Newspaper History

Category: The Birmingham Age-Herald

  • An Ode: Boadicea

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, February 1, 1915. By William Cowper.

    When the British warrior queen,
        Bleeding from the Roman rods,
    Sought, with an indignant mien,
        Counsel of her country’s gods,

    Sage beneath the spreading oak
        Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
    Every burning word he spoke
        Full of rage, and full of grief.

    “Princess! If our aged eyes
        Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
    ’Tis because resentment ties
        All the terror of our tongues.

    “Rome shall perish—write that word
        In the blood that she has spilt—
    Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
        Deep in ruin as in guilt.

    “Rome, for empire far renowned,
        Tramples on a thousand states;
    Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—
        Hark! The Gaul is at her gates!

    “Other Romans shall arise,
        Heedless of a soldier’s name;
    Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize,
        Harmony the path to fame.

    “Then the progeny that springs
        From the forests of our land,
    Armed with thunder, clad with wings,
        Shall a wider world command.

    “Regions Caesar never knew
        Thy posterity shall sway;
    Where his eagles never flew,
        None invincible as they.”

    Such the bard’s prophetic words,
        Pregnant with celestial fire,
    Bending as he swept the chords
        Of his sweet but awful lyre.

    She, with all a monarch’s pride
        Felt them in her bosom glow;
    Rushed to battle, fought and died;
        Dying, hurled them at the foe.

    “Ruffians, pitiless as proud!
        Heaven awards the vengeance due;
    Empire is on us bestowed,
        Shame and ruin wait for you.”

  • Epistle to a Friend

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 25, 1915. By Robert Burns.

    I lang hae thought, my youthfu’ friend,
        A something to have sent you,
    Tho’ it should serve nae ither end
        Than just a kind momento;
    But how the subject-theme may gang,
        Let time and chance determine;
    Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
        Perhaps turn out a sermon.

    Ye’ll try the world fu’ soon, my lad,
        And, Andrew dear, believe me,
    Ye’ll find mankind an unco squad,
        And muckle they may grieve ye.
    For care and trouble set your thought,
        Even when your end’s attained;
    And a’ your views may come to nought,
        Where ev’ry nerve is strained.

    I’ll no say, men are villains a’;
        The real, harden’d wicked,
    What hae nae check but human law,
        Are to a few restricked;
    But, och! mankind are unco weak,
        And little to be trusted;
    If self the wavering balance shake,
        It’s rarely right adjusted!

    Yet they wha fa’ in fortune’s strife,
        Their fate we shouldna censure;
    For still, the important end of life
        They equally may answer;
    A man may hae an honest heart,
        Tho’ poortith hourly stare him;
    A man may tak a neibor’s part,
        Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

    Aye free, aff-han’ your story tell,
        When wi’ a bosom crony;
    But still keep something to yoursel’,
        Ye scarcely tell to ony.
    Conceal yoursel’ as weel’s ye can
        Frae critical dissection;
    But keek thro’ ev’ry other man,
        Wi’ sharpen’d, sly inspection.

    The sacred lowe o’ well-plac’d love,
        Luxuriantly indulge it;
    But never tempt th’ illicit rove,
        Tho’ naething should divulge it:
    I waive the quantum o’ the sin,
        The hazard of concealing;
    But, och! it hardens a’ within,
        And petrifies the feeling!

    To catch Dame Fortune’s golden smile,
        Assiduous wait upon her;
    And gather gear by every wile
        That’s justified by honour;
    Not for to hide it in a hedge,
        Nor for a train attendant;
    But for the glorious privilege
        Of being independent.

    The fear o’ hell’s a hangman’s whip,
        To haud the wretch in order;
    But where ye feel your honour grip,
        Let that aye be your border;
    Its slightest touches, instant pause—
        Debar a’ side-pretences;
    And resolutely keep its laws,
        Uncaring consequences.

    The great Creator to revere,
        Must sure become the creature;
    But still the preaching cant forbear,
        And even the rigid feature;
    Yet ne’er with wits profane to range,
        Be complaisance extended;
    An atheist-laugh’s a poor exchange
        For Deity offended!

    When ranting round in Pleasure’s ring,
        Religion may be blinded;
    Or if she gie a random sting,
        It may be little minded;
    But when on life we’re tempest-driv’n,
        A conscience but a canker—
    A correspondence fix’d wi’ Heav’n,
        Is sure a noble anchor!

    Adieu, dear amiable youth!
        Your heart can ne’er be wanting!
    May prudence, fortitude, and truth,
        Erect your brow undaunting!
    In ploughman phrase, “God send you speed,”
        Still daily to grow wiser;
    And may you better reck the rede,
        Than ever did th’ adviser!

  • Story of the Little Brothers

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 24, 1915. By E. B. Barry.

    We are the little brothers, homeless in cold and heat,
    Four footed little beggars, roaming the city street,
    Snatching a bone from the gutter, creeping thro’ alleys drear,
    Stoned and sworn at and beaten, our hearts consumed with fear.
    You pride yourselves on the beauty of your city, fair and free,
    Yet we are dying by thousands in coverts you never see;
    You boast of your mental progress, of your libraries, schools and halls,
    But we who are dumb denounce you, as we crouch beneath their walls.
    You sit in your tinseled playhouse and weep o’er a mimic wrong;
    Our woes are the woes of the voiceless, our griefs are unheeded in song.
    You say that the same God made us; when before his throne you come,
    Shall you clear yourselves in his presence on the plea that he made us dumb?
    Are your hearts too hard to listen to a starving kitten’s cries?
    Or too gay for the patient pleading in a dog’s beseeching eyes?
    Behold us, your little brothers, starving, beaten, oppressed—
    Stretch out a hand to help us that we may have food and rest.
    Too long have we roamed neglected, too long have we sickened with fear,
    The mercy you hope and pray for you can grant us now and here.

  • A Sad Story of Life

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 13, 1915.

    A member of the chorus
        Who visited a seer
    Was told that in six months she would
        Be married to a peer.

    Such talk should be discounted,
        It leads young girls astray;
    This maiden bought a lot of things
        For which she could not pay.

    And when she’d hoped to marry
        Her luck was very poor,
    For she was doing one-night stands
        She’d never done before.

    And no one said, “My lady,
        His lordship waits below.”
    Instead she warbled ragtime songs
        And critics panned the show.

  • Recompensed

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 7, 1915.

    Who tries and fails,
        Yet lives to learn
    What priceless things
        Some people spurn—
    A book, a pipe,
        A faithful friend,
    Refreshing sleep
        When labors end;
    An eye to see
        All nature fair,
    What hues the fields
        And mountains wear;
    Who knows content
        And happiness
    And is consoled
        When sorrows press—
    That man, e’en though
        He’s poor indeed,
    For fame and wealth
        Has little need.

  • To a Photographer

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, January 5, 1915. By Berton Braley.

    I have known joy and woe and toil and fight;
        I have lived largely, I have dreamed and planned,
        And Time, the Sculptor, with a master hand
    Upon my face has wrought for all men’s sight
    The lines and seams of Life, of growth and blight,
        Of struggle and of service and command;
        And now you show me This—this waxen, bland
    And placid—unlined, untroubled, white!
    This is not I—this fatuous face you show
        Retouched and prettified and smoothed to please.
    Put back the wrinkles and the lines I know,
        I have spent blood and brain achieving these;
    Out of the pain, the sorrow and the wrack,
    They are my scars of battle—Put Them Back!

  • Even as the Beasts

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 31, 1914. By Lord Byron.

    There is no hope for nations!—Search the page
    Of many thousand years—the daily scene,
    The flow and ebb of each recurring age,
    The everlasting To Be and Hath Been,
    Hath taught us naught, or little; still we lean
    On things that rot beneath our weight and wear
    Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
    For ’tis our nature strikes us down; the beasts
    Slaughtered in hourly hecatombs for feasts
    Are of as high an order—they must go
    Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter.
    Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
    What have they given your children in return?
    A heritage of servitude and woes,
    A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows!

  • The Guests of Sleep

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 29, 1914. By Theodosia Garrison.

    Sleep at the Inn o’ Dreams—
        A kindly host he waits,
    And all night long a goodly throng
        Comes softly through his gates.

    A varied company—
        Scholar and clown and king,
    Or prince or priest, or great or least,
        He gives them welcoming.

    For each he fills the cup
        Where poppy petals swim,
    Wherefrom each guest at his behest
        Drinks deeply, toasting him.

    And old men drink of youth,
        And sad men of delight,
    And weary men drink deep again
        The pulsing wine of might.

    And poets drink of song,
        But best and oh, most sweet,
    Above that brim where poppies swim
        The lips of lovers meet.

    Sleep at the Inn o’ Dreams—
        A kindly host he waits,
    And all night long a goodly throng
        Comes softly through his gates.

  • The Right Spirit

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 24, 1914.

    “I’m very glad to be alive,”
        A sturdy fellow said,
    “Although ’tis true I seldom thrive
        And I’m not often fed
    On dainty dishes. Still, I get
        A good substantial fare
    And manage to keep out of debt
        By taking proper care.

    “This suit I have on isn’t what
        You might consider fine,
    But then that sort is never got
        For seven ninety-nine.
    And while my overcoat was bought
        At least three years ago,
    It keeps me warm when I am caught
        Where winds of winter blow.

    “All luxuries I rather think
        I’ll ever be denied;
    No costly wines are mine to drink,
        I walk instead of ride.
    But, nevertheless, as you’ll infer,
        I’m far from being blue.
    What’s that? A Merry Christmas, sir?
        Why, thanks. The same to you!”

  • The Athabasca Trail

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 17, 1914. By A. Conan Doyle.

    My life is gliding downwards; it speeds swifter to the day
    When it shoots the last dark canyon to the Plains of Far-away,
    But while its stream is running through the years that are to be,
    The mighty voice of Canada will ever call to me.
    I shall hear the roar of river, where the waters foam and tear;
    I shall smell the virgin upland with its balsam-laden air;
    And in dreams I shall be riding down the winding woody vale
    With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca trail.

    I have passed the warden cities at the Eastern water-gate
    Where the hero and the martyr laid the corner-stone of state;
    The habitant, courier-du-bois, and hardy voyageur,
    Where lives a breed more strong at need to venture or endure?
    I have seen the gorge of Erie, where the roaring waters run;
    I have crossed the inland ocean lying golden in the sun;
    But the last and best and sweetest is the ride by hill and dale
    With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.

    I’ll dream again of fields of grain that stretch from sky to sky,
    And the little prairie hamlets where the cars go roaring by;
    Wooden hamlets as I saw them, mighty cities still to be,
    To girdle stately Canada with gems from sea to sea.
    Mother of a mighty manhood, land of glamor and of hope,
    From your eastward sea-swept islands to the sunny western slope,
    Ever more my heart is with you, evermore till life shall fail,
    I’ll be out with pack and packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.