From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 31, 1913. By Robert Burns. Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae farewell, alas! Forever! Deep in heart wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I’ll ne’er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love forever, Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne’er been broken hearted. Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be like a joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas! Forever! Deep in heart wrung tears I’ll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I’ll wage thee!
Month: March 2021
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Ae Fond Kiss
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In Storm and Stress
From the New York Tribune, March 30, 1913. By W. J. Lampton. How weak is man when nature’s wrath Pours out itself upon his path, And with the storm and fire and flood Exacts the price of goods and blood, To leave him stricken, sick and sore Bereft of people, home and store. And yet how strong is man—the blow That falls in one place starts the flow Of helpfulness from everywhere, With open hands and saving care. The speedy answer to the call Of loss and sorrow, and from all Come hope and courage which uplift The faltering head among the drift. Which put new life in living when The fallen shall arise again. How strong is man when nature’s wrath Pours out itself upon his path!
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Fifty Years Apart
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 29, 1913. They sit in the winter gloaming, And the fire burns bright between; One has passed seventy summers, And the other just seventeen. They rest in a happy silence As the shadows deepen fast; One lives in a coming future, And one in a long, long past. Each dreams of a rush of music, And a question whispered low; One will hear it this evening, One heard it long ago. Each dreams of a loving husband Whose brave heart is hers alone; For one the joy is coming, For one the joy has flown. Each dreams of a life of gladness Spent under the sunny skies; And both the hope and the memory Shine in the happy eyes. Who knows which dream is the brightest? And who knows which is the best? The sorrow and joy are mingled, But only the end is rest.
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Rock Me to Sleep
From The Detroit Times, March 28, 1913. Backward, turn backward, Oh time, in your flight; Make me a child again just for tonight! Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep; Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep. Backward, flow backward, Oh tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears; Toil without recompense, tears all in vain— Take them and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay, Weary of flinging my soul wealth away, Weary of sowing for others to reap— Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep. Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, Oh mother! My heart calls for you. Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I tonight for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep— Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep.
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The Gladdest Time
From the Rock Island Argus, March 27, 1913. By S. E. Kiser. I like it in the morning when The sun shines in across my bed And seems to kind of whisper then “Get up, you little sleepy head,” And just outside my window, where A limb sticks upward from a tree The sparrows often sit and stare And nod their heads and chirp at me. I like it in the evening when The sounds all seem so far away, And all the men go home again Who had to work so hard all day, For then my muvver always sings And dresses in her nicest gown, And soon we’ll hear the train that brings My papa back to us from town. I like it best on Sunday, when We don’t get up till very late, Because the maid’s so weary then And has to sleep till nearly eight, And after we’ve had breakfast, why, My papa doesn’t start away, But stays at home, and he and I Keep all the house upset all day.
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The Hurricane
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 26, 1913. By William Cullen Bryant. King of the winds! I feel thee nigh, Blow thy breath in the burning sky! But I wait, with a thrill in every vein For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! On the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray— A glare that is neither night or day. A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane’s distant voice is heard, Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. He is come! He is come! Do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled? Giant of air! We bid thee hail! How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space. Darker—still darker! The whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air; And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thundercloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where’er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow. What roar is that? —’tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured in the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! Well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, With the very clouds! —ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all, And I, cut off from the world remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.
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The Old Home Folks
From the Omaha Daily Bee, March 25, 1913. By Will Chamberlain. Not on the chance acquaintance, Nor yet on the new found friend, When the storms about us gather For comfort may we depend. If I should be permitted, Aside from all light jokes, To choose for you the truest, I would pick the old home folks. From them I would name a husband For the dimpled, would-be bride; A childhood mate or sweetheart, In whom she might confide. The old home folks are surest To notice if we succeed, And they are the first to sorrow With us when our hearts do bleed. So do not be quick in forsaking The faithfully tried for the new, Who may seem so apt and clever When the skies are soft and blue. For tho’ it is said the prophet Has honor except at home, Love blossoms there for the masses— The prophet afar may roam. And when in the fading twilight We put off life’s stern jokes, Those who will stand to us closest Will be the old home folks. While away on their sunny hilltops, By Elysian breezes fanned, God’s own home folks will greet us With a smile and outstretched hand.
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The Crusoing of Spifkins
From The Topeka State Journal, March 24, 1913. By Arthur Chapman. Young Spifkins had a fortune that had come down from his dad— He had lived his life in luxury and style; The best the market offered was the thing young Spifkins had— Existence was a matter of his pile. But Spifkins had a shipwreck on a far-off Southern shore, And all his wood and grub he had to haul; He’d thought he couldn’t live without the comforts from his store, But soon he had forgot about ‘em all. He found he could be happy in his tattered pantaloons— He never missed his collar and his tie; And restaurants and taxis he forgot, ere many moons— And, forgetting such, he didn’t want to die. And so, when some one landed on the isle where Spifkins dwelt, He chased the rash intruders from his tent; “I’ll not go back,” cried Spifkins, as he whaled them with his belt— “I never knew before what living meant.”
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Lessons in History
From the Evening Star, March 23, 1913. We’re a-goin’ to the dogs, History sure points the way, ‘Cause what happened way back there Is what threatens us today. Rome is busted, Greece is busted, Babylon is busted, too— Putterville would better profit By their fate, I’m tellin’ you! Not to beat around the bush— What about old Col. Toake? Is the turnin’ out of his cows On the public streets a joke? Rome and Greece and Babylon— All them had their priv’leged class, And I’ll bet their first graft was Runnin’ cows on public grass. Little thing, some folks’ll say, And not worth the fussin’ at; If me or you or Tuttle Gibbs Should let our stock run out like that It wouldn’t be a little thing; They’d have the constable on us And have us hauled before the law— You bet there’d be an awful fuss! It always is the high up chap That benefits by what is done; And that’s the plan on which those old And ruined nations all was run. Rome went under, Greece went under, Babylon went under, too— Putterville can learn a lesson From their fate, I’m tellin’ you!
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April
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 22, 1913. By Berton Braley. Fashioned of tearfulness, tenderness, cheerfulness; Changeable, shy, as the ways of a maid; Spring’s sweetest miracle, lovely and lyrical, Showers and flowers, and sunshine and shade, Making the merry land fragrant as fairy land, Thrilling the heart with a wonderment new, Laughing and serious, moonlit, mysterious, April’s a month that was molded for you!