From The Birmingham Age-Herald, April 2, 1913. By Tronquill. In a very humble cot, In a rather quiet spot, In the suds and in the soap, Worked a woman full of hope; Working, singing all alone, In a sort of undertone, “With a savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end.” Sometimes happening along, I had heard the semisong, And I often used to smile More in sympathy than guile; But I never said a word In regard to what I heard, As she sang about her friend Who would keep her to the end. Not in sorrow nor in glee, Working all day long was she, As her children, three or four, Played around her on the floor; But in monotones the song She was humming all day long, “With the savior for a friend, He will keep me to the end.” It’s a song I do not sing, For I scarce believe a thing Of the stories that are told Of the miracles of old; But I know that her belief Is the anodyne of grief, And will always be a friend That will keep her to the end. Just a trifle lonesome she, Just as poor as poor could be, But her spirit always rose Like the bubbles in the clothes. And, though widowed and alone, Cheered with the monotone, Of a Savior and a friend, Who would keep her to the end. I have seen her rub and scrub On the washboard in the tub, While the baby sopped in suds, Rolled and tumbled in the duds; Or was paddling in the pools With old scissors stuck in spools, She still humming of her friend Who would keep her to the end. Human hopes and human creeds Have their root in human needs; And I would not wish to strip From that washer woman’s lip Any song that she can sing, Any hope that song can bring. For the woman has a friend Who will keep her to the end.
Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald
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The Washer Woman’s Song
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Ae Fond Kiss
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!
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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!
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In School Days
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 11, 1913. By John Greenleaf Whittier. Still sits the schoolhouse by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow, And blackberry vines are running. Within, the master’s desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack knife’s carved initial. The charcoal frescoes on the wall; Its door’s worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school Went storming out to playing. Long years ago a winter sun Shone over it at setting; Lit up its western window panes, And low eaves icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school was leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled; His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushing with restless feet the snow To right and left, he lingered— As restlessly her tiny hands The blue checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes; he felt The soft hand’s light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. “I’m sorry that I spelt the word; I hate to go above you, Because,”—the brown eyes lower fell— “Because, you see, I love you!” Still memory to gray haired man That sweet child face is showing, Dear girl! The grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing! He lives to learn in life’s hard school How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her—because they love him.
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A Philosopher
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, March 8, 1913. There lived a happy man one time Who ne’er was known to sigh; He simply spat tobacco juice And watched the world go by. In winter time he sought a stove, In summer by a stream He stretched himself in careless ease, Well pleased to rest and dream. The busy turmoil of this life Did not appeal to him; He had no brilliant plans mapped out For keeping “in the swim.” The song of birds was sweet to hear, He loved the skies of blue And when the sun beamed on the earth It warmed him through and through. “A worthless chap,” some people said, Who did not understand, Merely because he scorned to work With head or foot or hand. But life was passing sweet to him, And though without a cent, He often laughed at millionaires Who knew far less content.
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A Long Wait
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 27, 1913. “In twenty years from now,” said Pete, “Just look for me on Easy street.” The time went by, with hopeful air We looked and found he wasn’t there. But one whom we did question said, The while he wagged a hoary head, “I once did know a fellow who Lived back this way, a mile or two, “He might have been the man you seek. He earned, I think, twelve plunks a week. “And had so large a family, From debt he never did get free. “And when at last he closed his eyes And went, I hope, to Paradise, “He whispered, ere his spirit passed, ‘I’ve come to Easy street at last!’”
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Lovely Mary Donnelly
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 17, 1913. By William Allingham. O lovely Mary Donnelly, it’s you I love the best! If fifty girls were around you, I’d hardly see the rest; Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still. Oh, you’re the flower of womankind, in country or in town; The higher I exalt you, the lower I’m cast down. If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright, And ask you to be his lady, I’d own it was but right. Oh, might we live together in lofty palace hall Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall! Oh, might we live together in a cottage mean and small, With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall! O lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty’s my distress— It’s far too beauteous to be mine, but I’ll never wish it less; The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!
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Abou ben Adhem
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 16, 1913. By Leigh Hunt. Abou ben Adhem—may his tribe increase! Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace And saw within the moonlight in his room Making it rich and like a lily in bloom An angel writing in a book of gold Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold And to the presence in the room he said, “What writest thou?” The vision raised its head And, with a look made of all sweet accord Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.” “And is my name one?” Said Abou. “Nay, not so,” Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low But cheerily still, and said, “I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow men.” The angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light And showed the names whom love of God had blessed— And lo, Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!
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The Flow of the River
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 9, 1913. By Dr. W. E. Evans. I have followed the flow of the river From the springs and the rills, where at first Through the grasses and ferns all entangled As a stream into sunlight is burst; I have followed its devious windings ‘Neath the bending of boughs interlaced And have marked how it deepened and widened As its course to the ocean was traced: And so wide and so deep is the river As it surges and flows to the sea That the springs and the rills are forgotten— E’en the place where it first came to be. I had often o’erbounded the river, With a sportive and boyishlike pride But today only line as of shadow Marks the far away opposite side. We were children, and stood by the river, Then a narrow and silvery band— I suggested we follow the water While we held one another by hand: Through the tall tangled grasses we wandered By the banks of the musical stream As it tinkled, and murmured, and cadenced Like the mystical tones in a dream: Ah, the day was so fair! I remember It was early in blossoming June And the soft vernal zephyrs were fragrant— All the world with its God was in tune! And I loved her—as man loves a woman— Not as boys often love and forget; I was old for my years and was thoughtful And I fancied she loved me, and yet— Through the tall tangled grasses we wandered As we each kept an opposite side— Loosing hands just a little-by-little Where the water was swifter and wide; Till at last only tips of the fingers Could be touched—then the hands idly fell And she merrily said as we parted— “We shall meet nevermore,” and “Farewell!” O, the long, lonesome walk by the margin! O, the piteous call to return To the spot where the stream had beginning ‘Mid the grass, and the vine, and the fern! But away in the distance she faded— Where the river drops into the sea And dividing us rolled the wide waters Leaving memory and heartache to me.
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Bedouin Love Song
From The Birmingham Age-Herald, February 6, 1913. By Bayard Taylor. From the desert I come to thee, On a stallion shod with fire; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry; I love thee, I love thee, With a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold! Look from thy window, and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold! My steps are nightly driven By the fever in my breast, To hear from the lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door, And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the judgement Book unfold!