self mesmerized an' deceived. The brain is stultified an' weak,
Their equipoise, lost by the strain; An' Pandemonium will hand the fort.
Disorder's confusion will reign.
The ps3'chlc, is a reallt}-.
It's a wean frae Nature's womb; An' the shuttle o' life, by Nature's dame's wound,
Nature guards weel her loom. An' the wee bit ps3'chic's led on an' on.
Thro' paths that are rough an' hard. Nursed in the lap of Poverty,
Sic was the Scottish Bard.
Losh! all psychics are na' reliable. They fly, afore they can flutter.
There is where the fraud cums in. An' the growlin' folk mutter.
Fraud wi' horns, hoof, swishin' tail, Gold, those psychics need.
PEN PICTURES. 15
An' the sucklings of the psychic band, Use Fraud to fatten Greed.
The newspapers are fu' o' ads,
Vampires in the pS3^chic mart; "Madam Hypocracy, Clairvoyant, Psychome- trist, Business Medium,
Six questions answered one dollar," nae
worth a ( )
Time, paper, stamp, dollar lost, grit gude!
A fraud of the rankest type; Hunt this ps^-chic, an j^e'll fin'
A hypocritical snipe.
The chaff ye maun blaw oot frien's.
The black sheep pat away; Ye maun protect Honesty,
The greedy wolf j^e maun slay. Truth an' Duty bid ye stan'
Firm as the rock o' ages; Martyrs in the cause o' Truth,
Wise as 3'e aulden Sages.
My Pen Pictures, I gie the warl,
My satires, ye'll fin' red-het; Of a fae, I'm nae afraid, man.
He'll feel my ged, ye bet. Here an' there 3'e'll fin' common sense,
Truth, Charit3^ Luve an' a'; An' dinna forget whan ye cum our wa}^,
To gie us ei frien'l^ ca'.
KouERT Burns,
1(3 PEN PICTURES.
TO THE READERS.
OURS truly! here am I, losli!
I feel like saying "Gee whiz!" I am the rcsurreetion, yea! All the reincarnation there is. On this side a hunder years,
Christ has not come as yet; Arisen, as frae the deid am I, I've won the gree, "you bet."
It's a beautiful kintra owre here,
Na hghting as wi' 3'e; The Jamesons, Chamberlains, Hannas,
Frae the like o' these, we're free, The cut-throat gang, the murderers.
Like those are in the church; Civilized Christians, Gude's haley men,
Freedom's flag will smirch.
The beast-like spirits from Earth-land,
Cling to the kin' they are; Undeveloped, restless, disturbing.
Peace and Rest they mar. Sad, unfortunate, lamentable.
Evolution is slow but sure; It will take cycles and cycles of time,
To evolute the cure. Tanwar 31, 1900. Robert Burns.
W. M. LOCKWOOD.
THANKSGIVING DAY.
T MY window I am sitting,
It is Thanksgiving morn; ^'The sky is gray and heavy,
All nature seems forlorn. The snow clouds, dark and dreary.
The Sun declines to shine; He is sullen, ay, he is moody—
Is not of the Benedick kin'.
Like all his kind, unmated.
Unbalanced he seems to be; Extremes play to Fancy and Pleasure,
His freaks are not pleasant to me. I like him best when he's smilinsr.
The warmth in his sunny ray, Gives cheerfulness new vigor;
I'd wish him to shine every day.
To day he is sullen and gloomy-.
He's in a fit of the blues; Has some one sent him a letter,
Filled with Misfortune's news? My soul is full of forebodings,
The Horribles came in the night; I think I must have been dreaming,
I woke in a terrible fright.
It must have been a vision!
What i.i ^ yigion? who knows?
IS PEN PICTURES.
As a lightning flash you sense it, Then — presto! ha! it goes!
What is it gives me the warning? Who tells me trouble is near?
Who shows me the letter that's coming? Future events I see clear.
Am I a Zelda or Hayshow?
Have I the gift of a Seer? Or — is it the work of a Geni?
In the night voices I hear. Like the Sun, I am cloudy this morning,
In a shadow I seem to be; Trouble pf a serious nature.
Is coming — coming to me.
Nature is sad and forsaken,
She wears a sorrowful look; The trees, not a leaf on their branches,
They, fiercelj^ the autumn wind shool; The feathery snow flakes, gently fall.
Who sang of the beautiful snow? The snow that covers the dasies.
And the pansies all in blow.
The bells are chiming — chiming.
The bells ring clear and loud; They are calhng the people together,
The rich, the poor and the proud. The wife from the poor man's hovel,
The aristocratic dames of renown. Thanksgiving bells ring to all classes.
Come all ye good people in town.
The President sent out his message, 'Twas a sort of divine decree;
An edict, sent to his subjects. To all in the land of the free.
PEN PICTURES. 19
He said: — "Give thanks ye people,
For the blessing from God 3^ou receive;
Give thanks to the great Creator, In whom we all believe."
Give thanks, to Moses' man-made God,
That the rich man has plent^^ in store; That his millions are stacked in gold bonds,
That he's always grasping for more. Thank God that the tramps on the street,
Are begging for crumbs from his table; But the rich man's servant replies,
My master is not able.
Thank God for the man made law,
That puts the beggar in jail! Thank God he's a right to starve!
He fears auld justice's flail. Thank God, he can tell his story,
To the bitter, biting wind! That will listen, an' moan an' moan!
And it's wolf-like teeth, grind!
Thank God! that the poor w^andering waif,
Who sings for a penuA' a song; Is asking herself to-day,
"Is'nt there something wrong; That I should be hungry and cold.
Out in the streets, in the storm; While the banker's daughters are clad.
In velvets and furs so, warm?"
Thank God for the vultures called men, Who make virtue the price of bread!
Whose seductive and treacherous ways, Make women wish they w^ere dead!
Thank God, for whisky and rum, For the dives and gambling dens!
20 PEN PICTURES.
Give thanks for the wisdom of things, Give thanks •— give thanks, ye men!
Give thanks, to Christ the Savior,
That water He turned into wine! Give thanks, to God and Moses!
They worshipped war's bloody shrine! Give thanks for kings, give thanks for queens,
They steal the poor man's gold; Give thanks for death and taxes.
By Nature and Law you are sold.
Give thanks for the Holy Bible,
Written by Fiction's men; Thanks for the Zend Avesta,
Which-it-to- which, ye ken. Give thanks for the Koran an Vedas,
The Talmud — please take your rather, — And when you have simmered them down,
Please tell me who's the Great Father.
Give thanks for the holy preacher.
Give thanks! give thanks! give thanks! Religion must have a wise teacher,
Give thanks! give thanks! give thanks! Like a slave, 3'ou work while he's reading,
Give thanks! give thanks! give thanks! His children and wife you are feeding,
For favors like this, oh! give thanks!
On Sunday he gives you a fable.
Give thanks! give thanks! give thanks! He'll tell you about Christ in the stable.
Give thanks! give thanks! give thanks! He's paid for doing your thinking.
Give thanks! give thanks! give thanks! While you are sleeping and blinking.
He tells you of Moses' queer pranks.
PEN PICTURES. 21
Give thankvS for the Godly confessional, Chime ye O Bells! give thanks!
The priests ye ken are professional, Kling-a-lang-ling, give thanks.
Give thanks, the priests are all honest, Ring the glad tidings, give thanks!
But watch well your daughters sac modest- God bless the auld priests and the monks.
They'll seduce your daughters and wives,
They are sly as a pawky auld fox; Sae cunningly the priests contrives,
A lure to the confessional box. Immaculate is the conception,
Give thanks, give thanks for that; The priest always gives them protection,
The husband does father the brat.
Give thanks, O ye holy mothers,
That God left you out in the cold! Give thanks, give thanks to the Creator,
That into bondage women were sold. Polygamy is a law in the Bible,
Gives thanks, give thanks for that; To the God inspired Bible,
Give thanks that the Earth is flat.
Give thanks, oh! ye women of learning,
That you are the equal of man; Go back to the world's beginning,
You'll find it so fixed in God's plan. Be thankful, be thankful, 0 mothers!
That you own the child at your breast, Sleep well, your beautiful darlings.
The Law from you cannot wrest.
Thank God for a Westchester Home!
For that brutal James Pierce, thank God!
22 PEN PICTURES.
Thank God for Elmira's Home of Reform!
Chime ye O bells, thank God! Thank God for a Brockway! thank God!
(He'd pat the deil to shame.) Thank God for a gove'nor, an' the men wha rule,
New York mann be proud o' her name.
Thank God! oh! ye wee braw bairns,
In a bed o' pollution conceived! Thank God! you're an unwelcome wean.
In that ye are not deceived. Thank God! that into Hell's pit.
Ye are dragged bj^ auld justice's paw
Thank God! thank God! in the sweet by and bye, Ye'll rest in the graff's dark maw.
Gie thanks for the Buhs an' th' Bears,
Wha rair an' scratch an' claw; Mak' gowd an' siller hard to get,
Sic' times nane ever saw. Gie thanks for the trusts an' monopoHes,
The mone3'-bag laird an' a'; The Standard Oil wi' its crushin' mill.
Grit Gude! cover wi' a pall!
Give thanks to God for the cholera.
Twill cramp you they say into fits; Thank God! it will puzzle the doctors,
Ayont the extent o' their wits. Thank God; by this plague ye'll expire;
Resign gracefully to its sweet will; Called by the will of Providence.
God's right it is to kill.
Give thanks for the glorious stmshine. That's hid neath the cloud this morn,
Give thanks for the blight to the wheat crop, Give thanks that the frost killed the corn,
PEN i^IC^TURES. 2S
The bugs have eaten the potatoes,
The drouth came to burn up the grass;
Give thanks for all these great favors, Rejoice, and chant ye high mass!
The earthquake has swallowed a city,
Thousands of people are dead; And those w^ho escaped from the ruin.
Are hungry and begging for bread. Homeless, sad, and forsaken,
A mother with a child at her breast; Raises her face to Heaven,
And asks for a place to rest.
The God of the storm is angry.
Tragedy rides on the sea; The lightnings flash in the heavens,
The thunder-cloud frightens me. The winds are howling and screeching,
Like demons in frenzied glee; The sky is black as midnight,
Na licht frae a star can I see.
Hark! 'tis the crashing of timbers!
Two vessels have met on the sea; "Ye Gudes!" cries the captain "we're dune for!
*Tis a watery graff for me." This is Thanksgiving morning.
The dawn wall soon appear; The sea has swallowed its victims,
Who can tell when Death hovers near?
Now I am out on the prairie,
Out in the far, far w^est; The place wdiere poor people migrate,
This is the land of the blest. But the God of the storm has followed,
Mercy was never his name;
24 PEN PICTURES.
Out here, they call him the blizzard, By death, he wins his fame.
Now I go South for a moment.
A vision, this surely must be; A plague, ye gods! I have struck it!
Dead bodies by hundreds I see. The brains of live men are maddened,
Their wives and children are dead; Hungry, homeless, and forsaken.
Turned out in the woods without bread.
Once more I go out on my travels,
(Man's God rules the land and the sea.) This time, 'tis a railroad disaster!
Pray tell me why was this to be? Mothers and children mangled,
I hear them shriek and groan! See the flames leap high — and higher!
Can God see this from his throne?
The God who is all power, —
The God who made Earth and sea; — He who noteth the fall of the sparrow,
Is there such a God? can it be? If so, why this chaotic condition?
Why not rule with a loving hand? Why not make Earth a Heaven?
Why is it? I can't understand.
All this, I saw with my field-glass.
As out of my window I gazed; And the sights that met my vision,
Filled me with fright, — I am dazed! My brain is dizzy with seeing,
Dante's hell, met my view! My rose-colored glasses — I've lost them!
Nocht can I see that's nae blue.
PEN PiCTuiRES. 25
And now, I am back in my chamber,
The postman has rapped at my door; A letter! I know well the writing,
Is there joy or trouble in store? I liavc broken the seal, am reading-,
My God! tis mj^ boy, my loved child! Sick, yea sick! may be dying,
I can bear no more! oh! I'm wild!
Far — far away among strangers.
He'll miss a mother's caress; If I were a bird I'd fly to him,
My lips to his I would press! Ah! — no! I am bound, I am fettered!
By conditions I cannot break! Oh! that I were the Almighty,
Just for humanity's sake!
Oh! I am lost!— I've forgotten,
I've been wandering here and there; To the North and South and mid ocean.
I've had a glimpse of most evcr\'where. My brain is throbbing wildly.
My soul is crushed with this blow; My boy is sick, may be dying.
He is wishing for mother I know.
O yes! let me think— I am lost again —
This is Thanksgiving daj^; But what have I to give thanks for?
Nothing! I'm sure you will say. The scenes of life that I've witnessed.
Contain no blessings I'm sure, I'll wipe the tears that are falling.
An' harden my soul to endure. But nae thanks will I send the Almighty,
For it's suffering I have received;
^6 PEN PICTURES.
Ah! no! there's no cause for thanksgiving, In this I am not deceived.
LINES ON A TABLET,
Received at Campbell's Seance.
My trusty friend, i come tonight,
To let you know I'm near you; And tho' I am not here in flesh.
My spirit ears can hear you. For life you know ends not in death.
And you from me will hear more; For still I come, and men through you,
Shall still both hear, and See More.
R.
AS YOU LIKE.
Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.
Be true to me, and I'll be true to thee; Gif frae your luve ^-e'd nac hae me wander.
Be true to me an' I'll be true to ye. Gin ye gae strayin' for a goddess' luve,
Thro' the law, suggestion, I may rove; Amid ambrosial bowers with some fair god.
Fate will say to ye: — "Pass under my rod." Sauce for the goose, is sauce for the gander,
Be true to me, and I'll be true to thee; Gin frae your luve, ye'd nac hae me wander,
Be true to me and I'll be true to ye.
PEN PICTURES. 2?
LADY CANADA TO UNCLE SAM.
"If the Venezuela trouble Ijetween England, and the United States, termmates in war, Canada will then unite with Uncle Sam."
U. S. Senator, 1895 E need na kneel to nie dear sir,
I care na boo yc feel; Your luve is noclit to mc, auld man,
Y^e need na to me kneel. Stand on your legs an' be a man.
Turn your best lug to me, There's muckle for ye to bear man. There's muckle for ye to see.
Britannia rules the sea, man,
An' 3^e can rule your roost; Ye better drap it clown a bit^
Ask na' the Queen to boost. Grit Gude! ye'vc tint your pride, man.
Beggin roun' the warl. Your foreign britliers think ye daft,
A fashous auld carl.
Ye'rc gaun too fast, muckle too fast,
Ye better pat on the brak'; Gif, this unchancy gait, ye take,
A blunder, man, ye'll mak'. You point your finger at oor Queen
The taxes wc hac to raise;
28 PEN PiCtURES.
She borrows nae sae muckle as ye, The Deil ye wad amaze.
Yc are matirnin' for your dochters,
That hae crossed the dark blue sea; Ye're maurnin' for the braw lassies,
Ye swear ye'll nae forgie. Britania's hunters bag the game,
They feather their ain nest; Ye swat aroun', ye're near gaen wud,
Ye ken, they'll be weel dressed. *
Britannia's sons ain titles, man.
Royalty gies them a name; The laird, the sir, the duke, the prince,
This means blae-bluid an' fame. They may hae sprung frae thieves an' knaves,
Licentious rakes an' a; The sheeny titles, co'ers the mirk.
Whan on your weans they ca'.
Sax millions buys a count or duke,
Thretty-thousand a plackless prince; A muckle less sum an earl or sir,
Losh! Sam, I see ye wince. Britannia's sons scent weel the game,
The fever ye hae caught; Ye needna cross the falls for me.
Your trip wad be for nocht.
I'm noo weel shot o' ye auld man,
Abeigh I'll surely keep; There is nae room for twa ye ken,
In your nest ]'ll na sleep. Your hoose is full o' thieving ghaists,
Whigmigmorum — I'm tired o' that;
* Plucked.
PEN PICTURES. 29
Lo'e ye iieedna mak' to me, nae! Luve is Misfortune's brat.
A tocher, with me ye'll nae get, man,
Ye're noted for greed an' gall; Auld Scotland's laddies are my ain kin',
Oor kintra isna sma'. The laddies watch me weel, auld man.
An' this is what thej^ say; Ye've a pack of skellums in 3'our Ian',
The Deil's ain tricks they play.
Tapsalteerie is your business,
Heels-o'er-gowdy, that I see; Your bureaus need a cleaning oot,
There's roun' them skyrin' mair than thee. Ye'll fin' rats an' mice a priggin roon,
An' pole-cats here and there; A sort o' menagarie, ye hae,
Wi' your noted "Bull an' Bear."
Sauce for goose, is sauce, for gander.
Britannia has gien ye the cue; This spendin' mair than 3'e can earn.
Is a disgrace to her an' you. The splendor at the capitols,
The expense o' thae twa nations; Means taxes to the puir man,
Tae the weans, starvation's rations.
The mighty Queen Britannia,
Her coronet is gold; Her jeweled scepter rules the Ian',
'J'he story's vera old. Ireland in bondage! —
Japan! — "A pirate sure is she;" China, Turkey, Egypt, India,
Wi' Japan ye maun agree.
30 PEN PICTURES.
Auld England's wing spreads o'er my Ian',
She's mither, I'm the wean: To mither's apron string I'm tied,
To all that's plainl3^ seen. But, gin I brak' the binding tie,-.
Freedom will suit me weel; I'll represent the "New Woman,"
Be Queen o' my ain shiel.
I've been watching weel 3^our kintra.
Dry-rot has struck the heid; Ay — your doctor is a way-back,
He caused her to be bled. Sam, bleeding seems to be your game.
Her veins are nearly dry; Ye better stap that business, man.
Gin 3^e wadna hae her die.
Your pension bureau — grit gude! Sam.
The South has reason to howl; Your iieebors arc making fjices.
An' the foreign folk do scowl. The like of it was never seen,
Damnation the rottenness covers; Across Niagara comes the stench,
Attled eggs the eagle hovers.
Gin the South was North, an' the North was South,
I'd open wide my door; I'd lend the Lady South my broom.
To sweep the Senate floor. I'd sen' across Niagara,
A bar of soap, — a pail, I'd gic that lousy bird * a bath,
I'd scrub it frae heid to 'tail.
Eagle.
PEN PICTURES. 31
The goddess lungs her Iieid \vi' shame,
Whan she reads the mornin' news; The erimes against criminals,
'Twad gie the Deil the bines. Frae Georgia cums the black-black tale,
Frae Elniira cums the same; Losh! yours the Ian' o' Freedom?
''Gude bless our bame.'"
I'd visit congress with a ged,
I'd pat my fit on bills; I'd gie that Hoose o' Congress,
A muckle dose of pills. An' then a Strang emetic,
I'd clean that hoose for once, An' gin I did na do it weel, Ye micht ca' me a dunce.
The Cabinet! trowth! what wad I do?
To the inevitable they kneel; The last admenistration,
Wanchancee was its deal. A financial hell they left ahint,
Waur they cud na hae dune; The wise folk o' the wast an' south,
Are lading Polly Ticks' gun.
I've had mv weather ce weel oot,
I am nae blin', ye '11 see; I'll butter my ain toast, Sam,
I ken what's guid for me. Ye better mend your breeks, Sam,
An pit new packets in; The wa\^ ye plant your gold, Sam,
I think it is a sin.
I winna burn my fingers, Sam, By bucklin' oop wi' ye;
32 PEN PICTURES.
I'll keep shot o' that business,
Ye'll nae be foolin' me. Marriage is oot o' fashion, Sam,
I'll tak' courtin', flirtin' an' a', In your sta' I'll nae be tied, I'll nae min' your beck an' ca'.
Nov. 1896.
To the Hon Wilfred Laurier, Leader of the Canadian Liberals.
Roberts Burns.
A FRAGMENT FROM A LETTER.
Oh Lad\^ fair! I can but smile.
You are Emotion's child; Were I to 3'ield the power to thee,
A mad cap j^e'd rin wiUl. I fear ye wad turn Yivean,
Like Merlin I'd be sold; Losh! Lad3'e, the story is na new,
I'll profit 1d3^ the fools of old.
A woman's witching smile goes far.
Her eyes of luve ye ken, Are charms that blind the best of us,
And make fools of wise men. Somehow, our fort, we maun hand.
So I'll na confess the charm; I fear ye'd twist the necks of some,
My secret wad bring ye harm.
PEN PICTURES. 33
TO MY LADY.
To Keeler's gae, i' the mornin',
Yotir request I quick will grant; The evidence asked for,
Ye never mair will want. A message on the slates ye'll get,
Scotch rhymes Rob Burns will gie; A wee bit braw, luve letter,
Lady, ye'll get frae me.
Min' na the elishmaclaver.
Or the doubting skeptic, nae; I'll tak' ye to dear auld Scotland,
To my kintra ye will gae. We'll leave the sullen dames ahint.
They'll dit their mouths, they will; I'll sen' their way a lyddite shell,
The hizzies will get their fill.
EPITAPH.
To ex-Judgc H — n.
Here lies a Christian disciple, The sexton planted him deep; He's few maurners' niang the people I wot he's down to keep.
34 PEN PICTURES.
AN EXPLANATION.
'Tis mair than twenty years ago,
I fand my Lady fair; Posited in the hoose o' Trouble,
Burdened with grief an' care, I was travehng 'roun' the Kintra,
Wi' Will Carleton, an' his Golden Calf, We stopped at the hoose o' Seymour,
My Leddy was the better half.
Seymour — See More, I did see more.
Spirits can catch the cue; I stole my Lady, fair an' square.
All's fair in luve, 'tis true. Spirits can hypnotize the brain,
Ye'll niin' their beck an' ca'; Afore sax months had passed, friends,
I had lassie, wean an' a'.
Alake! alake! hie mettled, yea!
She tried to fly my trap; She stormed the castle mony times,
I got a pointed slap. Scotch, she didna like ava,
Plain English suits her well; She wished me back in the het place,
Whare a' such skellums dwell.
An episode in hie life, this,
'Tis all the fashion, ye 'ken;
PEN PICTURES. 35
I fell iu lo'e with the laddie's wife, It's a common event, my frien'.
Ye gudes! I hae to watch her weel. She's in the mart, ye see;
Twa-three an' mair hae failed, 3-e ken. All on account o' me.
Rob Burns.
RUM'S APPEAL.
;^OME, all ye voters in the land. True of heart and firm of hand; Once more I call on all, to stand For Rum; join ye in one strong band, And vote for me, vote for me.
Come, all ye gay, and rich, and proud, I dig the grave, I make the shroud,— Come old and young, and lame and blind, Demented though 3-0U are in mind. Just come and vote for me.
Rum and license, 3^011 will see, Go hand in hand with liberty; In senate halls you'll hear my name, Through Uncle Sam we gained our fame. So come and vote for me.
I sit upon the hotel bar, You'll find me there from da^' to da^^: I'm the enticer of the young, I coax them in with watty tongue; Come vote for me, I pray.
36 PEN PICTURES.
The Rum-fiend calls for votes again, Just walk up, fathers, like good men; Just vote for license, and you'll sec. Your boys as drunk as they can be, If you will vote for me.
Well filled my pockets long have been, To empty them would be a sin; The gold that jingles on the bar, Will down my pockets slip so far. If you will vote for me.
I never see a mother's tears! I never feel a sister's fears! I care not for the wife's pale face! I care not for the son's disgrace! So, fathers, vote for me.
A Bacchanalian feast old Rum Will give, if you again will come And vote for me; the dive and den, I'll furnish them with royal men, If 3^ou will vote for me.
I'll strip your boys of all their gold, Their souls to Bacchus shall be sold; And when they're drunk as drunk can be, I'll send them home, and you can see, 'Twas good to vote for me.
I'll spill upon the streets strong rum, And when they smell it, they will come; As rats do fall into a trap, **And all that, and all that," If 3'ou will vote for me.
The bravest boys I'll gather in. To me 'twill be no crime or sin;
PEN PICTURES. 87
The fair-liaircd lads, with eyes of blue, The bright, brave lads to you so true. If you will vote for me.
Then, when I've crazed their brains with Rum, M\^ work will not be then half done; I'll make them lie, I'll make them steal. Dishonestly with friends vshall deal. If you will vote for me.
I'll fdl their mouths with curses hot, I'll make them slaves, I care not Though they see the vilest thing; Snakes, beasts before their eyes I'll bring, If you will vote for me.
And when the brain is maddened thus. And flames of Rum are burning hot; I'll make them murder their best friend. Ha! ha! oh, this shall be their lot! If you will vote for me.
The law will punish for the crime. To me 'twill be a scene sublime; I'll hang them to the halter's end. To Hell's celestial home I'll send
Your fathers, brothers, sons,
If vou will vote for me.
EPITAPH.
To O. S. V.
Trowtli! oot o' naething, God make man,
Ye're a fine example; Disgusted he was wi' the plan.
Here lies a touzie sample.
38 PEN PICTURES.
THE LILY DALE SKELLUM.
Prominently prominent,
Conspicuously conspicuous, Cunninglj^ cunning. Sae vera smart ye think your sel', Hoo smart the Deil cud hardly tell; In 1895 I see. The biggest gun o' a', thocht ye.
ATHERED ye oop, Wheeler's scandals, Filed in line with all the vandals; To the P— T— , this symposium sent. To help the run-deils, your intent.
Your clishmaclaver was loud and Strang, Aboot frauds, and ilka thing sae wrang;
Presto! change! Wheeler turned on you.
Inside oot ye went, 'tis true.
Like a bleezing bull, ye bellowed too quick. The tables turned, (a psychic trick); «
An' ye with the frauds were weel pat in, The slush o' ( ) she thocht a sin.
Madam Wheeler — nerve had she, Her cat-o-nine-tail, played roun' ye;
Losh! wi' the frauds, ye were pat in, Black as the Deil an' fu' o' sin.
PEN PICTURES. 39
All simmer lang ye've nosed about,
A grunter, with a lang snout;
Into ithers business, ye poked your nose, As swine of the camp ye seem to pose.
Do Immorality's maggots your pen infest? I wonner gif Morality is in your nest!
Ye dinna mind the ring of the bell.
What of the story? maun I tell?
Aboot the husband across the sea, That wasna deid, but sure did lee;
Where was the fraud? whagar't the plan?
Was it a woman, or was it a man?
O, man! that fraud was the warst o' all. In California the bull did bawl;
What of ''your character!" have ye forgot?
I sen' ye this a for-get-me-not.
October, 1899.
TO NELL F R.
5^ H! Nellie wi' the dark-brown cen. Fie! Nell ye didna dream 1 ween; That sae hard a task ye'd gat, That ye fished for eels, an' that;
Hech! they wiggle in your pan.
Figure it the best ye can.
Your sweet influence, yc did think, Wad save man frac Ruin's brink; Whan he was druckcn, ye wad gac, Bauldly face the public sac;
40 PEN PICTURES.
Shame-faced ye ne'er seemed to be, Modesty was nae part o' ye.
Ye didna care what ithers said, Ah! 'twas plain ye were ill-bred; Laigh down, in the seale of life. She wha craves the drucken strife, An' to Ruin does play the wife, Her days with pleasure arena rife.
Ye hae reached the hie oop goal. An' tint your name, aye tint your saul; Noo sip the sweets o' Rum's fell caup. Bid your frien's cum in an' sup; That they may see the ither side, O' the hame whare ye play bride.
Ila! the Dcil does laugli at yc.
Sic queer sichts he aft docs see;
But his heart isna sac hard.
That he wadna aften guard
Ye, frac Rum's curse, that cums sac aft,
He wad pat ye wi' han saft,
Losh! he thinks Tom Noddy's fool, Maun sing sangs o' saddest dool; Luvin' angels frae above. Cum to ye wi' wards o' luvc. Pity weeps whan ye dae weep, An' they guard ye while ye sleep.
Mercy to her breast wad clasp, — Save ye frae the wards that rasp; Ah! 'twas all unkenn'd to ye. Ye were blin', ye covi'dna see; Aye, ye said ye wad convert, The manhood spark that was inert.
PEN PICTURES. 41
Passion fed the flame awhile, He did catch ye with his wile; Alony Nell, have felt that power; Spent with him a pleasant hour; Under that magnetic spell, Thinkin' a' was richt an' well.
Ye a victim fell at last, In the mesh caught sac fast; Clankin' chains are on th^^ han's. On your lim's are airn ban's; Ba' an chain ye drag alang, But in that, there isna wrang.
In the yoke ye pat your neck,
Afttimes noo your heid ye geek;
Whan auld rum's fell ged ye feel,
But I say 'tis weel — 'tis week
Gin your fingers 3^e did burn,
By experience ye did learn.
What ithers learned lang years ago.
By your smartness ye sail know,
Mair than ye did ken afore,
Tho' it wreck your heart sac sore.
Yea! a sad lesson ye maun learn. Fate's gien ye a breezy turn; Ye did say, gin he'd a hame. That was worths o' the name. He wad stay within the nest. In his hame at nieht and rest. But — Ah! Nellie, fair an' meik, He does leave ye a' the week; To feed the hens and milk the kye, While he is aff upon a "sly."
Oh! sweet Nell, ye noo dae see. What ithers prophesied for ye;
42 PEN PICTURES.
Ah! then ye wadiia them believe, Hypnotism did ye deceive. Ye did think 'twas luve ye saw, But sae weel, sae weel I knaw, 'Twas the Deil ahint the scene, Horns, hoofs, swishing tail, I ween, Tall — lank — lean, haughty in niein, Rum's black ghaist ye noo hae seen.
Oh! your pride will hand ye firm, Tho' the fires o' hell do burn; For in spite o' friens ye went, May the gudes sen' ye content. Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose. The play is noo past all remeade, Fate bids ye stick 'till ye are deid. Like Maggie Lauder ye're kenned well, I smile to think o't, puir daft Nell.
A sonsie lad ye left ahint,
But your loss he didna mint;
In the pit ye pat your feet.
Your ain dear sel' fair Nell ye beat.
Ye hae fand his temper hot,
Aft ye burn in his het pot,
But ye're welcoiue to your fun,
Minnie Rifle is the gun;
Minnie Rifle hits the mark,
Deil, man, quean, bum-clock, lark.
Listen Nell, I'll tell ye mair, Tho' your heart be sad and sair; He a slave for wark did need. Ye will earn your claes an' feed. Slave yc arc, an' slave ye'll be, 'Till by death yc are set free;
PEN PICTURES. 43
Worn and faded, afttimes blue,
This is what fate's gien to you.
I canna maunna, winna say,
That for your weal I ever pra3^
Kin' pity says ye're mesmerized,
And possibly affinitized.
For a' tilings find a level true,
The law, sweet Nell, applies to you;
A kintra lassie sold for life,
A drudge, slave, which — quean or wife?
A RESPONSE.
CHI EL'S amang ye takin' notes,
Frien's, I heard your welcom' ca'; Aboon the eluds I wasna, I listened to the wards o' a'.
A poem frae Robert Burns ye asked, In The Sunflower it maun gae;
Aye, that is the winged messenger, That will reaeh ye miles away.
Miles away, miles away — frien's,
Mony hunder miles 'twill gae; Ayont the sea to Scotland,
Through mony a hamlet stray. Owre the burnie, cross the brae,
The laddies are waitin' for thee; Messenger of the gowden sinn,
Will ye bear Luve's message for me?
In the lowlan', thro' the hielan', O SunBower! my message bear;
I still luve dear auld Scotland, Her troubles I'll ever share.
The thrissle an' the shamrock,
44 PEN PICTURES.
A trinity with the rose; But the rose is queen of a' the Ian', As ilka Scotchman knows.
But — a man's a man for a' that,
Whan the Queen's deid that ye'U see; What's richt for the Prince o' Wales today.
Was wrang ye ken for me. With a cat - o -nine, me, they scotched, —
Murdered by the gossip's tongue; Crushed 'neath the critic's juggernaut,
Wi' grief my saul was wrung.
Stung to the quick — I, a sensitive, A psychic, as ye call it now;
1 was scorched in the fires of Destinj^, It was to be, I trow.
0 Gude! cremated in Freedom's name,
I wrote with a pen of fire. Inspiration cam' to me,
Frae the grit celestial choir.
1 am warkin' noo for Libert^^,
My wark will never end; I bear the torch Progression,
Luve's message I aften send. Atwecn the warlds of here an' there,
Luve messengers are we; Sappho, Byron, Shelley,
The poet's trinity.
Ye'll ken us, aye, some day frien's, Ye'll view us in the licht o' truth;
With pleasure, my rhymes will be read, By auld age and fair haired youtli.
We hae na time to squander, On those wha winna 'ken;
PEN PICTURES. 45
Thegitlier wc wark harmoniously, For better conditions of men.
Yea — man an' woman, side by side,
Equal richts, our motto for a; Oot o' the mirk of ignorance,
The bonnie bairns we ca'. The wee bit wean, nae wanted he.
Conceived in hell, I ween; Nursed at the breast of Discontent,
This is aften seen.
The laws of generation,
O study them with care; An' drap the seeds of Wisdom,
In soil whare they will bear. Tear oop the weeds an' till the grun',
In the garden of the saul; Wearing Luve's flowers of harmony,
Ye'U reach the sheeny goal.
October, 1899.
A MITHER'S CRY.
H Jamie dear! Oh Jamie dear! Tae Scotland I maun gac; I'm i' this kintra noo too lang, "The Ian' o' th' free," they say. 1 liae been readin' Jamie dear, Aboot Daniel Long, ye ken, That puir dear wean, in that bad place 0 Gudc! an nae ae frien'.
46 PEN PICTURES.
Grabbit i' the clutch o' justice paw, Condemned to that damned Hell; Sae sma' sae vera sma' the crime, It niak's me greet tae tell. Na doot the stars an' stripes do wave, Frae its sheeny towering dome. An' the eagle skreighing "Liberty! This is the bad wean's home."
A hellish bastile, sure it is, Our wee braw bairns to catch; Oh Jamie, sell the biggin, quick! I'd keep them frae Law's snatch. A birkie, is our sonsie Ted, Na tellen' what he downa dae; Tae Scotland, dear auld Scotland, Tae her highlands I would gae.
M^^ wee bit Robin, 'cross the sea, Named after Burns, ye ken; He's sleepin' 'neath the gowan,
0 Jamie! I maurned him then.
He's there sae cauld an' stiff an' deid, I'll never maurn him mnir; He's better aff 'neath that green graff. Than in that Brockway's care.
I'm near stark mad, a thinkin' o't, Oh! my wee braw bairn ies three; Let na time be tint, Jamie,
1 lang for the bricht blue sea.
I'm sick for liame, the dear old hame, I lang for the braes an' burns; Gie me a wee bit theekit shiel,
Where dear Tay wimplin' rins.
The cluds hing laigh, an' mirk, Jamie, Aboon the this kintra, yea;
PEN PICTURES. 47
An' bluid will rin some clay, Jamie, It's nae use to Gude to pra3^ Whan fients like Brockway sit in state. An' reign like onj^ king, Aye, a' he has to say is: "Keeper, Tae me the victim bring."
Why canna a' th' braid warl see, Crazed is that vile man's brain? Hoo lang, O Gude! hoo lang! Maun the bairnes skreigh wi' pain? What are those doctors a' aboot? Does gold plaster oop their mou'? Docs siller buy their silence? O Gude! tis sae, I trow!
Are we gaun back to the "Ages Dark?" Sure, we hae the "Book o' Doom's Day?" O Goddess o' Liberty, hear me! My Ladye, what hae \'e to sa}-? In this proud Ian' the "Inquisition," It takes me back to Spain; To Torquemada, an' his dcvlish imps, Losh! terror, ance mair does reign!
Whare are the lairds, wha rule the Ian',— This wondrous Empire State? The representatives and senators, Wha some folk proudly prate? Shame on sic' men as these! oh! shame! O Mithers! rise in j^our micht! Let man never say again, ,
A woman canna fight.
Thunder your slogan in Senate Halls, Pu' aff the Law's black veil; Let them see your bleeding hearts. An' hear the puir weans wail.
48 PEN PICTURES.
Tak' the cursed "Red Tape," An' hing sic traitors, hing! Traitors to Honor! traitors to justice! Ye maun them to justice bring.
Whare is reform? oh! whare is reform? Whan a wean ye pund black an' blue; Wha are reformers? wha are reformers? Grit Gude! I noo ask you? Barton, come back, nae to Turkey gae, 'J^ie Sultan will slyly tell ye, There's plenty o' business for the "Red Cross.', Whare ye cam' frae 'cross the sea.
Leuk at the "Missions," the Christian Missions! Warken for the heathen Chinee, An here in a civilized Christian Ian' What do the heathen see? Oh for a Paine, Oh for a Burns! To write wi' a pen o' fire, Oh for grand guid honest men. This my soul's desire.
Dedicated to Brockway, Elniira Reformatory. 1896.
SOUL GROWTH.
The saul maun graw, 'tis Nature's law.
Slaw but sure, sure tho' slaw; As leaves unfold upo' the tree. —
Frae tiny buds the rose will blaw, In harmony with Nature's subtle law,
Ye ken, saul blends with saul; Unfoldmcnt gies us spiritual sicht.
Oh, blessed gift! we've reached the goal!
SUSAN B. ANTHONY.
PEN PICTURES. 49
THE "WOMAN'S CLUB."
A Response.
HE "Woman's Club," the "woman's Clubl"
I "caught the drift," losh! man; The "Woman's Club," the "Woman's Club,"
I think it a very wise plan. It's a change frac the days o' the Mayflower,
The duckin' stool cam' i' that; Hech! the men, the men o' th' auklen time,
Their auld time tricks they've quat.
Wae man! wae man! the "Woman's Club!"
We weel ken hoo tae use it; But gin ye do what's richt man,
That "Club," we'll nae abuse it. Says Dame Protection, guard it weel,
An' ever keep it handy; Sac, gin ye men advantage tak'
Frac yc, we'll tak' nae shindy.
Noo an' then, we gain a point.
It's a hitch an' a halt ye ken; It's hard to gie oop your auld ways.
Selfishness hands fast to men. A woman maun ken sax times mairn a man,
To be ca'd as smart as he; Oh! we've donned oor' fightin' armor,
An' we'll "git thar," ye will see,
50 PEN PICTURES.
The "Woman's Club," the "Woman's Club!'
The brainy women o' the town; Sex isn't in it noo clays, nae,
We carena gin ye frown. The "Woman's Club," the "Woman's Club!'
We'll study with a riclit guid will; Ha! ha! ha! we'll sune be read3^
The Senate chairs we'll fill.
Whan thase auld fossil senators dee,
That skip and snore a' da}^; We'll sen' a woman frae the "CUdj,"
She'll earn the dollar ye pny. She'll be nae limpin' grizzled grannie.
Eighty years an' mair; But a live woman of forty,
The honors she will share.
She winna buy that senate chair,
With gowd an' siller', nae; With wits an' brain she'll win the grce,
Tak' her part i' the fray. Sac bide a wee, just bide a wee.
We'll meet ye in convention, We'll gie a bite frae your ain bridle,
This is our intention.
It's oot o' date to marry, sir.
We're buckled oop tae the "Club;" I carena to cook three meals a da^^
Wash, iron, bake and scrub. For nae man will 1 mend auld breeks,
An' sew on buttons, no! An' feed the kye, an' min' the pig,
Losh! to tiie "Club" I'll go.
PEN PICTURES. 51
We maun multiply auld AIoscs said,
Replenish the Earth, (and jails) well! Auld Moses and his followers — hech!
Our brithers we'll gie a sell; The modern Moses and St. Pauls —
The riot act we'll read; We've loaded our dice for a new deal,
We'll beat Dishonor and Greed.
Siui^le harness suits, us weel.
On the raid to fame we'll travel; An' the time we mak' in gettin' there.
Will seem tae ye a marvel. We, wha arena buckled to men,
Our ain style gait can tak'; An' gin we turn ye oot as tramps.
Just ken 'tis brains ye lack.
O! the Club, the Club, the "Woman's Club,"
A deal o' guid 'tis doing; Wisdom's leaflets here an' there,
The women of the "Club" are strewing. The men will hae to hustle — yea.
Gin they keep pace with us, An' gin we pass them on the raid,
Ye'U hear a liowlin' fuss.
Tlie Gude o' battles is on oor' side,
The Fates are cumin' oor' way; We care n a for the Furies,
An' the Sybils we can slay. The "unquiet sex", they call us.
The men hae caught the cue; O High Priestess Susan B
Gratitude sen's grecin's to you.
52
PEN PICTURES.
Truth in its entirety — yea,
Speaks as never' afore; In the flesh of auld Dame Politics,
Is a dangerous festering sore, On it we'll turn the search-licht.
The scalpel we'll apply; And cleanse with antiseptic
In the sweet by-an'-by.
A MONODY TO THE STORM.
^^JCK, tack, tick, click!
Like shot against the window pane,
Tick, tack, tick, click! Is that the patter of the rain? Back I drew the curtain wide, AVhat I saw was once my pride;
fust a few short weeks ago. It was beautiful an' bright; But on this December night,
It is buried 'neath the snow. And I listen, sadly listen To the tick, tack, tick, click!
Against the window pane.
Mingled with the wind's refrain.
Tick, tack, tick, click!
Dead leaves falling from the the trees Whirling in the maddened breeze;
Crash against the window pane.
What is snow, but frozen rain? Tears from summer's pretty eyes. In the wind I hear her sighs;
She is weeping for her flowers,
PEN PICTURES. 53
Wrecked her pretty rosy bowers; Tulip beds are brown and sear, Dead the lilies once so dear.
Out there in my garden drear,
Flitting round with antics queer; Is Jack Frost, with silver locks, He has dressed in pure white frocks,
All the stalks that stand up straight.
And the bushes — e'en the gate Of the garden, is so white. Like a ghost, 'twou'd give me fright.
And there's cujDid, bare an' lone—
That did sound like human moan! lake a Banshee's warning cry, Telling me that Death is nigh!
Love's sweet Cupid! did you moan?
Lucky, that you're made of stone! Gif my heart were like j^our ain, It wad then be free frae pain.
Draw down close the window blind. Inside maybe I will find;
One who will m3" mind divert,
Wake my soul that seems inert; Brake the bolts of its barred cell, Bring it forth in light to dwell.
Like the flowers beneath the snow.
It was buried long ago. But from Death, Life yet may spring, Glad songs j^et my soul may sing;
As the spring brings back the flowers,
Bathes them in warm April showers; Sun and shower, then field of grass. Sac mony things may cum to pass.
Wha ken's what the spring will bring?
Time will tell, he is king.
54 PEN PICTURES.
€
A vSCORClI
HE unkind cut — I heard it, man,
Your privileges are great; To talk you have a lieense, man,
Trowth! ye are nac blate. Your time-table— I'll mark it weel,
I'll call whan ye aire oot; 'Twill please us baith, aye, that it wil
Of this fact there's no doot.
Whan ye are oot a towshng roun',
On your sweet-heart callin', aye, — Ye eanna fule Rab Burns, auld man,
Ye play poker on the sl3^ Ye better pat mair i' the pool,
Nae haud your gold sa3^ ticht; Be honest, generous, man-like.
An' play the part o' richt.
Gin I cum back to Earth life, losh!
An' a lassie I suld be; I winna be your sweet-heart,
Nae mistress unto ye. Ye'd loot me pick up atild dead wood,
An' scrub an' wash an' scrub; O'niehts to be your sweet-heart,
In the daylieht queen o', tubs.
Ye threw the shaft, I caught the cue, I've gien ye tit for tat;
PEN PICTURES.
55
Blaw for blaw, my motto, man,
An' a' that an' that. I can protect my own, man,
Pen an' Ink my shield; Ye fired the first shot, man,
Ye're laid low on the field.
April 1, 1900.
LOSH! HUNTER!
,t^ UNTER, hunting, hunted, A gaj^ auld hunter ye; Lang years ye've been liuntin', This, man, is what I sec.
Lang trails, short trails, hard trails, The hunter's life is weird;
Ye think the hunt is vain, This aften ye hae feared.
Whan the cluds hing laigh, An black as mirky nicht;
Afttimes the sinn cums oot, Sac beautiful an' liricht.
An' whan the rain an' hail,
Nae pity shaws to thee; 'Tis then the rainbow comes.
This vision, frien', I see.
Hunter, hunting, hunted, An' still the hunt gaes on;
56 PEN PICTURES.
The witcliin' huntress, hunts 3^e, A lesson she maun con.
A quean wi' gowden hair, ye ken, An' saut tears on her nose;
Her heart is breakin', man. She's filled wi' lo'es sad woes.
She kens na' what's the matter, man, She thinks that she's in lo'e;
Rut it's the auld Deil HA^Dnotism, That's what ails the doo.
Your Muse is gaun to corral ye, Fast an' lirm she'll bind;
Ye'Il hae to stap your flirtin', Your business, yc maun mind.
Your Muse noo bauds a pair o' shears. They maun be twa feet lang;
She's gaun to cut Attraction's tics. An' stap 3^our doin' wrang.
For ye do ken sac vera weel. The mighty power j-e've gat;
Ye reach oot like a fisher's hook. An' catch them, an' a' that.
It mak's me think o' aulden time,
I lo'ed the lasses weel; Oh! I maun tell the truth, man,
Unfairly I did deal.
I didna' understand it then, Science was na' sac hie;
An' I aften gat in trouble. By foolin' on the sl\\
•PEN PICTURES. 57
Yc let the lasses gae too far,
Afore ye freeze them oot; Ye keep them on the anxious seat,
In a mixtie — maxtie doot.
Noo, laddie dear, — I say, ye Iceii,
Sometliing maun be done; Ye' re gaun to hae a shift in life,
Ye're gaun to mak' some "muu."
Ye'll pat it to the best o' use,
I see it a' sae plain; Ye mean a' richt laddie,
That is — in the main.
Noo, I am auldcr than ye lad,
Sae my advice ye tak'; An' by the haly gudes laddie!
Mistak' ve winna mak'.
TO CARL.
H! I ken ye are weary an' randie. Ye are starvin' for luve, I sec; Your life seems weary an' empty This vision fricn' comes to me. But the warl is full o' sic, laddie. The warl aft gangs agle^-. But there's better times a comin' Fray the horribles yc will be free. Lier. 1893.
58 PEN PICTURES.
BIRTH OF ROBERT BURNS.
Tlic following- menu has bccMi prepared for the birth- clay of Robert Burns b\' a Canadian ehef, representing one of the Highland elans. It is cpiite unique as will ^be seen In- a perusal:
Coekie Leekie, Tattie Soup.
FIRST COORSE.
Ta3', Sa union wi Butter Broo.
Finnan Haddies,
Buekies and Limpets, "Yellow Fush" frae Aberdeen wi reekit faees.
SECOND COORSE.
Seoteh Collops frae Hielant Nowte.
Stewed Paitrieks wi Puddoek Stules. "Great Chieftain" fair fau you honest sonsy face.
THIRD COORSE.
Sheep's Heid wi stoved Tatties,
Stuffed Bubbly Joek roasted,
Mealy Pud dins an' Sweeps Gravats. A "Boer's" Snout stewed an' a stewed Soos Snout'. Tatties peel, daub and eat, Tatties Cham pit. Bashed Neepes an' Sooricks,
Ma^dje a wee Donal'.
FOURTH COORSE.
Tripe in daubs wad sole your shoon.
PEN PICTURES.
59
Dramuch and Soor Dook.
Thin enough to droon rattens in.
FIFTH COOKSH.
A cup ofLipton'shaU-a-croon.
Tairts o' hairy grozcts an' appcls. Trcaihn "John" an' a whccn ithcr orra things. Glasca Tupcnnv Pics an' Shortbread.
Partan Pies an' whangs o' Kcbl)uck.
Curny Bannocks an' Scones.
CoUiers' Jeely an' Sweties—
Maybe a big Donal's tae keep a' doon,
TO MY LEAL FRIEN'S.
Y BIRTH-DAY, kads, ye min' it wcel, Ye'reboun' to gic Rab Burns fair deal, Ilk Scotchman to Rab Burns is leal, I ken it a'. I am nae dead, I lee you see, Ye aften drink tae me in bree, I'm richt glad, ye sac weel agree. On ye I ea'.
Auld England feels your miehty power, Ye winna to her hie lairds cower; Your grit an' Strang will is a dower,
Ye are a' richt. Ye've hiney -combed the EngUsh nest. Ye doon their lairds, they have confessed, Afore they're thro' they'll be wcel dressed,
Ye will indite.
Plucked.
60 PEN PICTlJREv^.
The throne is on its last legs, man. This verdict from my spirit ban', There is a wiser, better plan,
'Twill evolute. The Prince o' Wales will doon himscl', He's only fit to be in hell. The Prince in that place j^et will dwell,
I hae na doot.
Anld England's blae-bluids have dry-rot, The Germans see, an' say: "Mein Gott! The power lies ahint the Scott!
MeinGott! Mein Gott!" An, France smiles sweetly a' the while, — Corruption aften does beguile. Destruction works with cunning wile.
They plan and plot.
The Scotts bide weel the future time,
Victorj^, yet, her bells will chime,
With pleasure Rab Burns pens this rln^mc.
We wait the daw'. The clanish Scotts hing wecl thcgitlier, Leal they are to sister, brithcr. They recognize the Scottish tether, 'Tis Nature's law. Janwar', 1900.
PEN PICTURES. Gl
MEPHIvSTOPHELEvS AT THE GRAVE OF A LAWYER.
T last! at last! you're coiiqiicrcd, man of sin!
It seemed to me, Death's work would ne'er begin; / But now, I stand l^eside your resting plaee. Oman of sin! you've tried 3'our last — last ease! A criminal, you stand before your God! But true, so true, God's in a sorry plight! The sight of all your sins will give him fright. Your record is as dark as mirky night, I'm vera sure God's jury would indict. A soul of darkness, that never knew Truth's
light,- Never wore the llower of a blameless life, But sowed the blood-red seeds of vice and
strife. Wed to Intrigue and rivalries of Peace. Fate said to time: "Call Death and let this
cease!"
Upon you, Moses looks with wondering e^'e, And Abraham heaves a mournful sigh; Joshua bids the wdiirling sun stand still. Once more, old Time shuts down his busy mill, And Heaven and Hell arc given a holiday; While God and his Satanic Alajesty pra}^, And ponder and wonder, they seem mystified! The Devil does insist you're sanctified, And God must keep you in his holy fold.
62 PEN PICTURES.
But God replies:
"Nae — iiae he's black as smut! He does belong in Hell's vilest hold! I'll none of him! in Hell he shall be put! Ha! the like of such a one in Heaven, Would ruin bring! You know a little leaven, Will leaven the whole lump. No! he'd breed
treason. And mutin^^ would be on deck! Reason Say's this man from Earth must go to Hell. He'd capture Heaven's throne and quickly sell, God's regimentals for a drink of beer, Or wine, or old bour1)on, the like is dear To him. I could not sleep, I'd live in fear! He's slippery as an eel! uncertain as the wind! This, Mephistopheles, is the I'ccord I do find. So — I !nust send him down to hell!"
Mephistopheles: — "Unjust God! I do appeal from your decree, (Appeal — appeal, was this man's trick I see.) This is the greatest wrong that you've done me, He'd followed up your church for many a year, The Sabbath da}' to liim w£is very dear."
God:— "Yes, yes! I sec, one day he gave to me. And the six he dedicated to thee. Dear sir, I wonder not it gives you fright, But you must surel}^ see that I am right. 'J'rue — true, he mingled with niy godly flock, But you will find he wore the Devil's smock; Your grips and pass-words, aye, he had them
fine, (I must confess, he had a few of mine.) Six-sevenths of his deeds are in your line, He'll be all right— just give him gold and wine!"
PEN PICTURES. 63
Mepliistoplielcs: — "I will not yield so easy to your will, Among your herd, he took his Sundaj^ drill; I've got too many of your preachers now. Your Majesty, I've taken a solemn vow, To shut the gates of Hell against those men. That wear the cloak of holiness, no — nol He'd undermine the redoubt of hell! He'd steal the sulphur pots and quickly sell, A furlough to each spirit damned! He'd swear M}^ imps into his service, No! I dare Not trust this man from Earth! he's dark-dyed, In the crucible of truth, he's been tried. Uncertain treachery owns his black soul! To cheat honest men his highest goal. Neither God or Devil can trust this man, He'd surely bring defeat with cunning plan! Your Holiness! we'll shake, and drink, and
friends be. And let this dark-dyed hypocrite go free; He'd be a curse to me, a curse to you, Turn him out with the Wandering Jew! If that does not meet your Godly approval, And you insist on a quick removal, And to eternal torture this soul must be sent; I'll sell you at Discount— say— ten per cent, Brimstone and dynamite, the best in my line, My goods are double X, considered tine. A little hell of your own you can run, (As hell was conceived in the brain of your
son) Methinks he would certainly be the right one. To mind the fire and roast him well done."
Randolph, July, 1892, R. B.
64
PEN PICTURES.
TO JUDGE J. B. FISHER,
SENT ye ward, ye I wad see, Ye remember it vera well; The time since then seems vera laug, I've been under Misfortune's spell. Dante's beasts were on my track,
I could seethe python's trail; An' [ kcnt by the color of your hair, You cou'd twist the tiger's tail.
Ye Ijuckled m, ye drew your sword,
Ye faught tlie l)attle well; Your clarion notes rang out for right,
The facts, man, ye did tell, Ye scattered them with your cat-o'-nine
Ye laughed to hear them wail, An' the Judge he smiled ahint his ear,
Whan ye twisted the tiger's tail.
Losh! man, the skellums are a' deid,
The requiem we'll sing; I'll lay on their graves, hops, thistles,
Nettles; defeat vvdll bring. Victory now is in hie glee,
Her ship is ready to sail, But she keeps right on a laughing,
'Cause vc twisted the tiger's tail,
i
MINA S. SEYMOUR.
PEN PICTURES. 65
PICTURES FROM MEMORY'S PALACE.
AM looking back to cliihlhood's morn, I see a blue frock and apron torn;
Two bare feet, shoes in hand,
The merriest child in all the land.
Wading the creek on our homeward way,
Like all children, I loved pla\'. In my dreams, I see the old dinner pail — How often I walked a crooked rail!
Ate my dinner, sitting on a stump,
Drank from the mouth of the old town pump. Rode dowm hill at a break-neck pace, Joined the bo3'S in a fox and geese chase, Rolled up a snow-man, called it the teacher; Whispered, and laughed at the calling preacher.
Was there anything I didn't do?
I think not— what think you?
Life was then a day-dream bright, Sleep and rest came with the night.
Care came not into my cup,
With pleasure I did always sup;
Dined with Fun, a joker she,
Fun and I did well agree. Love's dream then was gloriously bright; Anticipation was the mother of Delight.
66 PEN PICTURES.
Danced all night till broad daylight, Didn't go home till the sun shone bright. Lovers went, lovers came, Love was a very uncertain game. My dear school friends — what a jolly crew I Where are the\^ all? I wish I knew! Jim is in the senate, Jack is in the bank, Mac is an oil-king, a gold-bug crank.
Fannie is dead, gone to spirit life, Tote is married, she's a rich man's wife. Mary's an old maid, happy and free, Tw^o are divorced, I make three. Husbands three. Rose laid awa}-. Life is a tragedy, we're all in the play. Fate rings the changes, days come and go, Enjoy the living now, let Joy's cup overflow.
Womanhood dawned, rosy and bright,
I laughed with tlie birds from morning till night:
Sang a merry roundelay,
Was the gayest of the gay,
Trouble never troubled me,
Mirth and I did well agree. Tl^on, life was like a summer day, 'Twas the second act in life's play.
Drifting, drifting with the tide, Down the stream my boat did glide.
Foolish Fancy dreaming,
In it all a meaning.
Rose colored all things seemed,
Fancy '-s pictures glistened, gleatned. Like the rainbow of promise in the sky, Fancy pictured the by and by.
Beautiful dreams, gloriously bright, Anticipation is Fancy's delight.
PEN PICTURES. 67
Anticipation, subtle and coy, As treacherous as the Chiefs of Mo^^ Anticipation, a dark winged wraith! Lures you into the toils of Death! You'll see her then in the garb of a thief. She's the twin of Destruction, the mother of Grief.
The pictures cf love — none will compare,
In the halls of Memory, stored they are there. The jewels of life, I treasure with care, Closed in Love's casket, gems that are rare. In the Palace of Memorv, the past lies dead, But Love is not there, in that pall-covered bed.
Love on a golden throne is seen.
Chanting Fate's threnod\', I ween.
Pictures of loved ones hang on the wall, Real, life-like, I love them all.
There's one sad face with love lit eyes,
I hear his voice, I hear his sighs.
The voice of love is low and sweet,
With kind word, he, friends would greet. His smiles were sunshine that warmed my heart, Of his young life I was a part.
We loved, we loved in a silent way. We cared not what the world did say.
Youth's young love was strong and bright,
In the tell-tale e3'es shone Love's light;
Nature's love, first and best,
They who win it, sure are blest. Angels bless a love like this. When Cupid and I*S3xhe kiss.
Hope was jo\'ous, buoj-ant and bright, Ho]je was a goddess always in sight.
Hope Avas an angel ever near,
Hope brought Harmony, Peace and Cheer.
68 PEN PICTURES.
Hope was my morniug and evening star;
I lived in Hope's aerial car. Soared to the seventh sphere of Delight, Sad day, when Hope vanished from sight.
Beautiful castles I built in the air,
Beautiful castles, rich and rare;
Built and burnished by the hand of Love, Rosy-hued castles in imagery wove. Gilded and tinted to perfection by Art, Beauty— Art's hand-maid played well her part.
With beautiful flowers, my castles were decked,
Sad day, when my beautiful castles were wrecked.
In the warp and woof of Memory's chain.
Are color vibrations of Misfortune's refrain. Love was innocent, Love was true. His rose-colored glasses changed to blue. In the ebb and flow of Life's surging sea, Disappointment came to Love and me.
The wheels of time rolled in new changes.
Futurity, man's plan deranges.
Love never doubted or mistrusted. He was not jealous, always trusted.
He gathered the golden sheaves of each hour,
This the secret to Fate's rich dower.
The robe of Life, weaving each day,
Beautiful as the rainbow's ray. To Harmon3''s music, he listened, listenedl ('Twas Deception's cobweb that glistened, glis- tened!)
Love was truth, hope, charity, my all;
A model of kindness, I listened to his call. I saw not Tyranny's subtle wand — I saw not the treacherous shifting sand—
I'EN PICTURES. 09
I saw not DestriicLion's iever vStrong — I (lid not (Ircani of disaster and wrong. My love, Aly King, the pride of my soul, To be worthy of him, was my highest goal.
Petted and h:)ved, ay, loved and earessed,
I w.itehed the eoming of the one I loved best;
Ik'st of all, to me he was dear,
In his love, I knew not fear.
Strong and brave, he feared no foe,
{Dame Future's plans proved a fatal blow.) Woe to mel woe to me! Fate gave the sad dc-
ereee, She brought a eloud of darkness, it was to be.
Destiny, Mad Destiny! she crushed my heart! She is a tragic queen, she played well her part!
Cruel Fate! heartless F\ate!
Merciless demon! yotir name I hate!
1 led your breath, a fiery blast!
I am your slave, at last! at last! The Hero of my life! go on! go on! Woe me! the awful lesson I must con.
Oh Fate! 3'Oii have critshed, ruined, blasted my
life;' Turned me from i1ower\' ])aths of peace, into rug- ged roads of strife. You darkened all the windows that let the
sunlight in! You were Destruction's imp, from the cess- pool of sin! You brought the demon Darkness, from the
mirkev hold of Hell! I must be resigned, with this devil I must dwell. Bacchus and his imps, will feast at my table,
70 PEN PICTURES.
They would disgrace a beast, Truth vies with Fable.
Across 1113' j)ath with dagger drawn, stood Fate,
bold and stern; "A prisoner thou art, Lady mine, sad lessons you must learn." Quickly into Plell, like Dante I was hurled! I cursed the day I was born to the world! I cursed the da}' I first saw the light! Cursed the Fates that brought this blight! Crazed conditions! Heredity gave to man, Conditions to be subdued, through Evolution's plan.
A thorny road I traveled, many, many years; Ivike a chain-gang slave, with a master he dreads and fears. A slave to conditions, conditions born of man, And with it no rendition, denj^ it, ay, who
can' This is the Devil's "Bridge of Sighs," The Devil is cunning, tricky, yet wise, License! License! \'Ou have brought this damned
curse! What could you have done that would have been worse?
Oh! the good angel Mercy, my sad petition heard; I prayed for better conditions, she drew her trusted sword. "Go back! go back, you demons, into your
sinful bed! Traitors gave yon license!" this to the Fates,
she said. Traitors to mothers! traitors to sons! to Honor, Justice and all;
PEN PICTURES. 71
Forty thousand slain each year, covered by
license pall. Merc\' whispered in my ear. "Lad3^ mine, be of
good cheer; There's a work for you to do, you will conquer
Dread and Fear."
With gentle hand, soft and fair,
She stroked my glossy, silken hair.
She calmed my fears, quelled my fright, She bade me fear no more the night. She took from Bacchus the crown of Might And placed it on the brow" of Right;
She turned the Furies from my door,
And bade them come w4thin no more.
Robert Le Diable, she sent far awaj^,
To the coast that is washed by Pacific:'? spray;
Then she bade me seek in the world's busy throng,
A balm to heal the deep wounds of Wrong.
She bade me be patient and work with a will,
She'd give me a place that none ither could fill. In the tragedy- of life, a part I must play, She bade me hope for a brighter da5\
Then with her magic wand, she waved the clouds
away. And brought to me in place, the golden sun's l3right ray.
A shimmering cloud of gold and blue,
Across ni}' vision quickU' flew;
The silver lining I could see,
A lovely sight it was to me. Freedom's song, Heaven's choirs did sing, The white-winged dove the olive branch did bring.
72 PKN PICTURES.
Then from her silver girdle, she took a golden key, Quick the gates of Futurity opened unto me.
Entrancing was the vision, would that \'ou
could see, The gift of clear-seeing, this power she gave
to me. She opened wide the door of Time, And there I saw the monarch P'ame. Dame Future's secret mysteries, my life work un- veiled, The mystic, magic key revealed, my life's book there unsealed.
Oh loved Maurenel I bid you hope as once before; Treasures for you Fate holds in store.
Plent^^ opens v^-ide her door,
Ye'll receive good things galore.
From the Palace of Wisdom, from the loom of Thought,
Ladj' fair, rich gems will be brought. Evolution's spinning wheels, their spindles quickly
fly;
To a happy thought accompaniment, oh! the sw^eet bv-and-bv.
A QUOTATION.
UT loyalty, truce! we're on dangerous ground; . Who knows how the fashions may alter? The doctrine to-daj^ that is loyalty sound. To-morrow may bring us a halter.
Robert Burns.
PEN PICTURES. 73
ON THE DEATH OF SENATOR JUSTIN MORILL, OF VERMONT.
Father of the Senate, in his 89th year, after having served contiiiuoush^ in the Senate since 1867.
T last! at last! one fossil has passed out, Republicans are glad, I hae na doubt; We hope a live man in that seat will sit, A man of brains, possessed of reason — wit.
Tis vera sad, yea, vera sad, I think, I smile tae see those deid heids w^ink a'n' blink; They pose as statues in the money mart, Deid blocks, like chess-men moved to play their part .
Their millions bti}' those chairs, gold pays their
tools, They pose as great men, m the farce, like fools; Oh! manv" years Death leaves the corpse alive, An' laughs to see dame Poly Ticks contrive.
An' sae the U. S. shaw gaes on an' on, To the disgust o' mony a decent men; Gin ye hae gold, the state an' all ye buy, With mold and dry-rot, in that seat ye die.
A Hoose o' Lairds, that Senate sune will be, Gold rules the Ian', an' there is naething free;
74. PEN PICTURES.
The grit machine turns oot its grist yc ken, An' Senators arc gar't, mrichinc made men.
Sen' my opinions tac dear Uncle Sam, I'm vera sure 'twad mak' an angel dam.n; This bluidy holocaust, this war to view, Lamentable the truth, I'm tellin' a'Ou.
Elect young men — wise men, those seats to fill, Chance says:- "they may consult the people's
will;" The fossils will not, will not, as you see. From a live corpse oh! Death, please set us free.
Oh for Jock Hornbook! that Senate sure he'd
fix," With his aqua fortis. Death's dose he'd mix; Oh Gude o' mercA^ what will we do? I ken, this cursed wiel's too much for you.
TO LILY DALE.
^ EAR Lily Dale, I wish to say, Your lads are getting eild; The frostA^ fleece of time, they wear,
Their heads are gray and beld. Responsibilitj^ is grit,
I dinna ken Vv^hat they'd do. Without that— "Lobby member," Ay, Lily, wdiat think you?
Oh! that "Lobby member"!!! The "Board," 1 fear she'll wind
PEN PICTURES. 75
Aronn' her finger, aye, aye! ! !
An' twist them like a string; The auhl dame has a charmin' way —
To time — them, she ma^^ bring.
That "Lobby Member!" that "Lobby Member!"
Has she three in her ])ool? Their intluenee, favors hearts,
Are they drilled in her sehool? Her stock in trade, ah! weell! losh!!
Has she bewitched the pack? H^^pnotized by her sweet smile—
For this, has she a knack?
"The Circe-like Cleopatra,
Her witch-like ways some crave; She posed a charming conquerer.
Her subject was a slave." And is it true, that "Lobby Member,"
Has got her tricks down fine? An', is it true, the charming dame,
Has got a few o' mine?
Losh! whan the like o' yo can rule.
Dry rot has struck the heid; There's na much spiritualitj',
The vital powers are dcid. It's time the spirits called a halt,
An' chant their sad refrains, An' drap in Time's cauld scpulcher.
The fossilized remains. April 20, 1900.
76 PEN PICTURES.
TO J. W. DENNIS.
^t/^0 black for me,
No robes of night, No clouded brow,
But robes of light; No pall on coffin-lid.
No priestly quack, No tears of grief,
No hireling hack, So woes, no wails,
No sorrow's veils; But shouts of joy,
And songs of mirth Proclaim the news,
"Another birth."
J. W. Dennis.
Whan ye are born again,
We winna wear the mirkey robes o' nicht; Na' fear o' that, nae!— nae!
Whan we are born again. We'll robe ourselves in garments bright,
Frien', ye shall hav' your wa3^
Whan ye are born again,
Na' cluddy brow j^e'll see, Whan 3^e are born again.
Nae pall on coffin-lid for ye,
PEN PICTURES. 77
Whan ye are born again,
Fret na' your dear soul frien'.
Na' pall on coffin-lid for ye,
We'll 'gree, frien', aye, we'll 'gree;
Nae tears o' grief— nae priestly quack, Like men we'll stan' by thee;
Nae waes or wails, na' sorrow's veils, Fools o' oursels we winna mak'.
Whan ye are born again,
Life's win's will cease to blaw; Whan ye are born again.
The calm o' Peace wall cum, we knaw. Whan ye are born again.
We'll ken it weel, dear frien'.
We'll plant a stane aboon your heid,
A ton or sae, whan ye are born. We'll shout wi' joy — sing sangs o' mirth,
A jubilee we'll gie Transition's morn. Guid cheer we'll gie that birth
Sae sure as ye gae deid. March 1895.
A WARNLNG.
OUBTNA spirits are ever near. Ye wha scoff, hae reason to fear;
. Ahint the scenes ye often sneer, We ken say weel. Ye geek your heids, an' sniff the air, Say mony things that arena fair;
78 PEN PICTURES.
Ye'll dae weel, yea, gin je take care, An' gie fair deal.
Gif walls cud talk, I hear ye say, Beware! ye canna tell, they may; Thochts are things, they star the play,
Fair ye maun be. Spirit folk are ilka where, Your ilka thocht an' ward we share, I wonner afttimes hoo ye dare
Insult the like o' me. Feb. 3, 1900. Robert BurxNS.
A CHAT WITH THE FIRE.
URN — lire — burn,
Oh! there's beauty in the fire! See the flames leap high, higher!
Burn — tire — burn! Ha! you little imps of fire, Back behind the fender stay! Do your dancing 'on the logs. Spit no more sparks out this way! Burn — fire — burn!
Burn — fire — burn! See the little demons peek! They are playing hide-an'-seek,
Burn — fire — burn! Such queer faces I can see — Faces real, they seem to me; Little iiends with eyes that glare! Others, beautiful and fair.
Burn — fire — burn!
PEN PICTURES. 79
Burn — fire — burn! I'm so }uip|)3^ here to-night, Sitting by the fire-light,
Burn — fire — burn! My true love will eome this eve, Aye! m\^ love will not deceive. He is faithful as the sun. Kind an' true to every one.
Burn — fire — burn!
Burn — fire — burn! Let 3^our rosy flames leap higher; While Apollo tunes his lyre,
Burn — fire — burn! The Musie mine, his harp will bring, Sweetest songs to thee he'll sing; Love sangs o' th' aulden time, Burns' queer tales doun oop in rhyme.
Burn — fire — burn!
Burn — fire — burn! Prett}^ flames of rosy hue; Blue and gold lights streaking through.
Burn — fire — burn! Happy is my soul to night, Filled to brim with Love's delight; Aye, my love is on the way, And I know what love will say —
Burn — fire — burn.
Burn — fire — burn! Love was all unken'd to me; Nae virtue in it eould I see.
Burn — fire — burn! But ae day Love eam' alang, Aye th' ])ower o' Luve is Strang; Luve eau't me i' his net sae fast,
80 PEN PICTURES.
Fate sae quick the die did cast. Burn — fire — burn.
Burn — fire — burni Luve's fire burns as bright as this; Sweet bliss comes with lover's kiss,
Burn — fire — burn! Thrilled by Love's mesmeric spell, In his palace I now dwell, I Love's queen, will some day be, He a king will be to me.
Burn — fire — burn!
Burn — fire — burn! Make the room warm, bright an' i We'll be cozy as twa mice.
Burn — fire — burn! While he tells me of his luve, You can watch the turtle-dove. She can coo and laugh as well, But she is too wise to tell.
Burn — fire — burn.
THE PEACE COMMISSIONERS.
OD bless the Peace Commissioners! Nae doot thc}^ are weel paid; In spite of all their clishmaclaver,
They'll see war I'm afraid, Sae lang as men like Mark Hanna,
Twist the President's ear, The flood gates of war will open, An bluid wall rin I fear. Sept. 1897.
ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
PEN PICTURES. 81
TO COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
^.. THANK ye for your "This An' That," y^ I I'm muckle pleased dear "Bob;" ^j|^ I'm vera proud to ken that ye, Rememl^er Scotland's Rob. A man maun lee, a man maun dee,
Afore he's kissed b^^ Fame; It tak's sae mony hard knocks, "Bob,' To srlorifv one's name.
Oh! whan a man like ye daur saj-,
I'm grander than a prince! I'm glad I turned the poet's crank,
An' gar't the auld kirk wince. There's ae thing that I didna do,
I wadna tell a lie; Like ye, I am an artist, "Bob,"
Pen Pictures I will gie.
That wee bit hovel gar't o' clay,
Wad that it's wa's cou'd talk; Aye mony a sad — sad tale thej^'d tell,
O' nichts that I did walk The floor alane, an' greet, an' greet,
Wi' sorrow my saul was pres't; Aly heart was aching sairly,
For me there wasna rest.
Auld Fate was hard upo' this chiel, Nae mercy shaw'd puir Rob;
82 PEN PICTURES.
I thocht that writ in' poetry,
Was a wanchancie job. Whan Hoonger sat by my ingle-lowe,
An' Want cam' i' the door; I said:- weel! poetry is guid,
But bairns need something more.
I faught the battle weel an' Strang,
The writin' I maun do; I didna hae the siller "Bob,"
That Fate has gien to ^--ou. I bauldly faced auld Destiny,
Fate gied me nae position; I suffered niair than I can tell,
By poverty's inquisition.
"Auld Scotland's prhice," ye ca' me "Bob,
Ye are my ain leal frien'; The spirit folk on this side, "Bol),"
Ca' \^e the king o' men. The Great I Am, o' Liberalism,
As Buddha to his clan; As Confucius to his jjeople.
Savior, ye are to man.
Aye! your courage is unbounded.
Ye never fear a foe; Ye've douned auld Orthodox sae flat,
As a' kirk men do know. Ye are the power o' the times.
The greatest man as j^et; Losh! whan the preacher tackles yl\
He gets left i' the wet.
I did na' ape auld Horace, Bob,
An' Chaucer was nae me; I am my ain Scotch sel' "Bob,"
I am fu' o' poetry.
PEN PICTURES. 83
'Twas born of real conditions,
It environment, did produce; Passion leaped like red-het fire,
I did traduce — sediice.
The lairds, an' dukes, an' earls, an' sirs.
Were wur than I daur be; An' whan I saw their mistresses,
It raised the deil with me. Then, whan the same thing I did do,
They frowned me doun, ye see! Auld nature is the same to all.
Nature an' T agree.
Aly pen did turn into a sword.
My ink was red-het fire; The aristocrats sune foun' "Bob,"
1 played oopon the (liar) lyre. An' whether he be priest or laird,
I didna care a d n!
I faced them with the truth "Bob,"
I stood oop like a man.
It was sae hard to stan' alane,
An' fling the shot an' shell; Wi' auld Orthodox a hovvlin',
An' the neibors aft as well. But, Courage stood ahint me,
An' Victory kissed me aft; An' the gentry an' the lassies,
Gied pats, wi' lian' sae saft.
My life was nae sae badly spent.
Forgot I ne'er will be; There's mon^^ a one here an' there,
Will haud a place for me. My rhymes I ken, are lo'ed by some,
I tin' them i' the hame;
84 PEN PICTURES.
Auld Scotland's sonsie laddie, Won honor, lo'c, an' fame.
There's ae thing I maun tell ye, "r)ob,"
Spiritualism is true; The Muses help ye preach, "Bob,"
I aften stan' by you. I am a warker i' the field,
Spirits are a niichty host; Weel — "Bob," I can't fin' Heaven or Hell,
Christ, God or the Ploly Ghost.
A lass I've fand, that suits me weel,
A sensitive is she; 'Tis thro' her organism, I cum,
An' write today to 3'e. Ye'U cum oor w^ay some day, "Bob,"
Ye'll meet my bonnie Dame; I'm gaun to gie my sonsie lass,
Po\ver, walth, an' fame.
She is as faithful as the sun, She w^rites frae morn till night;
I fand her 'neath the upas tree, Sorrow had gien its blight.
She is the Cinderella,
I've leuked for mony a year;
An' ye w^ill fin' I'll mak' o' her, A wise, a witty seer.
I'm writin' anither beuk, "Bob,"
Red-het, like the ither; I'm shakin' oop the rotten kirk,
I'm after the Christian brither. I am nae deid, but lee, aye! aye!
I wield the pen the same; I'll gie them anither tragedy,
They'll forgetna my name.
PEN PrCTURES. 85
This is a conversazione,
A telegram to ye; Noo — "Bob," dinna gae ske])ticizin'
An' say this isna me. Yc — o' hie degree, a sensitive,
Inspiration cnms to ye; A spirit ban' helps ye "Bob,"
Agnostic tho' ye be.
FATHER vSNIFFLE'S CONFESSION.
LORD! here in thy holy church,
With prayer I come to thee; Father, Son and Holy Ghost,
Three in one, and one in three. Almight}' is thy power, O God!
Thy penetrating eye dost see, And know, mj^ soul with grief is sore.
From sin, O God! set me free! Ghaist — 'Tis true, in this confessional, O man!
Ye've aft en been afore.
When my weak soul was wracked with pain,
And I a coward, shook with fear; With secrets dark, I dare not tell.
E'en tlien, I felt your presence near. The dark- winged messenger of Sin,
Temptation — through it we fall; The wily snake that smiled on Eve,
O God! 3'ou viewed it all! Ghaist — Is there no surcease from H^^pocrisA'?
Your sins — man, are na small.
80 PEN PICTURES.
Temptation does me oft beguile,
She sets her cunning snare; With a bewitching Circe-hke smile,
Her traps are ever^^whcre. Tho' priest I am, of woman born,
Her weak points I inherit. M}^ reputation is good, O God!
(But YOU know what I merit.) Ghaist— And l)e it this or be it that,
The crown of thorns, A-e'll wcnr it.
On thee, O Lord! I loudly- call, Save me from sin's fell snare,
Sin and Tem])tation, twins from IIcll! 1 meet them ever^'where.
0 God! in this confessional, I humbly bend the knee,
1 consecrate my life, O God! Consecrate it to thee.
Ghaist— O Father, Son! (I am the ghaist,) A holy trinit_v.
O Holy Mother! Mary, virgin!
The cross I make to thee; In meekness, H0I3" Mother!
I humbl^^ bend the knee. Bear with my sins, O Mother mine!
List' Mother, while I pra3^; The load is greater than I can bear,
I will confess to-day. Ghaist — Science now sees with Godlike e3'c.
Turn on the Cathode raj-.
O God! 'tis here that erring souls
Confess so oft to me; The sins they've done from daj^ to daj^
'Tis here I take the pardoning fee.
PEx\ PICTURES. 87
A servant to your holy law, The wafer on their lips I place;
Ecclesiastical politj^ — a rite from God — It saved the sinner from disgrace. Ghaist— The law and rites of Gods and Priests To Almighty Man we trace.
Like ithers, I'll take bread and wine,
(I'll feast while others fast;) With hol}^ water I'll wet my brow.
By this the sinner's blest. Here in thy holy temple, O God!
Men kneel — the cross they kiss; Faith gives them holy confidence,
Supernal grace and bliss. Ghaist — The bliss o' ignorance ye ken,
Losh! my opinion this.
Great God! infallible I am to them,
Infallible you are to me; A suppliant, I kneel an' sue for grace,
'Tis mtrcj, God, I ask of thee. Oh! give me Cyril's power, O God!
That T may dethrone Wrong; Oh! concentrate your legions, God,
And make your fortress strong. Ghaist — But nae sae Strang but what 'twill fall,
Dissenters ye're amang.
'Tis here, girls tells of wa\" ward sins,
And ask to be forgiven. 'Tis here they tell the old, old tale,
Hov.' poverty and cold has driven Them out into a cruel world,
Where ])read is hard to get, Into Sin's whirlpool they are hurled.
With cnnningness Sin's traps are set.
88 PEN PICTURES.
Gliaist— Puir weaklings! innocent an' blin', Food an' shelter hard to fin'.
O God! so well, I know 'tis true,
'Twas in an hotir like this; With cold and hunger in the home,
Temptation, their lips did kiss. Life struggles for existence,
Attraction is a subtle king, His treacherous smile revives dead hope,
Many pleasures he does bring. Ghaist— Ye ken it weel, just hoo they fa',
Boceace has tauld it a'.
The tempter gave them l)read and wine,
They whose purse held not one dime; Did kneel before Temptation's shrine,
Sad duty mine, sad duty mine! Evil, with Argus-eye did vrorsQ,
Lust gave them love, food and wine. Ghaist— He wdia noteth the sparrow's fall,
Saw it all — saw it all!
With Luve's sweet promise he led them on,
With glittering gold that hired ; Into the beautiful palace of sin,
Into a gilt-edged hell ensnared, Want bade them go within.
Thou knowest, their souls endured Much before they fell.
Forgiveness I assured. Ghaist — Poverty wdtli empty maw.
Stops nae for man made law.
To God's confessional, men £ift come, Confess their sins — jca, bold;
You know, O Lord! confession, Will keep them in the fold.
PEN PICTURES. 89
'Tis here the treacherous wife reveals,
The dark waVvS of her life; Forgiveness asks, she pays me well,
I pass her, as a pure good wife. The worldly sins of all my Hock,
I cover as best I can; Confession and forgiveness,
This is Salvation's plan. Ghaist — Confession, — confession, a devlish priestly plan!
Confession — confession, it enslaves the mind of man!
Tis here the husband comes in prayer,
Repentingl3^ bends the knee; I intercede with thee, O God!
With a confession to me. To please an angrj- God,
He pa^'s a princelj^ fee; Reveals the crimes of a burdened sonl,
Dark-dyed is the l)lood of his heart; Virtue's maids he led astray,
He played the villain's part. Seduced, like Mary in Joseph's day,
(The Ghost did blind the vvorld,) Damned through eternity, aye!
In scandal's cesspool hurled. They pay the penalty'' of crime and shame,
With ruined character, and blackened name. Ghaist — Suicide tak's them in his arms.
Croons them to sleep with Death's weird charms.
'Twas in this consecrated room, O God!
That Patrick Jones his sins confessed; His crimes were black, black as could be.
He asked to be forgiven and blessed, Confession made him clean and free.
He whipped his wife one Sunday morn;
90 PEN PICtURE^.
(A follower of Christ was he,)
'Twas jnst before her bcibc was born. Poor child! to such a brute a slave!
His soul was dead, I think. Heart, conscience, soul, what e'er it be,
'Twas stultified, and drowned in drink. Ghaist — Rum mak's man, a thing beneath the beast,
Drink! drink! 'tis a devil's feast!
He often cursed and whipped his child,
A fiend, he seemed to be; With rum his brain was fired an Tvald,
O God! he came to me, Here in this holy confessional.
Repentant, meek and mild. Confession — forgiveness — gold,
HypocrisA^ sweetly smiled. O God! 3^ou know 'tis true — 'tis true,
He knelt to you in prayer, And asked for your protection,
Your mercy, love and care. Ghaisl: — The han' o' the priest he crossed wi' gold.
In the kirk mart, forgiveness bought an' sold.
Then, there is Doctor Hardshell,
Who gives the old blue pills; He ):)leeds as in j-e auldcn time.
Gives ipecac and squills. For money he did murder,
A mother and babe, ('twas said,) 'Twas a married man that paid him.
The victim w^as a maid. To this holy confessional.
The doctor came one da}-. And here he knelt confessing,
And penitently did pray.
PEN PICTURES. 91
Gliaist — The warl is fu' o' just sic men,
Ycil lin' tbem ilka where, ye ken.
Then, God, there was Dick Marblchead,
The cashier in the bank; Gold and silver he gave the church.
His purse was never lank. He praised the Lord with singing,
Devotion's child was he; A servant to your holy cause,
A servant, Dick was to me. Ghaist— Ahint the door o' your confessional,
Ye're tellin' the braid truth, man; Ye've the bag that hands the kirk's crimes.
An' the hale devlish plan.
His soul he gave to Jesus,
For Christ he'd always stood; He loved the old religion,
To him 'twas sureh' good. He knew there was a saviour.
Who all sins could forgive; He believed in immortality,
In Heaven the soul would live. Ghaist — O haly priest! O haly priest!
Word pictures ye hae gien; A chicl's amang ye takin' notes,
As some daj^ will be seen.
O Lord! you know Dick Marblchead,
Fell in Temptation's way; He borrowed twenty' thousand.
And then forgot to paj-. 'Twas strange that he dare take it,
On holy Christmas day, His faithful wife, supposed that Dick,
Had gone to church to pray. Losh! Dick crossed the wild Niagara,
92 PEN PICTURES.
Into Canada he got; There's lots of Christians over there, That is a sacred spot. Ghaist— The law has bridged the falls ye ken, An' noo we cateh Christ's haly men.
Then, there was Father Bnncombee,
The child of Humility; He cared for his aged motlicr.
She was the soul of Purit\'. Sisters, he had six or seven,
I can't remember which; He fell in love with the banker's wife,
She was beautiful and rich. One evening after service,
She stayed with him to pray; They came to this confessional,
(They'd been here, before, that day.) The mischief, then, they finished,
They vowed they'd run away; But just before they started,
They thought they'd better pray. Ghaist — Events like this, are hah^ scenes.
Object lessons for the weans.
Then they asked you, Lord, to watch them,
Send prosperity long their way; The}' asked you. Lord, to bless thcni,
Bless them from day to day. Then the Father asked the banker's wife.
If she would sure be true; Then they kissed each other fondly,
And left it all with you. Ghaist— Hypnotic bliss is sweet I ween,
But I wadna gic for it a preen.
Once more I will remind you Lord, Of the sins of Pat O' Grundy;
PEN PICTURES. 93
You'll find him 'round the corner, Lord,
Selling whisky all day Sunda3^ He pours it out to men and boys,
A sort of liquid damnation; He's ruined fathers, husbands, sons!
There's no one in creation Can do more harm to wives and babes.
And ruin more happy homes. Than this same Pat O'Grundj^,
And 3'et to church he conies; And he, O Lord! oft asks 3'ou,
To hear his humble prayer; PVom church he goes straight to his den!
It is a hellish snare! Gliaist — Gif it is wrang to drink on Sundaj',
Isna the sin as grit on Monday?
0 Lord! 3'ou have forgiven.
The followers of Fraud and Sin
1 now approach your Holiness, And pass my trotdjlcs in.
I'll lay them all before 3'ou,
As others have done before; And wdien thej^'re reckoned up, I fear,
O Lord! you'll find there's more Than all the rest together;
Your judgment 1 must face, (This holy cloak — my rosary,
Will shield me from disgrace.) Have merc\' on my soul, O Lord!
Look on my sins with pity's eye! Draw not on me Grim Vengeance's wratii,
In future days, O Lord I'll try, A better record I will make.
You are the soul of charit^^, Aly sins forgive for Jesus sake!
O bless! sweet angel of purit}-!
94 PEN PICTURES.
Now — While you wisely ponder
I'll take a glass of wine; For Jesus sake! for Jesus sake!
With spirits I'll drink and dine.
To priest, a friend is wine. Ghaist — 'Tis wondrous strange the power ye've got,
Blin' ignorance follows ye I wot.
Ay! there is one thing father,
Let me whisper in your ear; I wouldn't mention this, no!
So any one could hear. God! don't brand me a Solomon,
With a thousand wives or more; (Publicity wou'd wreck me, sure,)
Their true hearts would l)e sore; To know I loved some other one,
They now are true as steel; 'Tis only through this secrecy,
That with them I can deal. And there's my mother — my sisters,
'Twould be a life disgrace; I'd have to pack my grip-sack,
And get me from this place. Ghaist — riypocris3^'s cloak is braid and lang,
Aneath it is hid, Vice and Wrang,
I feel so very sure, O Lord!
Your pardoning grace is ample; The men you've pardoned heretofore.
In truth's a holy sample. And now, O Lord! before 3^our throne,
I've come, confess I must! You know I'm strangely fashioned. Lord,
With sinful, Heslily lust. But so was Abraham, and Saul,
Aye, David and fair Ruth,
^EN PICTURES. 95
ForgiYC, O Lord! a sinful man, Who dares to tell the truth. Ghaist— Your houghmagandie waj-s the Ghalst cansee, Like ony ither toop, Gude better apron ye.
Christ was sent (the Bible says,)
The shiful man to save; Crucified upon the cross.
His life for us he gave. The priest, the saint, the vilest knave,
On thecs O Lord! our sins we cast. Forgive 0 God! forgive! forgive!
For penance I will praj^ and fast. Ghaist— Chant on, chant on, we'll watch ye well.
Your baggage, I see, is checked to Hell.
O God! a heavy burden you have got, And sad indeed must be your lot; It was not me that fixed things so. It's your own plan, yea, well you know, This is the great salvation plan. Confess, confess, O sinful man! Licentiate — murderer, thief! Some day j^ou'll come to grief. In your last hour atonement make, O gracious Lord! 'twas for the sake Of David, Solomon and me, Christ died on Calvary.
There's one thing more that I must mention. O Lord! please give it your attention. The infidels are on our track. They have destro^-ed the hoh'^ rack. The iron-virgin thsj have stole, We'll soon be singing songs o' dool. The Holy Yirgin, the^- mak' transpire; Aye — they've quenched the holy fire That burned the heretic — In faith,
96 PEN PICTURES.
No longer can we play the mystagogue, To them, we're but a hollow^ wraith. O Lord! the truth is dawning fast, They have unveiled the bitter past! They're weakening fast our holv power, No longer can we make them cower. They care no more for hell than ice. They care no more for the Devil than mice, The H0I3' Bible they've simmered fine. Till Bibles sell for scarce a dime. And preachers have close picking now, Voltaire and Paine stirred up a row. Ghaist — My cat-o'-nine tail your kirk did feel. An' noo I'll gie ye anither deal.
A tithe no longer will thc}^ V^y,
The times have changed I hear them sa_v;
On Sunday a man can kiss his wife,
And yet not fear he'll lose his life.
Can split' his .wood aiid cut his hair,
Is not obliged to attend prayer.
O Lord! you're losing .ground 1 fear;
The reign of man is very near.
O Lord! send Death for Pagan Bob, And send hinl quick or he will rob The church of all its mystery, AVith must}^ ancient historj/. Pie does hear Oppression's groan — He does mock Deception's moan — , Bind him fast close by 3'onr throne, Place a guard around his scat. Watch him close, or he will beat The bottom out of Heaven and Hell! lie wdll break tlie holy spell. Priests will beg from door to door. As they oft have done before. Altars, Bibles, churches scorned,
ANNA L. vSHAW
PEN PICTURES. 97
When the peoples all have learned; That ''Bob" tells the living truth, "Bob" is catching fast the 3^outh. Ruin's clutch is on our neck, "Bob" with haughtj^ pride does geek His head, and with derision smile; Holiness does weep meanwhile. Aye — Religion oft does weep. While Pagan "Bob" does sweetl^^ sleep. Thou must save, O Lord! our cause, For they do defy our laws. Thou a Saviour, now must be, Thjs fact surely you must see. Amen! Amen!
THE LATEST FAD.
^HE brides discard the big boquet,
Arab! God's pra3^er-beuk carry, they; A fad in Matrimonj^'s pla3^.
In Time's weird histor3'. Divorce comes in with cunning trick, The lasses ken his ways are slick, The^^ dub Divorce, a pawkie "Brick,' Brim full of mystery.
As all thhigs are uncertain, they Are well prepared with book to pra\' I'm ver^^ sure 'tis Wisdom's wav,
'Tis Evolution's plan. God no longer joins together, He ken's man will quickh' sever, Pennsylvania cuts the tether,
AlaUe! away flies nmr»!
98 PEN PICTURES.
TO A. GASTON.
ATE'S cuffed ye to a peak sae 1110113'- times,
Thin as a match ye're getting; But what is to be, will be, man,
Trowth! there's nae use in fretting. Theosophy says: — All things in life,
Are for the good of man; It's in our "karma" — weel! jq ken,
It's the universal plan.
Ye rubbed agin Theosophy,
I'm sure it was to be; And with her three-taed leister, man,
Theosophy speared ye. But in it all, there's good — man,
What is tae be, wdll be; Twa grit I Ams, met on the w^aj^.
An' sure, they cudna 'gree.
The crupper, loot it oot a notch.
The check rein's a wee bit tight; Tak' aff the keekin'-straps 1100,
Theosophy's all right. The threshing did the auld dame good,
A lesson she has learned; Concentration lost the game.
The loaded dice 3^e turned.
But, Change is 011 the \\'D.y, aye! Change is dame Nature's plan;
PEN PICTURES.
99
The iron ring will brak' yea I
Ye glides! we canna stan' This ticht girt Plutoeracv,
The win's are gathering Strang; A cj^clone will sweep through the Dale,
An' wreck the throne o' Wrang-.
TO LANCELOT.
E'D like a plaee amang my stars, In my beuk o' rhymes, a page; Afore the fbotlichts, A^e'd appear,
An actor on my stage. Mj^ roster is quite full, sir,
My weel laid plans complete; Ye're welcome i' the audience, Wi' the beld-heids tak' a seat.
QUOTATION.
E love our fellowman, our kind.
Wife, child and friend; To phantoms we are deaf and blind.
But we extend The helping hand to the distressed. By lifting others we are blessed.
i-ofC.
100 PliN PICTURES.
TO WILLIAM Mckinley.
"I have always been in favor of the free and unlimited coinage of the silver product of the United States, and have so voted on at least two occasions."
"You may remember as indicating my position on this subject, that I voted to pass the silver bill, in the Forty- fifth and Forty-sixth Congress, over the veto of President Ha3'es."
William McKinley.
^OR 3^cars 3'c've posed McKinley, ' Honesty's chieftain brave;
The grit Republican Mascot,
The kintra ye coti'd save. Unmasked ye are McKinley, The gold-wash is too thin; The Silverites are after jq, They'll raise roun' ye a din.
Weel masked ye thoclit yoursel', man,
With sheeny robes of gold;
Ye are a fly caught in the web,
Y^e'U fin' the spiders bauld.
Indelible, 3'our record, man,
A Silverite ye stand;
'Tis the clean part of your historj^
Noo, ye're versus, Bland.
Cry 3^c may, "Out, damned spot, out!' The warl will hear an' woiidt-r;
PEN PICTURES. 101
An' whan they size yc np, "Mack," They'll say ye've made a blunder. The tiger eaniia change its stripes, Ye're a silver man the same; The one grit change the people see, Disgrace has scotched yonr name.
He wha goes back on Principle,
In search of \valth an' fame;
Certain he is, McKinley,
To black fair Honor's name.
This pla3'ing loose an' fast. Mack,
The "Confidence plot," grit glide!
The Fates will speak frae judgment's throne,
Hypoeracy — pass 'neath m\^ rod.
We face a frightful crisis,
Ye're a traitor to the people's cause;
Ye ride on the golden juggernaut,
That crushes with its python laws.
Ignorance is deaf an' blind,
But Wisdom is open-e^-ed;
Ye're seen in Hypocrac3''s golden robe,
Ye've a face for ilka side.
The "Gold-bugs," pull the wires, Mack, Ye, Punch to Mark's Jud\- show. Silver men laugh to see ye dance. Yea, laugh for thej^ well know. That underneath 3'our golden robe, A silver man is hid; Temptation cuddles \^e weel, "Mack," Sac 3'e do as jq are bid.
The Janus of 1896,
On a well balanced pivot ye swing;
Like the weather-cock that hings at the door,
Ye perched on the Plutocrats wing;
102 PEN PICTURES.
Behind a golden dagger, pose, 'Twill shield jq in the fight; But justice will o'ertak' 3^e, man, Ye'll fin' that micht's na right.
Quay — Mark an' Piatt consign to H— 1,
The golden parasites sla3^;
Give Honor's men the chairs of State,
For this the people pra3\
Honor's shield 3^e wear na, nae,
Gold tipped frae heid to heel;
The G. O. P. a gold plate trust,
^J'he trade-mark clinched with, steal.
Ye represent monoplies, The miclit^^ golden ring; Ye're the Judas of the century, Proof, your comrades bring. Spoken wards never die Mack, The "Bland Bill" ye maun face; Sold! sold! on the altar of gold. Trapped in the net of Disgrace.
The "Silver Knisrht" the "Silver Knight.'
ft'
Truth's banners weaving high;
The "Silver Knight" the "Silver Knight,'^
Confronts the Plutocrat's lie.
The golden cloak, it fits ye w^cU,
Aristocracy bows to thee;
Gold makes the man, (a putty man,)
(Na' God, 'twas "Mark," made ye.)
It's tweedledee an' tweedledum.
Anything to get there;
Ye'll play the clown for Hanna,
To w4n the President's Chair.
But — when j^e perch upon that seat,
Ye — the smallest man there yet;
PEN PICTURES. 103
A Squealin', squirmin' inonke\', Tethered in Hanna's net.
Glide be wi' ye McKinle\% O' the Deil, ye'U hae your share: Ye'll mak' a totizhng mess o't, Cohimbia will want nac niair. Gin bluid disna rin, Mack, Afore your race is run; Then I am na prophet, man, With prophec3-, I'm done. March, 1895.
A MESSAGE.
ULD Grannie Lott is here to-daA^,
A kecklin' 'boot her hoosc; She's in a bad worry,
An' thinks she's played the goose. The gallery of art, is whare?
Ye heed na her request; The vera deil is in it,
The auld dame canna rest.
Na paintings hing upon the walls,
In her gallerj^ of art; An' na one thinks of Grannie Lott,
Sair is the auld dame's heart. Of statuar3% just one piece,
An' that is Night with Da3^; An' hoo the Day cam' in it—
I've naething mair to sa\'.
R. B.
104
PEN PICTURES.
FASHIONABLY DRESSED.
ERE I am! in Fashion's parlor,
With Auld Dame Bnmcombee;
Watching Fashion's ladies, wha are,
Decked for men to see. I wonder! and I wonder!
What their mothers are about! To dress their daughters in that way,
And then — to send them out.
Now — as I sit here in my chair.
That's snug up in the corner; I spy, a richly dressed 3'oung lass,
Her name, is Mollie Horner. She wears a dress, (or part of one,)
Some parts, are surely missing; 'Twas made to tempt some mother's son,
(Mollie Fm sure likes kissing.)
The dressmaker, (the careless dame,)
Forgot the sleeves Fm sure; Or else she patterned after Eve,
Naked she came, (yet pure.) Oh! Mollie' s arms are bare — as bare,
As the wee bit babe new born; Bare arms some think attractive.
Fashion's models they adorn.
An' Mollie's neck's as white as snow, Ye gods! I mUvSt admire!
PRN PICTURES. 10(
And Mollie's charms arc fairer still, My pulse does bound \vith fire!
Can I sit glum and moody here, And win na' luve's full share;
With Mollie standing b3^ so near, So beautiful an' fair?
Am I a man that courage lacks,
A figure of dispair? Shall I sit here a mild buckwheat,
A holding down this chair? With Nature's loveliness in view.
Decked with such cunning art; Ah — no! young man, 3'our soul's ablaze.
Look well, j^ou play 3'our part!
Yea, in thy presence lovely lass.
My j'-oung blood warms towards you; You have bewitched m3' very sold,
Your glance has pierced me through. I'm sure 'tis folly to despair.
So much in sight of man; To win 3^our love; 0 Mollie dear!
I'll do the best I can.
MORAL.
O mothers! ye who daughters have,
Dress them with modest care; Lest with a tempting carelessness,
They some young man ensnare. For love that's pure is never born,
A slave to Passion's god; Such lives arc sealed, and feel Despair,
W^ill beckon them aneath his rod.
Nae woman half dressed wad appear, Gin nane but woman were there;
106 PEN PICTURES.
The men admire na, nakedness,
Sae dress ye with grit care. Like Passion's cancan queans appear,
Christians, with bosoms bare; Ye tempting Jads, — furl weel your flags!
A challenije to men! Pd swear!
TO D. B. MERRITT.
Member ol the C. L. F. A. Board.
t GANDER lone, 3^e wander roun, A bag of bones — grim; J Despondency^ 3^our shadow, man, ^ A match-like wraith, tall, slim, And ghaist-like, cadaverous, — A skeleton with hollow e3'e; Cauld, clammed, shiggisli, stiff, Do 3^ou intend to die?
The odd sheep on the noted ''Board,"
(Lily Dale's teeter, — yc know;) Slide down aniang the ither men,
An' be ye nae sae slow. On the wrang end the "Board," jq sit,
A sample, roostin' hie. A "Secretary," ye need, man,
Ye'U beat Death on the sly.
TEN PICTURES. 107
TO BOSS PLATT.
,ANWAR 1895, O Man!
Ye canna sune forget;
Auld Time did whatt his knife,
Bluid he meant to let. Ye wore Polly Tick's hie eroun,
But rust^^ it was getting; Sae Ma^^or Strang thocht it weel, To gie it a new settin'.
"Micht is richt," has been the cry,
Frae the Plattites to Tarn's vile den; Corruption's rottenness stenchcd the air,
"Oot with it" raired honest men. Let Truth, Honor and Decency,
Raise their voices hie; An' say by a' that's guid an' grit,
This monstrosity maun die.
Deil-ma-carc, tlicy faced the wiel.
They thocht it clismaclavcr; An' tlio' thev saw the windy cluds,
The\' thocht Tarn a guid driver. But, like Tam O' Shanter's auld mccrc Meg, The tiger has lost its tail;
An' frae that bizzie citj-, I hear a maurnful wail.
Down wV the one-man po\ver I sa^', Be it Piatt, a king or czar;
108 PEN PlCTUREv^.
Queen Yic, or Lil, or this or that,
Justice's escutcheon they mar. Oppression's clankin' chain is heard,
Their rotten thrones maun fall; An' the rich-red wine in their gowden caups,
Will turn to bitter gall.
The hale warl's in commotion,
Politics, religion, an' a'; The banner o' Richt will gae oop,
An' the red flag o' Micht maun fa'. Nero had his time ye ken,
Constantine had the same; Time's Juggernaut is rolling on.
Justice will bag the game.
The peoples are waukening in this grit day,
They are leukin' to left an' richt; Their leaders are watching weel the wa\^
They are nae far ahin' Truth's licht. Down with the ring-gang politicians,
Gie us better laws, Micht's victims maun be delivered,
Frae the vulture's claws.
ADDENDUM.
For the neist centurj^'s birth we wait,
Fate is brewing the groanin' malt; The kebbuck waits upo' Time's shelf,
Nane wi' sic cou'd fin' fault. The liowdie wi' a tass o' brand\',
Waits the eventful time; Time's auld sexton wn' rape in han',
The deid bell sune will chime.
PEN PICTURES. 109
TO JUDGE FARNUM,
Wellsville, N. Y.
N' sae ye are a farmer!
Is there an Opp(tion) in the trade? ' There's nae miickle siller in the "IdIz," Nae maseot, I'm afraid. Your farm is stocked with hogs, theysa}',
Mark Hauna owns the "trust;" Whan he hears ye've joined his hog ring, He'll faint from sheer disgust.
Mark Hanna owns the "Hog trust,"
In Washington, D. C; He's got them in a "corner,"
As 3'e will later see. He will not car them this year,
He'll drive them with a gad, The yankee and the Irishman,
Will fall in line "Be dad."
There' naetbing like Mark Hanna's trust,
The thievish hogs have stole; The right to root across the sea,
Filipino sings sangs o' dole. It's powerful, this trust of hogs,
Ye better sell yours man; Get shot o' those Spanish gruntcrs^
'Twill be the wisest plan.
110 PEN PICTURES.
FAULKNER JUNCTION.
AITIN' at the station,
Naetliing here to drink; Neither broo or bannoc,
Losh! puir fare I think. Glide of mercy help us!
Hoongr}' as a bear, Sic treatment b}'- the R. R. C.
I'm sure it isna fair,
Faulkner Junction — three railroads here,
A switch pen and a shed; Would tae Gude the managers,
Were here to-day unfed. Sitting on a hard bench,
Waitin' the express; They'd damn the weather, damn the place,
An' think it a pretty mess.
In a private car the moguls ride.
By niggers tlic\^ are fed; Imported wines, fresh fish, oysters.
Sleep in a silken bed. Tae keep me company to-day,
Those moguls — I wish were here; They'd tak Jthe fare o' puir folk.
Ye bet your socks, they'd swear!
Ye bet j-e'd hear those hie lairds rair. An tear 'roun' like mad men;
, PEN PICTURES. Ill
They'd order oop a big hotel,
Wi' conveniences, I ken. An' object lesson they'd get toda3^
Wi' naething here tae eat; Con'd they be left here just one day, Tlie joke wad be complete. Dec. 8, 1S9S.
TO APOLLO.
WINXA sell my beuk, ye say<
This, I heard 3^011 tell; A grit mistak' ye gar't man,
That beuk is gaun to sell. I'll turn the search-licht on the camp,
An' tell what spirits see; I thank ye for the spur \^e gave,
Ye're a mascot, frien', to me.
I travel with ye day an' nicht,
Your towzling roun' I view; 111 mon^^ wa\'s, we're much alike,
We're brithers, I an' };ou. Ye till the soil an' seed the grun',
My style ye hav, 'tis true; The implement 3'e use, man.
Always, is na the jileugh.
Trowth! I'll turn the search-licht on, Locate the puss hllcd sore;
I'll operate on Lilv Dale, Remove the rotten core.
She'll stand the operation well, Aly method ma3^ seem rough;
112
PEN- PICTURES.
But damned be he who first cries, Hold! This operation's tough. April 20, 1900.
TO MAURENE.
V-L,AY ye always drink frae T/o'cs sweet caup, dinllll ^ ^^^^ ^' happiness may ye hae; s^Jrl| Burdened nae wi' want an' wae; " ' Luve, I wad never hae ye sigh, Expeckit rest Luve, by an' b3^
A' will be weel, 3'e hae nae cause to fret, Burns reads the future for ye weel; Evil is Argus-eyed, he winna sleep, Right, an ee on him will keep. July IG, 1S94..
APRIL IN LILY DALE.
,AE lauger we sing o' the beautiful snaw. It's noo the caw of the auld black craw; The robin's convention, an' laverock's cry, The croaking frog in the lake close by. Oh! thv^ lake, the lake, the sun-kissed lake. The wijid-whippcd waves on the shore break. Fair Lily Dale is proud of her home, Her biggins are humble, nae palace or dome; But welcom' the guid folk, they'll sune return, Mon^^ a lesson the stranger will learn. Oor doors are open, cum in an' dine, Oor spiritual luve feast, isna bread an' wine.
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PEN PICTURES. 113
ir,
BURNS' COTTAGE.
, HOUGH Scotland boasts a thousand names,
Of patriot, king and peer; The grandest, noblest of them all,
Was loved and cradled here. Here lived the noble peasant-prince,
The loving cotter king; Compared with whom the greatest lord.
Is bitt a titled thing.
'Tis but a cot, roofed in with straw,
A hovel made of clay; One door shuts out the snow and storm,
One w4ndow greets the day. And yet, I stand within this room.
And hold all thrones in scorn; For here beneath this lowly thatch,
Love's sweetest bard was born.
Within this hallowed hut I feel.
Like one who clasps a shrine; When the glad lips at last have touched,
The something seemed divine. And here the world through all the A'cars,
As long as day returns; The tribute of its love and tears.
Shall pay to Robert Burns. Aug. 19, 187S. RoBEKT G. Inoersoll.
114 PEN PICTURES.
TO COL. ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
YE agnostic! take time an reason, Otherwise to do, wad be treason. Richt weel 3^e ken, jq lo'e tlie truth. Ye hae niuckle interest in the 3'outh. Investigate afore ye dee. Then, 3'e will believe in me.
A' richt's j^our wark, yea, 'tis weel done; Ye dematerialized, Gude, Father, Son. The tales ye tatild in richt guid stjde, Trowth! man, jq rile the kirk-man's bile. Ye hit the bull's ee with j^our shell. Ye wrecked the holds o' Heaven an' Hell.
Ganging oot, the Orthodox fire, Ye mak' the creedal gods transpire; With Miracles ye play the scout, Mony are catching the spirit o' Doubt; With Wisdom's ee-glass, they scan the field. The wraith, the kirk-men try to shield. A Spartan, Robert, the slogan ye gie! In the castle o' fame, j^our name will lee.
Nae man, nae man, 3'our place can fill. Liberty's Savior, 3^e wark with a will; Gie them ward pictures, object lessons, ye ken. Are guid for the bairns, an' guid for auld men. Ye can mak' the deaf hear, an' mak' the blin' see,
PEN PICTURES. 115
Blessiu's on your pow Robin', I'm warkin' wi'
ye. Ye needna a stanc to speik o' your name, 'TIs indelibly writ in the grit hoose o' Fame.
TO ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
On the Lecture at Lily Dale July 12, 1896.
■^ RIT gude! Rab, I am confounded! Muckle surprised, hech! astounded! Your lecture, man, was auld an' rusty, Sae vera auld I'rh sure 'twas must3\ Twa an' twenty years ago. Ye gied the same, as all folks know.
Puir Lily Dale was disappointed,
She thocht by Inspiration to be annointed;
But stale an' flat that lecture auld,
Lilj^ Dale I'm sure was sold.
Eight hunder an' fiftj^-eight, they sa}',
For that auld lecture, ye got that da^^
Excuse my thochts, excuse mj- words, Mentalh^ we maun cross swords; To fule the guid folk like that, man. It seems to me an unwise plan. Eight hunder and fift\'-eight, they say. For that auld lecture ye gat that da3\
Frae far an' near the guid folk came, To see an' hear the man of fame. Anticipation craved something fresh. Poured out in volumes with a gush;
116 PEN PICTURES.
Like a rairin' cataract, astounding all, It relislied as a caup o' gall.
Oopside doun, your barrel ye turned, Frae the Mess John this ye learned; Laugh nae mair at them, my man, While ye adopt the Mess John's plan. Lily Dale is oop-to-date, Ye ca'd on her, frien' Rob, too late.
Ye're sae far ahint the time.
That 3^our talk's nae worth a dime;
Spiritism laughs at ye,
Puir blin' Rab, ye canna see!
With mouldy bread an' dry stale cheese.
The epicure ye canna please.
PVien', tak' my cue, an' cum agen,
Gae sit amang the listening men;
Watch well the w^ards o' Lockwood, Lake,
The spirit thocht ye better take.
A ghaist o' past daj^s, sure yc be,
Eild and beld, 3^e are I see.
Ye wha gie us Alaterialism — Y^e wha sniff at Spiritism ~ Ye wdia tell the lads na to pay. The meinester — this ye saj', Grit gude! Rab, $858, For an auld lecture, oot o' date.
A thief, Rab, I'll na ca' you,
But, a ''Gold Bug," that is true.
Truth is your idol, Gold your God!
Time wall suue sae, pass 'neath my rod;
Open, a new warl will to ye,
TU^ truth o' Spiritism, then yc'll see.
TEN PICTURES. ii7
Scotched with Scotch, 1 have gien \^e a blaw,
Ye weel deserve it as ye knaw;
Sold yourself to Greed an Gain —
Posed ye then on Mammon's plane.
I faught for the puir, in Scotland, my hame,
I stood for richt, I won honor an' fame.
The war of the classes is waging again, Gold against labor, true it is frien'; Frae wrang conditions the guid folk are
crazed. They're watching the "Gold Bugs," sure they're
amazed! Oh! ye'U sune hear the slogan, a Wallace will
rise. Reincarnated in Bryan, he'll gie a surprise.
TO J. R. FRANCIS.
OME twa-three years ago fricn',
A message I wrote for ye;
My wee bit Lady said: "Rab,
Your name he winua see."
I tried wecl all the luver's arts,
(Ye ken I'm guid at that;) But ilka time I failed, frien', My weel laid plans' fell flat.
My first was scattered to the win's, The neist scorched in the fire;
My bonnie Lady said to me, Gae back to your heavenly choir,
Gae fin' your Mary, gae fin' your Jean, Ye are na luver o' mine;
118 PEN PICTURES.
Your luve is like the fickle win', 1 catena for tliat kin'.
But patience won the victory,
I stuck like Spaulding's glue; I swore b\^ clay, I swore b\' night,
To her I wad be true. That gin she'd w^rite my messages.
My Scottish rhymes wad save; Sae lang as she suld lee, \^ea!
Rob Burns wad be her slave.
On the spur of the moment I write.
Like unto the lang ago; Of this an' that an' the ither.
Of things \'e all weel know. True to mj^ nature I hit the mark,
I read with the e3^e of a seer; I say what I think to all mankin'.
An' naebody do I fear.
Gin 3^e are guid, kin', true to all.
An' do the best ye can; Gin honor's law jq dinna brak'.
By sic as ye I'll stan'. An' tho' ye're puir as ony mouse.
Your breeks wnth age are gra3'; I'll watch \'our flock and guard it weel,
Prosperit\^ I'll sen' A^our wa3^
We're keepin' a beuk o' record,
I'm Auld Nick's secretar}'; He's president of the stock -yards,
Hutch, Yanderbilt, Gould (an' me — ) Weel! I am one of the chosen few.
The firm has gien a job; I run the train from Earth to Hell,
Ower the rout this morn went "Bob."
PEN PICTURES. Ii9
At the demarkation line he met,
Servetus, Bruno and Paine; Luther, Voltaire, Monroe, Hugo,
Washington, Lincoln, the brain. The soul, the nerve, the force.
That gave birth to the era of man; The grit powers of revolution,
"Bob" joined Evolution's van.
Oh! Robert's frien's were leal, aye!
The3^ met him with the biggest band; An' such a halleluiah — Losh!
Auld Nickie Ben sheuk his hand. Papes an' priests an' saunts w^ere there,
Gude! there never w^as such a time! They voted me poet laureate,
An' asked me to pat it in rhyme.
Weel! "Bob" is tdkin' a rest noo,
AVe gied him the saftest chair; It's all a fake his cumin' to earth,
He's nae said a ward, I'd swear! 'Twill be a lang time afore he talks,
He'll hunt aroun' for his kin'; A lassie wdth fire an' pluck an push,
That's reads alang Truth's line.
Nae! he didn't speak at the Zoo Park,
'Twas a monkey pat up the job; An' didn't the fools play fools i' the farce?
But they were na up to "Bob!" He w^as nae liar, an' he hates a sell.
An' Fraud is Miracle's trick; Clairvoyance saj-s: I see na "Bob"
Your Robert, is Fraud's ain "Brick."
120 PEN PICTURES.
A COMPARISON.
APPHO, songstress of the Muses, Harmony's goddess fair; ^^ Born in the sixth century, B. C, Left in the Muses' care.
Sappho, Socrates, Plato, Born of woman and man;
Conceived thro' Nature's master law, Materialized thro' Nature's plan.
A trinitj^ of soul power,
Evoluted from the great unknown; Brilliant stars on the mental plane,
The world their field and throne.
Christ, conceived by God, (they say,) The equal of those, was not;
Inferior to many who lived and died, A strange fact, I wot.
Christ, (a man,) God and the Ghost, What a figure these three have cut!
An ocean of blood has been shed. By the 1 3' rants of faith, I wot.
PEN PICTURES. 121
TO SENOR DE LOME.
CARE na for Spain, I care na for yc,
Seuor De Lome, nae! nae! There's grit injustice niang your folk,
A tragedy ye pla3^ P'^air Cuba needs a rest, Senor,
Frae murder an' frae strife; She's gaun to cut the tether, De Lome, ye bet your life.
The Spanish bluid is het, man,
Spain's sons are bauld and bad; Ye act like beasts, Senor De Lome,
Like hungry tykes gaen mad. Auld England's Queen sits on her throne.
An' smiling views it all; The royal queen of queens, perched high,
Hears na her sister's call.
Ha! France, auld France — Politeness' wean!
Weel fed \vith buttered bread; She reads about the wounded men.
The starving, dying, dead! 'Bout Dre\'fus, the Jew, she's thinking,
Esterhaz}', Zola, Pellieux, that row; The warl seems in a tousie muss,
Oopside down I wow!
The reichstag and diet. Count Posadowskj^'g menu.
122 PEN PICTURES.
An indigestible feast; The proudest nation in the warld,
But, corrupt to say the least. Prince Bismark's foreign policy,
The young sprigs are aping; Baron Von Buelow's regimen,
Bismark's views he's shaping,
Herr Richtcr, Herr Bebel, Vorwaerts,
Watching the puir man's bread; The Emperor — a blac-bluid barnacle,
Mair needna be said. The Powers resting on their arms,
Some one maun catch the cue; 'Tis time a halt was called, De Lome,
We speak to Sjoain thro' you.
Auld Uncle Sam, has fooled wi' ye,
Monke^^ed roun' too lang; Ye've cut an' slashed, j^our pirate wark,
Ye ken is very wrang. Ye've gat 3^our passport noo, De Lome,
Ye're ganging hanie to sta^^; I've a ward to gie ye, frien' De Lome,
There something I maun say.
Ye spak' unkindl3- o' McKinlc}^ —
Mark Hanna's tool, alas! Sae wi' your passports — tykes an' bairns,
Oot o' this kintra ye pass. Ha! ha! mony a man is laughing.
We laugh, an' smile an' laugh; The insult is a comic farce.
It micht weel pass for chaff.
Gin ever man telt the truth, 'Twas vou, De Lome, 'twas you;
PEN PICTURES. 123
Cheer oop, greet na, greet iia, Senor,
The play is na yet through. Treachery met Honor face to face,
Played thief with diel-ma-care; O Treachery! hide your face, for shame!
Honor bids you beware.
Your "Jingoism" an' that an' that,
Was vera weel pat in; Considering the opinions of the Americans,
You spread it vera thin. Whan the "Powers" view Mark Hanna's man,
And think what might be said; To raise this bleezin' blaw, De Lome,
It really seems ill bred.
''Those friendly relations,'" weel! weel!
Pluto on his throne wad smile; Donsie is bauld Hypocrisj^,
It beats auld Nick's ain st\de. Honesty is the best polic}^, yea! 3'ca!
In war or peace, deal sc[uare; The stealin o' a wee bit letter,
Sure it wasna fair.
On his dignity is the "Little man,"
Weel poised I'm sure he thinks; The auld beld eagle, laughs an' laughs,
Flaps his wings, nods and blinks. Liberty's goddess finds nae rest,
She's playing now^ the scout; She is watching, she is watching.
For a Spanish squall, nae doubt.
The kintra's honor, (William an' Hanna,) "The Administration, w^e maun sustain."
For this, an' that an' the ither, \^e maim gae, ye'U nae remain.
124 PEN nCTURES.
Your sea Lid was nae thing, naething, Sae maurn na, greet na, De Lome;
Renown ye'll win frae tliis — man, With Dame Future, change will come.
Just think o' all those "ciphers,"
Those cablegrams, frae ower the sea! Frae Woodford ower in Madrid,
An' those frae Fits Hugh Lee. Wha kens what they are doing.
What those mystic ciphers mean? Those micht out-do your "jingoism,"
Cut a muckle figure, I ween.
They micht get their passports, Senor,
Gin there was any way. To figure out the meanin'
An publish what they say. "Olympus and Ossa upon Pelion piled,
Ye shall have no gods but mcl Feasting upon ambrosia and nectar,
This, all men can see.
The insult is to Jupiter (The Ohio god,)
The monumental god has frowned; That's the reason, the true reason,
That you, De Lome, are dowmed. Jupiter, chief of all the gods.
Ye maun bow to the tyrant's wall; Cccsar like, he w^aved his wand,
Down, Dons! peace, be still! Austin, Minn., Feb. 17, 1898.
PEN PICTURES. i2{
A SCRAP FROM A LETTER.
K NEEL nae to Earth's flesh-pats, nae! The ph3^sical reigns supreme; Buckle tight your armor, yQal
Mill' ua Deception' dream. Whan the physical has tint its power,
Stagnation then will reign; That is the time — that is the time, The saul is hlled with pain.
Mental attraction brightens with age,
It glows with a living fire; Ay— the inspiration comes, man,
From a higher power. The garden of Thought is ever in bloom ,
Loveh^ is the garden of Age; An' ilka day a new poem,
Is written on Life's page.
QUOTATION.
if
URNS o'er the plough,
Sung sweet his wood notes wild; And richest Shakspeare, Was a poor man's child.
126
PEN PICTURES.
THE SOLILOQUY. OF A MOUSE.
-^^ OMETHING to eat, something to eat,
1 heard a wee mouse say; Somsthnig to eat, something to eat.
The lacU'- is awa\'. She's gaen oot for the evenin',
To cat eh a waft' o' win'; Caller hiney, just frae the byke,
Stealin' is nae sin.
Something to eat, something to eat,
Gray -back kens na I'm here; Something to eat, something to eat—
He ea's me his wee braw dear. But gray-back aft forgets his weans.
Pie gaes touslin' roun' somewhere'; An' leaves mc with my bairnies three,
He disna for them care.
Something to eat, something to eat,
I winna loot them starve: Something to eat, something to eat,
I wiss that I could carve A wee bit slice frae this fat cheese,
To carry to little squeak; Losh! here's a bottle o' bluid-red wine,
But a' ni}' packets leak.
Something to eat, something to eat, Oh! here's the Sunday cake!
PEN PICTURES. 127
My puir wcc braw bairn ics three,
A slice to each I'll take. Something to eat, something to eat,
Here's a wee bit jell; "In Gude an' the kirk, I pat my trust,"
Gin I steal, wha will tell?
Something to eat, something to eat,
Here's the cracker bag; Something to eat, something to eat.
My gra3'-back is a wag. I wonner gif the Lady's laird,
Staps oot till dawn o' day; I wonner gif she greets a' nicht,
An' whatna does she say.
Something to eat, something to eat,
Yv'hat's the diflference 'twixt men an' mice? Something to eat, something to eat.
Ye ken, baith hae their price. Lairds an' gray-backs steal awa',
Are afttimes fand tmtrue; Lady Grace, and' Lady Mouse,
Sick at heart an' blue.
Something to eat, something to cat.
The rich maun feed the puir; Something to eat, something to cat,
I heard the snick o' the doorl To my wee legs 1 maun tak',
An' leuk weel for the cat; Whan mae Lady sees the cake an cheese,
She'll swear it was a rat.
128 PEN PICTURES.
THE SCOTCH THISTLE.
HARACTERISTIC of the Scotch—
The story that I tell; 'Twas many years ago,
In the Ian' where Scotchmen dwell. The Danes cam' prowlin' ronn' oor way,
Cautiously at nicht; The Scots skip weel, with conscience clear,
A Scotchman is a' richt.
Barefooted were the 'savage Danes, To the Scotch camp close were they;
Stealthily they crept alang, Naethin' aroun' to flcy.
Whan flat iipo' a Scotch thistle, 'Ane j3at his braid -bare foot,
I canna gie the Danish ward. But in German 'tis, mein gott!
His skreighs waukened ilka Scott,
They fell upo' the fae; An' thase who werna fand deid,
Teuk their hameward way. An' the tell-tale Scotch thistle,
Quick cam' into renown; 'Tis noo the flower o' Scotland,
In city, hamlet, town.
JENNIE B. HAGAN JACKSON.
PEN PICTURES. 129
TO JENNIE HAGAN JACKSON.
ESIDE m\' chimne^v neuk of ease,
I sit this wintry day; An' croon a Scottish lullab}',
To while the time away. The dear auld lake is white wi' snaw,
A meadow it micht seem; Sae, weel I ken what flows aneath,
'Tis real, 'tis na a dream.
I ruminate wi' sober thocht,
On mony things I ponder; Of the glad new day, the j^et-to-be,
An' I wonner, Jean I wonner! What will the hairst be? Oh Jean!
'Tis mair than the gods can sa\'; A slumbering Vesuvius is 'neath it all,
'Twill burn red-het some day.
Like the fires of hell 'twill bleeze, Jean,
An' money will scorch in the flames; The flesh, the banes, they winna burn.
But the smeek will blacken names. Sin is a breeder of families,
A breeder of curses het; The hairst o' sin, is a hairst o' weeds,
Chafl" is the bread they get.
Ye'll view it all, some sad day, Jean, Ye'll mourn for the sins o'men;
130 PEN PICTURES.
Ye'll extend the han' o' pity,
Ye'll shaw j^oursel' a frien'. Ye'll hear the fateful slogan, Jean,
As the thunders of Truth roll b}'; An' the lightning flash of Justice—
Ye'll hear a niaurnful cr\\
"O Gude let the mountains full on me,
Let the cauld earth hide mj^ face; Into the wiel o' Greed I plunged,
I wallow in filth's disgrace. Hypocrisy has crouned me king,
An' mouA' a hizzie is quean;" The Deil will hae his ain i' the end,
He never fails, I ween.
The gudes are makin' a big stout broom,
The deck they're gaun tae sweep; An' the cleanin' oop in that grit day —
Losh! mony wi' joy will weep. . It's ainly a question of time, Jean,
The black sheep we'll corral wi' care; An' the clean, white sheep, weel housed an' fed,
Our broo wi' them we'll share.
Ye fear na hell or the hangman's whip.
Ye can keep yoursel' in order; Whan yt feel j^our honor grip,
Ye ken that is your border. Your guides are Prudence, Honor, Truth.
They are father, mither, adviser; Oh! listen tae them bonnie Jean,
An' ilk day, ye'll graw wiser.
'Twas fair July, whan ye I met,
We chatted lang thegither; The siller moon was on the lake,
An' beautiful the weather.
PEN PICTURES. 131
It was a nicht for luvers, Jean,
I pla_ved the luver tae ^^e; ''J\vas auld business wi' me, Jean,
Ye ken, we did agree.
Lang past the midnight hour, Jean,
Time, we heeded not; The street lamps blinked themselves tae sleep,
Tired o' watching, I wot. The big eyed howlet in the trees,
Cried oot the hour is one; An' the fish in the lake leaped oop tae see,
The cause of the chatter an' fun.
Ye tald me, Jean, o' the dear auld hame,
My Scotch hame o'er the sea; An' ye bro't me a wee bit plant, Jean",
'Twas vera kin' o' ye. A wee bit plant frae my garden, Jean,
'Twas a compliment to me; I promised ye then an' there, Jean,
A rh^'me to jq I'd gie.
O bonnie JeanI dear lassie JeanI
Changes will come to ye; Neath the winter's cauld glintin' sinn,
There's a darklin' clud for thee. The win's o' Fate will blaw a gale,
Y^'U reef 3'our sails, my Jean; A Strang han' hands the helm, Jean,
The harbor ye'U reach, I ween.
The licht-hoose isna far awa'. The lamps are trimmed an' burnin'.
The captain ken's the rocky shore, Roun' the reefs ye'll sune be turnin'.
He'll bear you thro' the maddened waves, With garments clean an' dry;
132 PEN PICTURES.
Ye'U furl your sails, my bonnie Jean, Your colors ye'U loot fly.
Bide a wee, bide a wee,
Time will tell it a'; Ye'U plank a new bridge, Jean,
A bridge that isna sma'. A modern bridge, a spiritual bridge.
That spg.ns a chasm deep; Ye're gaun to scale Truth's mountain.
It's hie an' vera steep.
Mair I winna tell ye noo,
I'm sure 'twad na be richt; But a flamin' torch ye'll bear, Jean,
Sweet-heart, fear na the nicht. Some day I'll ca' your way, Jean,
An' gie ye a helpin' han'. The picture will be cumin', Jean,
The gift o' the artist man.
Gang your gait, mae bonnie Jean,
Ye'll tak' a han' i' the fray; Ye're paving the raid for the cumin' weans,
Oot in the future day. It's drap the curtain today, Jean,
A new act comes on the morrow; Auld actors gae an the wee bairns cum,
Life's play is joy an sorrow.
Oh! this is a beautiful day, Jean,
Wha daurna speik the truth? There's na strap roun' your neck, Jean,
Ye bear in your arms sweet youth. Ye a goddess, my ain dear lass,
The poets bow at your shrine; The Muses nine, gie ye harmony,
To the saul, 'tis bread an' wine. Nov. 1898. R. B.
PEN PICTURES. 133
TO THANKFUL GASTON.
PROMISED ye, dear Ladye,
A ward I'd gie to ye; I see ye are expecting, A few lines frae me. Ye have been faithful, lady, Tae all the warl, 'tis true; But the warl has gaen agley, Sae aften, frien', with you.
Weeds an' thistles, ye have plucked,
Lang your way they grew; Ye have tired o' the task,
Aften ye've been blue. Despondency has crushed your soul,
But Patience the smart did heal; A soothin' balm she gave tae ye,
An' said: All will be weel.
Thankful bj^ name and nature.
Ye ken, I am nae guessin'; Thankful ye hae been. Thankful,
Thankful for ilka blessin'. Trouble has gien ye mon^^ a bhght.
Oh! ye were brave and true! A gowden hairst, yd sail cum.
Treasures we'll gie to 3'ou.
A refiner, — Sorrow, aye! In her fire tried, ye are;
134. PEN PICTURES.
Ye, climbing the heiohts to Sonl-Land,
Guided by Truth's bright star. Girded roun' b_y Patience's arm,
Ye are a shinin' licht; Ye keenly sense the wrang, Ladye,
An' seek the raid that's richt.
Freedom mates na with Oppression,
Oppression is a canker-worm; But Richt will down Oppression,
The win's will bring the storm; The cluds are gathering darkh',
The lightning's flash I see; The thunders rair in the distance,
Muckle it means to ye.
Time's treacherous tide has brought 3^e,
Burdens heavy to bear; An' 3'e hae aften thocht, Lad3^e,
P'ate tae 3'e wasna fair. To loft3^ heights 3'our soul soars.
In spiritual realms 3'e lee; Development came with suftcring,
Ladve, 3'e l)ear the gree.
Whan the white-caps rolled, an' rough life's sea,
An' the ship creaked in ilka seam; Then the angel said: "Peace, be still!"'
Thev came in mon3' a dream. Hope bade ye, to the mast, haud fast, ■ -
Oh! 3'e faced the pelting hail; But often the gude o' the win's heard,
Frae 3'our saul a maurnful wail.
In F'ortune's cup I'll leuk, Lad3'e,
An' see what's there for thee; An' gin I fin', Anne Boleyn,
I'll quickly tell it 3'e.
PExN PICTURES. 135
An' I will wliatt auld Death's red knife,
An' bluid I'll surel}^ let; As inquisitor, I'll plan the job,
'Twill be weel done, ye bet.
Ye sit b3^ the ingle-low an' muse.
Of the guid time lang ago; Ye sit by the ingle-low an' dream,
Day-dreams that nane can know. On your hearth a bog of peat may burn,
Bogs, bleeze, an' smudge, an' reek; Your een are sair, an' blind, an' all,
With the n'ast\' black sraeek.
'Tis a lang raid that has nae end.
An' ye hae traveled far; Weary, discouraged, worn,
Alake! dim is 3'our night star. Btit Heaven's morning star will rise.
It gleams with Hope's bright light; I'll lead thee, Lad3'e, lead thee,
Out of Despair's grim night.
Hand to Patience, Lad\'e mine,
Time will answer your prayer; There's rest an' happiness for all,
Gather in your share. I'll gie ye sunshine, Ladye,
I'll gie \'e Love's sweet rest; Contentment 3^et will come to a'Ou,
Believe all's for the best,
Bide a wee, bide a wee,
Hope's rainbow I will bring; Sadness I will tak' awa',
O Thankful! ye will sing. Change is nature's law ye ken,
I'll ring the changes for thee;
136 PEN PICTURES.
There's a rift in the mirky clud, There's a siller lining for ve.
TO MALABECCO.
OU are an inspiration, man, You've helped along my poet's plan; The things m\^ Ladj^ would not write, She now is willing to indite.
Discouragement 3'ou gave to her,
I listened, but did not demur;
Fair April's comments you inspire, There's mony from them will transpire;
My lyddite shell, draps in that nest.
To smeek 3'e oot, I thocht it best.
Please tax, (with all the rest ye've gat) A monkey with the auld Tom Cat.
The privileges are on one side.
In telling this I tak' much pride. Rob Burns is in it as you see, M}^ compliments I sen' to ye. April 20, 1900.
A QUATRAIN.
ATURE'S demands, checkmated bv man's law; Nature introverted, perverted, ayl Stagnation, with miasmic brain an' maw, Sa^^s: Disease's victim gies man's law the lie.
PEN PICTURES. 137
KIPLING'S MUSE.
What has become of Kipling's fighting Muse? Has the fickle jade deserted him in his hour of need, after the manner of femininity in general? — Dr. Crandall.
,0\ no! she's not a fickle jade,
She'll not desert her lover; She's skirmishing 'round a wee bit,
Planning a cunning maneuver. She's with the convocation of Muses
That meet in Washington, D. C. She's a guest of Liberty's goddess.
In this land of the free.
There's a big convention in Washington,
The Muses met on the sly; Republican saints they're watching,
Who'll fight Roberts by and by. Kipling's Muse is noting the morals
Of Republican Congressmen; Time's record book is open,
And she'll use her Poet's pen.
Those special lady friends,
Oh! a special lady friend! And the female private secretaries.
Of these there is no end. It's all the rage, the blazing rage,
A female sec-re-ta-ree. In your office and j^ou business-house,
That is what we see.
138 PEN PICtURES.
You'll find them down in Washington,
Stylish, pert and prett}^; Fascinating — a witch like Circe!
Blushing, shy and witty. Boarding at first-class hotels,
Congressmen's lady friends; They own "the hale blooming business,"
It with law and order blends.
Those Congressmen, oh! those Congressmen!
With their petitions long; And their sanctimonious faces!
Oh! they never did a wrong! Adulter}^! Cohabitation!
Oh! those fellows are mildh^ meek! They drink to Virtue in reaming swats
Then — that lad\^ friend they seek.
In those petitions; Pollution's stench,
Would make Virtue hold her nose; In those petitions, Hj^pocris^^
A model seems to pose. The greatest farce of all, as ^^et,
The world will laugh I'm sure; At the cheek, and gall and brass,
Of those Congressmen so pure.
Let them call in their children,
And give theiu a father's name; Waifs on the streets, and foundlings,
Belong to those men of fame. God of Mercy! soften their hearts.
Tear off shame's dirty mask! Then renovate — regenerate,
Law will evade this task.
I favor not polygamy-. But 'tis God's holy law;
PEN PICTURES. 139
The Bible teaches polygamy,
Here — freedom's line I draw. I do believe in Liberty,
A law ridden nation — we; Freedom gagged — Liber t\- crushed!
That, the gods can see.
Law is the holy inquisitor,
T\'rants sit on the throne; Slaves mind the whip-man's lash,
Law owns a heart of stone. Law's aristocrats and plutocrats
Are monopolists of high rank. They are the honored, titled gods;
Law at those lairds does blink. Jan . 5, 1900.
ACROSTIC.
EAR Sir: Your Open Court is filled with treasures rare, Reason sits upon her throne, her edicts are fair; Pons Asinorum, where priests take toll, blocks 3' our way, A constellation has turned the Christian night to
da3^ Uriel thou art, in this constellation bright, Light and truth — 3'ou do not teach that might is right.
Court of Truth, where all may see and hear, And bring to light m\'ths and fables without fear. Reason vs Rome, in 3'our court will have fair pla3% Una and her knight, will, the dragon Superstition sla3'.
140 PEN PICTURES.
TO SENATOR RAWLINS.
Senator Rawlin's Defence of Brigham H. Roberts: "Not the only poljgamist holding office today; President McKinley has appointed Mormons."
^ ICHT ye are, man, ye've struck the gong, Ye've hit the bull's-eye, sure; Investigation will clean the well, The festering sair will cure.
Utah, the braw lass, Utah,
Justice for ye bauds court; Bring in Robert's accusers,
We'll have a wee bit sport.
New York, take the witness stand. How mony Congressmen hae you?
An' how mony wives has ilka man? (I mean lassies, leal an true.)
The marriage ceremony is nocht,
Helen Gould may find this out; Ye canna fight the ways o' men.
Checkmated is Law, na doubt.
Wife No. I, an early luve,
May be for gold he wed; He's housed an' claithed like a poodle clog.
He gets his broo an' bed.
PEN PICTURES. 141
A second edition, wife No. II,
Luve is spontaneous ye ken; Micht as well dam a cataract,
As stop the luve o' men.
Wife No. Ill is fresh an' gay.
Confounding ties, ye see; Vibrations change with the surging tide,
Scientist an' I agree.
It's all on account of environment,
Or the treacherous, fickle stars; There's always a tulzie fyke — a muss.
When Jupiter meets auld Mars.
Wife No. I is chilled with age.
Rust and mould set in; Wife No. II, a back number.
Wife No. Ill bhnks at sin.
"The hale bloomin' business," is a man made law,
Right here in the land of the free; What's the matter with Roberts,
Gin he has sax wives or three.
Ye'U fin' the Senate an' House crammed full
Of men, with wives mair'n one; The spirits, an bogles, an fairies laugh,
Auld Nick enjoys the fun.
Roberts says: "These are my wives,
'Tis true, I own the corn; I think I'm right, I luve them all,
Freedom, a slave's na born."
Maine, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Lads, what hae ve to say?
142 PEN PICTUEES.
"Your Honorable MajestA', we follow the fashion, Private secretaries we paj'."
Women Secretaries are all the fad,
Dame Law a back seat takes; Honor pats Roberts on the back,
An' frowns upon Law's rakes,
Roberts claise an' feeds his bairns, Gies a faither's protection an' name;
While mony a Congressman's bastard, ]s mothered b}- Grief and Shame.
Seduction, the Congressman's wily art,
Abortion, mon\^ a wean slab's; Doctors (murderers) — fiends do this work.
The Congressmen the lang bill pays.
Then, ye daur talk of adultery, A'e felon's frae crime's black pit!
Ca' in \^our illegitimate weans, At your table let them sit!
Be honest and manh', and say the^^ are mine, And treat them as a faither should;
Ye cowards! traitors! conspirators! Your hypocrisy is weel understood!
I am nae polygamist — nae!
But pat maun call kettle black; The Congressmen posing as Innocence,
These Congressmen common sense lack. Dec. 10, 1899.
PEN PICTURES. 143
TO JENNIE HAGAN JACKSON.
,HAT name is vera dear to me,
Jean, my lassie Jean; ' The story isna new to ye, Ye ken her weel, I ween. As the magnet to the steel, ay,
Sae Jean was leal to me; Frae first to last, her lo'e was mine, The kin' o' lo'e that's free.
Oor Jean, we ca' ye, bonnie Jean,
Oor sonsie queen, jq are; I am your ain leal frien' Jean,
The play ye yet will star. In a snaw-drift cauld, banked ye were.
An' froze for mony a year; I've stude by 3'e mony a niclit.
An' wiped the scaldin' tear.
Oh! the after-glow of the winter sun.
Brought inspiration's fire; An' the morning sun of Springs warm day.
An' the sangs o' the spring-bird's choir. Have made 3-e a new woman Jean,
Ye arisen as frae the deid; In the past lies the mystic vale.
Ye hae passed frae the Ian o' dread.
Clase boun' in a shell, ye cudna graw. Harmony's Ivre was mute;
144. PEN PICTURES.
A life without Affection's luve,
Isna aboon the brute. Existence is a drumlie burn —
A canal, a barge, a mule. That drags alang towards the open sea,
'Tis a part o' Experience schule.
Changes grit, auld Time has bro't,
Ye're in the open sea; There's a beautiful ship waiting, Jean,
This vision cums to me. The sails are set, the mast is Strang,
The ballast is weel placed; It's launched in the sea of Harmony,
Toward the Ian' o' Peace ye're faced.
Attraction's caught ye, bonnie Jean,
He warms the heart's cauld bluid; Life's wimplin' burnie leaps with joy.
Ye're na langer in the flude. Oot o' the darkness into the licht —
Ye've been tested weel, ni}- Jean; Ye wear the Martyr's signet ring.
By the Mj'stics gien, I ween. April 10, 1900.
QUOTATION FROM ROBERT BURNS.
OME, lucky, find a flowery spot, For which they never toiled or swat; They drink the sweat and eat the fat,
But care or pain; And haply eye the barren hut, With high disdain.
EDGAR EMERSON.
PEN PICTURES. 145
ENGLAND'S OUEHN.
QUEEN! what for j-c moan? Arc ye in pain? O Queen! what for ye greet like simmer rain? \Ji Wcel buskit oop sae braw, ye've gowd an gear; Wha's gien ye fashions news that mak's y^ fear?"
The Queen lay on a down}-, silken bed,
She murmered oft, and to herself she said:
"I am Victoria! England's queen.
The grandest lady in the land, I ween!
And 3'et — I've had the strangest, strangest dream!
I saw the waters of a wild, mad stream—
A storm-cloud gathered darkly o'er my head;
A thousand devils hovered o'er my bed!
A phantom ship was waiting on the sea.
And Death, grim Death! was waiting there for me!"
"What is't to be a queen? oh! who dare tell? Uncertain are the lives of queens, ah! well! By fate or chance, my head I still possess, More luck^' than my predecessors, I confess. Of late, commotion haunts me night and da\'; O God! for peace, beseechingly I pray! Some think I'm in the mouhh^ clank auld age. Are wishirig now, to read my life's last page. The generosity of l*arliament the^- see, Two millions each 3'ear are given to me. Thirty-seven thousand acres of land, Mv serveints say that I command,
146 PEN PICTURES.
'Tis true, 1113^ servants give me little praise, My rents (the^^ say,) are all I raise."
''Entailed are lands, eastles, titles — tis true; This faet to lords, kings, queens, is nothing new. An unjust law, (some think,) well! it ma^' be. But — Justice possibly might uncrown me. There's much to think of in this war of might; The agitation seems to be, what's right? But, right or wrong, my crown 1 still must wear. Yea, of my titled rights, I'll take good care. There's one unguarded fact, the world well knows. The House of Lords has led me b\' the nose. Well haltered I have been for many a year, Oh! it has cost me many a bitter tear! The house of Lords and Queen, must be as one, Or else the Kingdom will be quick undone."
"The howling mobs are rapping at my gate;
My morning message is, 'friends, you must wait'.
The curses of the poor are hurled at me,
Their cry goes up 'O God! that we were free!'
And Scotland echoes it along the line,
Great God! I'll drown nn^ burning thoughts in
wine! My brain is wild, the world is mad! alas! I wonder if these clouds will ever pass? 'Tis true, my troubles gather tliick and fast. Glad will I be, when this mad carnival is past. With all my mighty armies in the land, My royal navy that's strong and grand; The foreign nations fear me, far an' near. And 3^et, there's strange rumblings in my ear Of danger to England's throne, to me, to mine."
Thus, came a vision to England's queen, A vision brought by the gods, I ween;
PEN PICTURES. 147
And though, supreme does seem to be her reii2:n,
Her queenh^ power is on the wane.
The old queen is waking, in tliis great dav,
She finds 'tis true, she has little to saA^;
She has slept and slept the Rip-Van-Winkle sleep,
Till the canker worm oppression has eaten into
polities deep, And the rotten foundation of that auld English
throne. Will sink into olilivion with nothing but a moan.
"O God! save my son! O God! save the Crown Prince!
Or he will be undone. This royal old family —
Oh! must we be dethroned? Oh! where's the God of Israel?"
And thus and thus she moaned.
And so, she roused herself one day, And to the people she did sa}^: "A jubilee! — a jubilee! A royal juliilee in honor of the queen!" Ghaist—
Gin ye canna be heard, sure ye can be seen, A costly' figure-head, sure ye be,
Wi' your mouA' bairns pensioned with a princely fee.
Queen —
England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales,
Shall raise their banner and spread their sails;
I'll show the p^'oples of this land.
That Oueen Victoria, so proud and grand,
Still sits upon the throne of state —
I hardlv tliink it's vet too late,
148 PEN PICTURES.
To draw the slackened reins, once more;
I'll rule these lands as ne'er before!
I'll show the Gladstones and Parnellites,
I'll fly them higher than a kite!
My epitaph they'll not write yet.
The dogs of war on them I'll set;
My slaves shall sing 'Long Live the Queen'!
(I'll stop the wearing of the green.)
And so this doughty queen did prate, As she donned her royal robes of state.
Queen —
A jubilee! a jubilee! a royal jubilee!
Bring out the royal coach, And decorate with lovely cloth of gold.
To Lords, a warning sermon I will preach; True — plebians homes may 3'et be sold. But I'll be queen — queen of this jubilee!
Oh! let this jubilee be grand.
Its praise shall ring from land to land!
Spare no expense — taxes raise.
The poor man, he will sing mj^ praise.
Make the procession miles — miles long,
Rank kings, queens, dukes as they belong;
Aristocracy's gilded, blue-blooded men,
Will represent England and Scotland ye ken.
My royal blood is burning hot! The thought gives life and youth I wot; My wrinkled face I'll powder well, And Age her secrets will not tell. The world will think I'm young agen, I will command respect of men.
Old England's laureate will write my praise, ;\ sweet dear song as in aulden days,
PEN PICTURES. 14-9
Lay a corner stone to my Temple of Fame, Victoria! Victoria! imperishable her name!
A panegyric the Lords shall give, I'll let the House know that I live! This jubilee will be no sham, The world shall know its queen I am.
This is no dream, no idle dream! As strange, as strange as it maj^ seem; My king, who lies in yonder bed. Greeting will send, "M3' queen's not dead!"
Servant, ring! The Lord Chamberlain I would see, Send his lordship quick to me.
Lord Chamberlain —
I am your humble servant, Queen,
(Lord Chamberlain, tho' I be,) 'Tis with muckle pleasure Ledd}^ I wait upon your Royal Majesty.
Queen —
Sir — I've a great surprise for thee,
I'm going to have a jubilee.
(I wish Merlin, the seer, was here,
He'd plot and plan, make all things clear.)
Lord Chamberlain —
Wi' saddles an' bridles an' trappings line. Your blae-bluided horses sail march in line; Led, my Queen, b\' your favorite flunkies, , An' ahint them will follow the grit mass o' don- keys, Dressed in scarlet, an' siller an' gold. Just as they were in times of old. We'll hae the best music, frae ilka land, Frae the auld maisters. Oh! it will be grand!
150 PKN PICTURES.
The Heavenly choirs will join in the chorus, 'Twin be, O Queen! subhmel3^ glorious. Recorded, this jubilee, in the grit Beuk o' Time, Immortalized b^' poet, an' poetess in rhj^me; I'll invite a' the lairds that ain lan's an castles. Ye are their Queen, they are your vassals. We'll treat them like kings, in a royal \va\^. For in government affairs they hae meikle to sa}-.
Ghaist —
Your cronn is held, Lcddv, by a gauzy thread, An' they hae the power to uncroun your head."
Lord Chamberlain —
A greetin' I'll sen tae all the grit powers; They'll sen' ye fine banners and beautiful flowers. An' dear Uncle Sam, frae far cross the sea, Will sen' his best wishes tae yQ an tae me. An' the Czar oop in Russia, I mauna forget; An' the Turks an' the Jews, I'll na' leave in the wet.
I'll say tae the Pape (wha daurna peep oot o
Rome), Ring the grit bells in St. Peter's dome; P'or his servant ye hae been, for fifty lang years; His subjects are in bondage, in poverty an' tears.
Ghaist—
Might and Greed, reign, sovereign powers,
At the feet of thase twa vampires, Justice cowers;
The richt arm o' the law, the Pape does need.
Law is a crushin' mill of Might and Greed. *
An inquisition, Torquemada behint the scene;
In the garb o' the Pope, Cardinal, King or Queen.
PEN PICTURES. 151
Laird Chamberlain —
'Tis true, my queen, 'tis true. The Tape has meikle need o' you. Muckle power the Tape gies ye, The Pape an' Queen maun sure a.c^ree.
Ghaist —
Kings, queens, emperors, czar, psha, Pape; Electrocution, guilotine, bullet, rape, Leuk ye north, south, east, west, Decide gin _ve can, are we cursed or blest.
Queen —
It's right 3'ou are, tis true, dear sir, From your opinion I'll not demur; The Pope and Queen, sure, must agree. Perfect confidence I have in thee. I need the Pope, the Pope needs me, We two will rule on land and sea.
Ghaist —
On 3'our throne Queen, Polic\^ does sit,
Conscientious scruples' she hasna a whit;
Oh Queen! whan your subjects do rebel,
The Pape's curse fa's with fearful knell.
He'll mak' them ken there's something worse
Than England's rule, or the eviction hearse,
In this your jubilee ^^ear.
O Queen! a nonentity! jq star the play!
But, Queen, excuse me gin I say,
Spend na \^our time in haly prayer.
But gie a wee bit thocht tae w^hat 3^e'll wear.
A wee bit mutch, an' a bonnet blue.
That auld Scotland may ken that ye arc true;
An' burnish wecl prood England's croun,
An wear ye, Leddy, a silken goun;
Covered wi' thristles an' roses fair-,
152 PEN PICTURES,
That Scotland may kcii, for her ye care. Your Ro3'al Majesty does vera weel ken, Scotland has nionj^ grand, gnid men; The bluid o' Wallace, Bruce an Burns does lee, (A republic A-et that kintry will be.)
Lord Chamberlain —
A- feast in the castle (one act in the plaj',)
Afore the close of that grit day;
An' Leddy, aweel, I wot it micht be,
Tae invite the Mayor o' Boston tae tea.
I winna forget to gie India a call,
It wadna be strange, gin she sen' j-e a shawl.
Ye have weans a plent}-, that belang tae your tree,
An' a tocher, the grannie, is expeckit tae gie.
(Ha! shawls by the dizzen, the coofs will sen' ye,
An' I'll jink ane oot, I'll bet a bawbee)
Of a' this, Queen, I'll tak' meikle care,
Richt royally. Queen, the gree ye will bear;
All will be weel, I bid A-e guid nicht.
Success tae the jubilee, may the days be bricht.
Ghaist —
All the geese will be watered, whan ye're served,
O Queen! The w^arl's folk will smile at your jubilee, I ween. "Grit cry an' little woo" — the Devil dipt the sow, Auld Scotia will smile, as she follows, I wow!
Queen —
Well! so far, m^^ jubilee's well planned, The Lord Chamberlain, seems to fully understand. The Royal family will come — one an all. Lovingly the\''ll hasten, to the Queen Mother's call.
The Crown IVince! the Crown Prince! My son shall he displaced,
PEN PICTURES. 153
In royal splendor, in kingly splendor, The Prince shall be arrayed. That his immoral nature — Ghaist—
That's an important feature. The warl, O Oueen, can ne'er forget The Prince of Darkness — the play is set. Tho' Prince of Wales, Black is his name, Virtue frowns, whan he courts Fame.
In Edinburg (whan I was young)
Nae man was half as laigh;
Down in the cesspools of hell,
The scum and scurf did gae!
But, charges werena brocht on man,
Of such vile, damned report!
It tak's the Prince of Wales, O Oueen!
To find Sensation's sport.
Your servants nid-nod lang his wav,
An' smile at him sac sweeth-;
He thinks the lairds will brush him aff
With the broom of Time, neatl3^
The Plouse of Lairds will bury the stencli
In a graff that's deep and wide;
But the House of Commons is nae daft.
They hae na tint their pride.
Queen —
Oh! the meddling, buzzing people.
They sure will understand;
The privileges of the Aristocracy,
Are great, in dear England.
To speak unkindly of the Prince,
Would seem a plot to me;
I wonder if he fears the press.
Oh! life is a tragedy.
154 PEN PICTURES.
And this is a tragedy on Life's stage, The crown prince must pla^' his part; The fetters of a nation I hold, He, the pnlse of a nation's heart. I see the dark-winged raven Fear! It's perched upon my door! Will it never, never leave me? 1 see its shadow on the floor! Oh! can it be, oh! can it be, That some one to him will sa}'; Auld England, Royal England, Like her Queen will soon dcca}^?
Ghaist—
Aidd England, prood auld England,
She is a niichty host;
And yet, tronble's warning whisper
Comes like Hamlet's ghost.
She says: England's despotic Plutocrats
A back seat stine will take.
And the lairds of the lan's an' castles,
Frae their restful sleep will wake.
Justice, Mercy, Honor, Love, Truth,
On strange legs will stan' erect.
An' Wisdom's folk winna bow to queens,
Representatives they'll elect.
Strange it ma}^ seem, ghaist tho' I be
Mony facts I've telt 3^e true;
I'm Scotland's laddie, Robert Burns,
My name to ye's na new.
My kintra, my luved kintra,
England gied tis a bluidy war,
Auld England's bluid-thirsty bull-dogs.
With Scotia went muclde too far.
England's stealing propensities, O Queen! Hand's guid thro' all past ages;
PEN PICTURES. 155
Bluid, the torture-rack, axe, lire.
Is written on her pages.
India's men of honor, of soul,
To the mouths of guns bound fast;
Blown to atoms, flesh scattered in air,
The world looks on aghast!
Justice and the scorn of humanity,
Hae flanked their power anent thee;
Gif ye cud, ye'd ain the warl.
This mony nations see.
With your castles an lan's an all. Queen,
Ye lee in brilliant splendor;
Oh! the Royal Family, pray tell me. Queen,
What to the world do they render?
Millions of gold it takes, O Queen,
To run your royal crew;
An' it's truth I'm tellin' ye, O Queen,
Scotland is amaist though.
They'll vote your paupers oot o' date.
Loot them earn their bread and claes.
They're tired of the Royal pensioned gang,
The deil it wad amaze.
Ireland is stamping the grun with rage,
Her shillalah ye will feel;
She cowers under your lash, O Queen!
Unfairly with her ye deal.
Tyranny's ged is your scepter, O Queen!
The puir of 3' our kintra howl!
An' ower it all some glad bright day.
Will drap the hangman's cowl.
This means the Monarchy will die. Reincarnation will then take place; Auld England will be born agen. She'll wear a Republican face.
156 PEN PICTURES.
A man will be a man then, An' vote as all men shotild; Women will vote in that grit day, Whan Monarch V lies in her shrond.
GIVING THANKvS.
]j^0 thee, 0 Bridget! we give thanks For oyster-soup and turkey stuffed. The Lord ma^- think it little rough, And set us down for high-toned cranks; But, Christmas dinner, cooked like this, With good mince pie and frosted cake, We couldn't bless it for Christ's sake; We'll eat it all, and then we'll kiss The cook that gave us so much bliss. Like Burns, I give thanks when I'm through, This freak to Christians may be new; But he who prays o'er heavj- bread. And cake that's like a piece of lead; Potatoes hard, meat left to burn, Methinks ere he was through, would turn His thankful prayers to curses hot, The blessing would be soon forgot.
EzckiclIV Chap. 12, 13, 14, 15 verses.
Ezekiel tells us of a cake, 'Twas God told him the cake to bake; Such cooking ne'er was done before, I'm sure the peoples w^ant no more. We know Ezekiel told the truth, 'Twas not the fiction of a youth; We must believe — we must believe. The Good Book, wad not us deceive.
PEN PICTURES. 157
Disglorify — blaspheme his Gt)d! Ah! no, he'd fear the avenging rod! I wonder if he blessed the cake, (For the Children-of-Israel's sake;) As from the red-hot coals he raked It out, and dished it up well baked. ■ Did they invite some friends to sup. To help them eat the treasure up?
God's too esthetic, so I think,
(At Oscar Wilde he'd wink his eye
An' gie a knowin' smile sae sn'. )
His food's too rich — and wine's his drink;
I must object to his ciucer wa3'S,
T like the cooks of modern da\'s.
My gold did buy the iDread, the meat, And Bridget cooked it fit to eat; To God or Son I give no thanks. Since in the Book I've read their pranks. I'll bless dame Bridget braw an' clean, To bless the cook is best I ween. God had nae finger in the pie. Give thanks to Bridget, thanks to I. Christmas, 1890.
OUOTATION FROM ROBERT BURNS.
YE douce folk that live by rule, Grave tideless, bloody, calm and cool, Compared wi' 3^ou — O fool! fool! fool!
How much unlike! Your hearts are just a standing pool;
Your lives a dyke!
158
PEN PICTURES.
HEIGH-HO! FOR A HUSBAND!
;k EIGH-HO! for a husband!
Gin three millions I maun gic; I'll hae to lee in a cottage, A wee cottage maun shelter me,
Heigh ho! for a husband!
I thocht it a' ower in the nieht; I canna be a countess,
But — "Whatever is, is rieht."
I hae na' siller, I hae na govvd, Sae na' Laird will smile on me;
Na Count, or Sir, or grizzled Duke, Will cross the dark blue sea.
Fashion's dames wi' their millions. Replenish the spendthrift's purse;
Lured by Pride ati' Ambition, The hairst they reap is a curse.
Europe nets Uncle Sam's daughters, Their money-bags cross the sea;
An' they in return sen' Uncle Sam, What? paupers Iw millions they gic.
Heigh-ho! for a husband!
I'll marry for lo'e na' gold; My saul an' body I winna gic ~
To a count I winna be sold.
PEN PICTURES. 159
Life is too short, an' too precious,
Royalty' is noo below par; Gic me the honest — the cultured saul,
Honor maun be my life's star.
THE FOURTH OF JULY.
H! departed shades of George Washington!
Art thou disturbed in Heaven with the bang! bang! And the crashing! clashing! kling-lang-kling- lang; This in honor of Independence won? George Washington, America's great son And father. Can you hear the kling-ling-lang, In Heaven's 1)right home? can you hear the bang-bang? Can you wdtli God-like sight discern the fun, In climbing greased poles, and catching greased pigs; While fat men waddle through the mud or dust, And trundle wheelbarrows to win a prize;
Wliile country lads and lassies dance the jigs? P'rom this carnival I turn with disgust. Shocked, with the broken noses and banged ej-es.
160 PEN PICTURES.
«
A THOUGHT CONCEPTION.
TRINITY Methodist cluircli, Chicago, Alas! to the ground burned; Heretics, take notice, the Trinit\^, ■^ On the Christians the tables have turned,
One hundred thousand dollars lost,
The church belonged to God; They look upon the ruins, and say: We pass beneath the rod.
Paine's Memorial Hall, rearms high,
A nionumcnt to Truth; What a lesson this, a lesson thisi
It docs unveil a m3'tli. God noteth the fall of the sparrow.
And nuni<3ers the hairs of your head; Thought wanders through Memory's halls,
Among Miracle's fetich dead. Feb. 24, 1900.
OUOTATION FROM. ROBERT BURNS.
RANT me indulgent Heaven that I may live To sec the miscreant feel the pains they gic; yi Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, ^ Till slave and despot be but things wbieli were
MOSES HULL.
PEN PICTURES. 161
TO MOSES HULL.
ELCOME to Lily Dale! frien',
Mnckle ye're needed here; •■ There's g-aiin to be a eleaniii' oop,
Twill be well dune, na fear. We Avant a fearless man like ^^e,
To rake Pollution's nest, Ye'U be an honor to the camp. Compared to some the rest.
Is the C. L. F. A. school a blind?
To mak' the guid folk think, In no wa^' are the^' mixed with ye;
OhI the Deil at them will wink, An' poke them in the ribs and sav:
I'm wecl acquaint with ye, Ye're watched by day, ye're watched at nicht,
Ye'll nae be foolin' me.
Blessin's on your pow, Aloses.
Stick like a wood-tick, stick. We'll back ye in your wark, Moses,
They'll lin' that ye're a "Brick." Deception and Hypocrisy,
In hand they hold a trust; A shell we'll place aneath it, man,
Just wait, ye'll hear it "bust." June 1st, 1900.
162 PEN PICTURES.
MY ROBIN.
ANCE kent a sonsie Scotch laddie,
A braw Scotch laddie \Yas he; Sae gay, sae trim, an sae nobby, The lassies were jealous of me. But Robin was true to his sweetheart,
He didna flirt with them at all; My Robin cam' courtin' on Sunday, On those lassies he never did call.
Sae true, sae faithfu' was Robin,
Of all laddies I lo'ed him the best;
I gied all my kisses to Robin, Nae kisses I gied to the rest.
But Robin was puir as a kirk mouse,
He had na' siller at a'; His Strang ban's an' brain were a treasure,
A treasure I thotch nae sac sma'. Truth, wit and good sense. Nature's tocher,
And a heart that was leal and true; But, Auld Nicky Ben cam' atween iis,
I'll tell the sad story to you.
My bonnie Scotch laddie, I lo'ed him. But he had nae siller for me;
A poverty- louse said mac faither, Nae luve in a cottage for ve.
PEN PICTURES. 163
Afy faither \Yas saur as the Deil, sir.
He didna like Robin at all; He turned him avva' frac the hoose, sir,
With wards that were bitter as gall. My faither said "eum ye nae mair, sir,
My lassie nae mair ean ye see;" An' I cried, an' 1 maurned sae lang, sir,
For the laddie that ne'er cam to me.
But Rol^in did luve me nae less, sir,
For the bad wards my faither did sa}',
An' we aften met on the stile, sir.
We'd chat in the auld fashioned way.
**Ye maun mak' aguid match," said mae faither,
"Ye'd pla}^ the fool lassie, I fear; That pauper maun keep awa' lassie,
I'll keek him oot gin he cums here. Ye were born for a ledd\' mae darlin'
A leddy Fm sure ye will be; Ye shall marry a laird, mae wee lassie.
The laird will be cummin' tae ye."
*'\'e will be naebody, naebody darlin',
Unless ye hae castle an' land; An' are w^ed to a laird my braw lassie,
An' lee like a lad\' sae grand.
"Ye sail hae a braw coach with sax horses,
Like the Princess O' Whales ye will ride; With a coachman an' footman, mae lad\',
An' a mone3'-bag laird by 3^our side. Oh I he will be prood o' his Icdd^-,
As prood as a laird can be; Your beauty he'll prize as a fortune,
Beauty has its price, ye will see."
164 PEN PICTURES.
**Sae, say nae mair, lassie, of Robin, Nae mair maun Robin cum here;
Sae cheer oop, be smilin' mac darlin', I'll bring ye a laird, never fear."
An' mac faither did bring a grit laird, sir,
A laird that owned siller and gold; I was gien tae the lairdly auld laird, sir,
Tae the laird his lassie he sold. Had I been a pownie or coo, sir,
The bargain wad been much the same; Except, that mac faither gat naething,
An' I'd get the change of a name.
I lo'ed my Robin the same, sir,
I maurned him all nicht an' all day;
An' whan I did gae tae the kirk, sir, For Robin I always did pray.
In the kirk 1 was wed tae the laird.
With lace and silks I was dressed; With pearls, an' rubies, an' diamonds.
With all siller cou'd bring I was blessed. Whan tlie kirk mon did say: "Will ye luve him:
I thocht I wad fall in a lit; I cudna weel lie tae the kirk-man.
But I didna luve him a bit.
Sae I leuked tae the richt an' the left, An' never a ward did I sav;
Oh! mae hairt was aching sairh',
An' for Robin, mae luve, I did pray.
I lived with the laird in the castle, A gray-heided grannie was he;
He had sae mony queer notions,
An' his whims disgusted puir me.
PEN PICTURES. 165
My laird wore a red, ilannen iiicht-gown, An' a uichtcap all tasseled wore he;
An' whan he was ready for bed, sir, I thocht 'twas a clown I did see.
Oh! I thocht o' piiir Robin, mae darling, 1 maun never forget him, nae me!
An' whan I did view that aidd laird, sir, 1 wished it was Robin,— not he.
But, the guid Gude does favor the brave,
Deith cam tae the castle ae day; An' he tenk the anld gray-heided laird,
Deith smiled, an' tae me he did say: "I will leave ye the gold an' the siller.
An' the castle is yours just the same; Just gie me the auld laird's red nicht-cap,
An' I'll get me quick oot, o' your hame."
O Deith! ye hav dune me a favor, I hae leuked for ye mony a day;
Coom in, I will drink tae your health, sir, I'll remember ye, Deith, whan I pray.
Sac I gied him the auld laird's regalia.
His Bible, his nicht-cap an' all; An' I said: "Don't forget he is auld, sir,
Please gie the auld laird a warm stall." An' he laughed, an' he laughed an' he laughed,
I thocht he wad fall in a fit. An lie said: "Don't worry dear leddy,
Fret your dear soul nae a bit."
An' he laughed, an' he laughed, an' he laughed,
I thocht he wad fall in a fit; An' he said: "Don't worry dear leddy.
Fret vour dear soul nae a bit."
166 PEN PICTURES.
"Auld Nickie will see to that, lassie,
He'll be warm eneaf, hae ye iiae fear; Ye're weel rid o' trouble mae darlin',
Xoo, send for your Robin, my dear." An' Robin noo lives in the castle,
A leal, braw laddie is he; An' the auld laird's siller an' horses,
Belang noo tae Robin an' me.
An' I thank the guid Gude for his blessin',
Robin at last won the gree; Oh! Robin is glad that he waited, Yes waited for puir little me.
TO KATIE.
E pull the string. Punch quick responds, His limber legs fl}^ hie; He prances, dances, jumps and nods. With boldness, he isna shy. Your power is grit, strange is your string.
Oh! that string the coof will hang; A corpse he'll dangle at the end, Ye'U fin' that I'm nae wrang.
Ye'll buck anent a stranger power.
Than ye have ever met; Spirits are fixin' oop a plan.
Your wheels they're gaun to set. Noo, Katie dear, \'e'll meet Disdain,
She'll pass ye cauldly by; Ye'll reef your sails, your anchor cast,
Half mast A'our flags will fly.
TEN PICTURES. 167
HOW THINGS HAVE CHANGED.
00 things have changed since I was A'oung, Grit is the change I
The world is oopside down, I vow! A wondrous change; I think of it, as in a dream,
Dame Fancy's play; In fact, m^-sel' I hardly seem,
I watch the fray. To me the world seems strange an' new,
It mak's an' auld man amaist blue.
The lasses wore a flannen goun.
All winter lang; But noo the\^ maun, hae sax or seven.
Or something's wrang. Five dollar shoon, say vera thin,
I wot, ye ken; Gif ye demur they'll raise a din.
An' then — an' then, Thev hae their way, or raise the deil,
Sae ye gie in an' loot them spiel.
1 lo'e to think o' Christmas eve. In aulden times;
We dressed oop in our Sunday best,
Like daddy Grimes. The yule-log on the fender la}'.
In red-he t flame;
168 PEN PICTURES.
The guid wife in her kerchief gay,
Helped on the game, (Sae vera auld,) o' bUnd-man's buff.
Or, ye sail wed wha fin' the muff.
The gutcher gar't aside hill pleugh,
He liked it weel; He lo'ed to kiss as weel, I trow,
As ony chiel. An' then a sugar bowl they'd mak',
Ye ken — I ken; Sae mony lumps they'd pat in it,
'Twas like all men. The lassies smiled, an' ca'd it guid,
An' kissed him back as lassies should.
Then oot the fiddle some one gat,
An' scraped awa3'; 'Twas better music than ye hear.
Your weans noo play. Ye deedn't liae to hunt aroun'.
The tune to fin', Diminuendoes an' cresendoes,
He deedn't niin'. He played away' with a' his micht,
'Twad pat the bogles in a fricht.
The guid man passed the bottle aften,
It w^as the way;' Oor spirits it did seem to heighten,
It made us gaj-. The bluid did flow, the e'en did sparkle,
We luved it weel; The fiddler teuk his caup richt aften.
Then he wad speel. The graunie, some auld sang wad sing,
Grand-faither, teuk the pigeon-wing.
PEN PICTURES. 169
We gathered roun' the ingle-lowc,
Dear auld hre-place! Arx' coaxed the stories frae grand mither,
Her smiling face, I see it noo, the dear anld leddy,
Crooned the bab}-, An' tauld ns stories weird, an' queer,
O' some daezt carl. Like Tam O' Shanter or Rab Mossgiel,
Wha she thocht was a puir daft chiel.
Then mither passed the pumpkin pie,
An' ntit-cakes sweet; Then Christmas cake wi' plums she'd gie.
Her, nane cou'd beat. All kin o' nuts mae mither'd bring.
With apples sour; Then cam' the cider, just the thing.
It gied us power. To dance agen till braid dajdicht.
The jigs an' reels with all oor micht.
Alakel alakel those times are gaen,
They are nae mair; I sit at Christmas eve alane.
With troubled Care. The candle an' the snufters missing.
The dreepin' creesh — OhI for me there's nae mair kissin',
1 wear Time's fleece. The clearin' on mae auld lieid's cauld,
'J'he fact is, I am gettin' auld.
All things are changed, arc changed for me.
It seems sae queerl Nae candles, but by gas I sec.
It mak's me leer. The auld iire-place o' lang ago,
170 PEN PICTURES.
Sa.e bricht an' cheei\v, There I did spark an' my liive tell,
To my ain dearie. Oh! times liae changed sae much for me,
I'm auld an' lame an' canna see.
The auld st\'le breeks — the auld st^de breeks,
They suit me well; The barn-door front sae vera warm,
I greet tae tell; I canna get them ony mair,
They'r nae in style. Whan tae the store-man 1 talk o't,
He gies a smile; An' then 1 walk awa' sae sad,
Haen I those breeks I wad be glad.
The fiddle, noo nae mair I hear.
At hame, at hame; Auld Time has brocht some things sae queer,
Naething's the same. A big pianer banged all day,
Till I'm maist mad; The modern music some folks sa^-.
It mak's me sad. To think hoo Time does disarrange,
I'm sick, whan I think of the change.
It's noo the lassie has a beau,
Nae spark for ye; Xa bears creesh on his hair — ye know,
Like 'twas with me. Losh! scented oop like ony fox,
He'd smell a mile. He seems to be a brainless Cox,
That maun be kept on ice or spile. He leuks tae me (a kintra mon, )
Like what some ca' babboon.
PEN PICTURES. 171
Na sparkin' noo behint the loom,
Nae they — nae they; The dear auld thing has met its doom,
Sorry to sa^'. Now in a spence with porterease.
They wisely chat; Sae tichth' laced, she cudna sneeze.
An' that, an' that; On a divan they sit thegither,
Chattin' o' the win' an' weather.
Then, gif the nicht is cauld an' weet,
As 'tis afttime; They place npo' a hole their feet.
It is sublime. A hole weel ironed in the floor,
It mak's me smile; The doin's of these modern times —
I'll rest awhile. Oh! sune a change will cum tae me,
My heirs will all be glad to see.
TO MRS. R. S. LILLIE.
Compliments of E. J. AlacRobert.
CANADA thistle, that ye ca' me, A Canada thistle, with 3'e I'll agree; A Canada thistle, Scotia's ain flower, A Canada thistle, afore it yc'll cower.
A Canada thistle, your back it will scotch, A Canada thistle, for a fyke ye dae itch;
172 PEN PICTURES.
A Canada thistle, a teasle tae ye, A Canada thistle, frae it xq will flee.
A Canada thistle, protection 'twill gie, A Canada thistle, the mediums frae thee; A Canada thistle, ye can stew for 3'onr broo, A Canada thistle, I'll sen it tae you.
A Canada thistle, will mak' ye dae richt,
A Canada thistle will mak' ye greet;
I'll nick aff your horns, a^-e, pull out your fangs,
Ye'll tak' your ain gait with _vour red-het tangs.
TO F. G. N N.
GROUND m^^ axe on 3'our grunstane,
The blade is sharp 'twill split; The block that gets in my way, sir, ' That block will ken 'tis hit.
In the trap we didna fall, sir.
Ye canna cope with me; The spirits and bogles are laughing,
For Rob Burns bears the gree. It's Scotch meet Scotch frae noo, sir —
Water falls to its level; Scotch and Seneca meet and mix, The dose wad spew the Devil. June 1st, 1900. Rob Burns.
PEN PICTURES. 173
TO \VM. M'KINLEY, WASHINGTON, D. C.
^^ ECH! little niaii, ye slip]3ed a eog,
Whan ye turned crank on De Lome; Whan ye gied the Don his pass])ort, An' sent the laddie home. Ye lit the hre of Plate, man,
Spain will blaw it to a flame; Ye'vc cooked oop a hotch-potch mess, man They'll play ye a pawky game.
The Americans in Cuba, ha!
Lang ye hac heard them cr^-, Insulted — robbed — imprisoned,
LoshI Mephistoplieles wad sigh I Weyler an' his Spanish crew,
Butchered men Hke swine: An' the godly men of America,
At the sacrament — drank wine.
While American's blood stained Cuba's soil
Y'ou worshiped at the shrine of God I While fathers, mothers, children starved,
B_v the t3'rant's heel crushed — sharp shod Y'e Godh' men wha kneel an' pray —
Slept well on beds of down; To the call of Duty, ye were deaf,-
W\ wha wear the nation's crown.
'Twas whan ye gat the cut behind, An' a slap square in the face;
174 PEN PICTURES.
Ye rose in your might an' majesty,
This was a serious case, You, the Nation's president,
Insulted — grit God! by Spain! The insult in a private — sealed letter;
Did this explode the Maine?
Unbalanced, man — light-weight you seem,
Dead at the top, ye ken; Your headlight is getting dim,
Ye're nae oop to date — auld frien'. A gostly shadow of by-gone