The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales In Verse

T >> Thomas Cowherd >> The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales In Verse

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"Princes and Statesmen I count 'mongst my victims,
With painters and poets, philosophers sage,
Rich merchants, skilled doctors,
Cute lawyers, keen proctors,
Mechanics and laborers of each sex and age
Are found in my ranks,
And lured on by my pranks,
While I care not a pin what comes to them."

Then, Alcohol, tell me what do thy victims
In such vile standing while here in this world?
"They're spending their money
Not for milk and honey,
But for what will cause them to be quickly hurled
To that dreadful place
Where there is not a trace
Of richest mercy they here do contemn."

Alcohol, tell me what more are thy victims
As fruits of their orgies accomplishing here?
Asylums they're filling,
While jails by their swilling
Are constantly crowded, or far off or near;
And orphans are made
By this great liquor trade,
In thousands as all may very soon see!

Alcohol, listen the doom which awaits thee:
More than half of thy doings thou'st kept out of sight.
Every good man and true
Deems it is but thy due
That thou should'st be banished to Regions of Night.
And heart-broken mates,
With all orphans' sad fates,
Compel us to give forth this doom on thee.

TO MY BELOVED FRIEND MR. JAMES WOODYATT.

A CHRISTMAS LAY.

Woodyatt, this Christmas I devote
Some portion of my time to tell
In humble verse what God hath wrought
For us who're snatched as brands from hell.

The best of all my coaxing powers
To lure the Muse I'll freely spend,
Nor heed a whit the fleeting hours
Until my pleasing task shall end.

For I have found a friend in thee,
Such as I strove in vain to find
For twenty years; and this may be
A wonder to thy generous mind.

But so it is; and I would prize
The gift my God has kindly sent,
Nor quell the feelings which arise
Within my breast, till life be spent.

So, while my unlearned lyre I take,
Most gracious Muse, thy aid impart!
Thou canst not at such time forsake
Thy humble friend in this his Art.

No paltry theme shall form my lay
To such a friend at such a time.
Then let my thoughts in rich array
Come forth in gently flowing rhyme.

Nor wealth nor earthly pleasures make
The sum and substance of my song;
Such themes let grovelling rhymsters take,
Who write to please a worldly throng.

For him and me a better way
Remains, and I will freely sing
Of pleasures with most lustrous ray,--
Of those which from religion spring.

And well indeed may'st thou, dear friend,
Rejoice with me that God hath brought
Such sinful creatures to attend
Unto His voice who pardon brought.

I more than twice ten years have been
Within the Way to Endless Life.
Thou in the last few months hast seen
That Way with richest blessings rife.

And now, when seated round our fires,
Or when we take our walks abroad,
We seem as one in strong desires
To speak the praises of our God.

Big thoughts our kindred bosoms swell,
Deep gratitude our ardor fires,
Until we long for words to tell
The fervency that Love acquires;

And ponder as so well we may
Upon our present happy state
Compared with that in which we lay--
Objects of wrath at hell's dread gate.

We ask each other, Why is this?
Why are we favored thus of God?
Why are we made joint heirs of Bliss,
Destined to dwell in His abode?

Quickly the answer comes to hand:
Simply because of God's pure Grace.
And does not Love like God's demand
That we all seasons should embrace--

To speak to others of Christ's worth,
That they with us may fully share
The glories of our heavenly birth,
The riches He can freely spare?

Then let us, brother, with our might,
Work for Him while 'tis called To-day;
Looking above for strength, for light,
Press forward in this thrice-blest way.

Let us dig deep into that mine
Of hidden wealth stored in the Word,
And with strong faith all else resign
Just clinging solely to the Lord.

O, should our lives for years be spared,
May not one word or thought or deed
Unworthy God, be by us shared,
Who are from Satan's bondage freed.

1856.

TRIBUTARY VERSES,
WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY ON HEARING OF DR. O'CARR'S DEATH.

APRIL 18, 1854.

Sorrow stealeth o'er my spirit,
For I hear O'Carr is dead.
Once I tried to sing his merit,
After health began to fade.
Then I thought his end was nigh,
That he very soon would die,

When I saw that he was leaving
His sweet home for distant Isle,
Oft the thought my soul was grieving
"He might linger for a while
And then leave his wife and babe,
Far away o'er Ocean's wave."

Yet I know our loving Father
Often hears his children's prayers;
That he would at all times rather
Ease them of their ills and cares,
Than lay on a single stroke,
If not needful 'neath his yoke.

And I thought he then would listen
To our supplications strong;
That each countenance might glisten
With sweet joy ere very long:
Joy from seeing him come back,
Having of good health no lack.

When I heard of his returning,
And how he was sinking fast,
Soon my soul was strongly yearning
To be with him ere he passed
From these earthly scenes away
To enjoy Eternal Day.

This, my wish, kept growing stronger,
As each day flew o'er my head,
Till I felt I could no longer
Brook delay, when lo! he's dead.
Now I prize this pleasing thought,
He to Bliss is safely brought.

While hot tears bedim the vision
Of dear friends who mourn his death,
May they manifest decision
By the wondrous power of Faith,
In belief that those who sleep
Safe in Jesus shall not weep.

We are not forbid to sorrow,--
Jesus wept at Lazarus' tomb.
Soon will come the glorious Morrow
Which shall chase away our gloom;
If we put our trust in God,
And still seek to kiss His Rod.

STANZAS,
SUGGESTED BY THE DREADFUL RAILWAY ACCIDENT AT THE DESJARDINS
CANAL, MARCH 12, 1857.

Deep gloom pervades my spirit, and great sorrow fills my breast
With an overwhelming sense, which leaves me but little rest,
For a dreadful stroke has fallen on the town in which I live,
And sympathy and condolence I would most gladly give.

I have gone through many a street since this event transpired,
Seen the faces of my townsmen in grief sincere attired,
Heard them make sad remarks, seen tears bedim their eyes,
While from every feeling bosom burst forth responsive sighs.

The stranger in our midst might well wonder why we're sad,
For tokens of prosperity can everywhere be had.
The river has not risen to a mighty swelling flood,
Nor raging fire destroyed the homes of the Evil and the Good.

No pestilence like a serpent, with dread envenomed fangs
Has seized the young and beautiful and filled our souls with pangs.
Then why has gloom profound so settled on each face,
And the finger-prints of sorrow left on us so dark a trace?

Ah! loving hearts left homes all filled with family delight.
Full of hope and joyous feelings, never dreaming of a blight
To prospects of enjoyment that awaited their return,
Where the smiles of wives and children make true love the brighter
burn.

In such a happy state of mind they to Toronto went,
And accomplished all their objects in the time which had been spent.
Now, with still lighter hearts they make for home again,
And in the cars meet many of their traveling fellow men.

Drawn by the snorting Iron Horse along the track they flew,
What danger might be lurking near was hidden from their view.
On, on, still on they went to a bridged precipice,
When the Bridge gave way and all were hurled into the dread abyss!

The locomotive like a demon took first the fatal leap,
Dragging the human-freighted cars with speed into the deep
One plunged with him beneath the dark and icy wave,
And one stood upright on its end, as if some few to save.

Oh, my soul shrinks back with horror from dwelling on the scene
Which met the gaze of anxious friends who to that place have been.
I'd rather dwell upon the fact that Death to some was Life;
That they have gained by having done so soon with earthly strife.

What thoughts filled all the bosoms of that mixed devoted band
Is only known to God Most High, who, in his mighty hand
Holds all our life and breath as his own most sovereign gift,
And who alone can mortals shield from such destruction swift.

O, I know that some there died who had tasted of his grace,
And sudden death to them was summons to the place
Prepared by Jesus for his Saints in the mansions of the Blest,
And they now are drinking of the sweets of Everlasting Rest.

Amongst these we gladly number the three* whom we have lost,
In sympathy with the bereaved would try to count the cost;
But oh, 'twould prove a fruitless task; then, while we feel so sore,
Let us humbly bow our hearts to God and worship and adore.

*Mr. and Mrs. John Russell and Mr. Secord, who were well known as
consistent Christians by all who had the pleasure of their
acquaintance. All left large families and a numerous circle of friends
to mourn their shocking and untimely end.

TRIBUTARY STANZAS
TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LAYCOCK, WHO WAS ACCIDENTALLY KILLED WHILE
ON A PROFESSIONAL JOURNEY, DECEMBER 10, 1857.

Tumultuous feelings like a torrent rush
Athwart my soul and bear my spirit down.
Pent up awhile they from my bosom gush
In such wild measure as I scarce have known.

For one I loved as friend for many years
Has met a shocking end in Manhood's prime!
And this dire stroke prospective pleasure sears,
As grass is scorched by Sol in torrid clime.

Living as neighbors, Friendship's sacred bond
Grew stronger every time we visits paid.
He, undeterred by business would respond
To my desire, and list the songs I made.

Oft at such times he has my Mentor proved,
Doing his best to aid me in my Art,
By prudent counsel which I dearly loved,
Proceeding as it did from kindly heart.

Now with bold hand I strike my rude harp's strings,
And sing a funeral dirge o'er his sad bier.
Up, up, my Muse, and sail aloft on wings
Of tuneful pathos while I shed a tear.

No more shall this kind friend thy efforts guide,
Listening thy mournful or thy joyous strains.
Death suddenly has torn him from the side
Of her he loved, who shared his joys and pains.

And I no more on Earth shall see his face,
Or hear his praise or censure of my songs,
Nor yet will he most critically trace
What of true poesy to them belongs.

No more will he, well pleased, sweet music bring
From our melodeon, while we join in praise.
His soul untrammeled now on high will sing
In God's pure worship and angelic lays.

His frame, too weakly for his ardent soul,
Will feel fatigue no more by night or day.
But then no more he'll take with me a stroll
By our fine stream, soft murmuring on its way.

Nor yet, with pleasure great, hold deep discourse
On many subjects dear alike to both:
Tracing the stream of Truth up to its Source,
To do which fully he was nothing loth.

No more will he to an attentive throng
Give well-timed lectures for his Country's weal;
Yet his remembrances will live among
Those whom his conduct taught his worth to feel.

Ah me! that it should e'er have been my lot
To sing in soul-wrung anguish this sad strain!
For, while his friendship will not be forgot,
I long may wait to find such friend again.

BRANTFORD, December 12, 1857.

SONG OF THE CANADIAN CRADLER.

1858.

With my cradle scythe, feeling brisk and blithe,
In the breeze-tempered heat of this fine day;
I'll haste to the field with the wheaten yield,
And there will I manfully cut my way.

Now in all my walks, with broad, rapid strokes;
I bring down the waving grain quite low.
Every sweep I try seems to make it sigh,
But cheerful on, and still on I go.

I heed not the sweat, making my clothes wet,
The toil and care will be well repaid;
For this golden store drives want from my door,
And the surplus is farmers' profit made.

Binder now keep pace, for this hard-run race
Will tell on the field ere night come in;
And rest will be sweet in our plain retreat,
Until a new day with its toil begin.

O, I think I see with exhuberant glee,
The _shocks_ in good order standing round,
And well-laden teams in my bright day-dreams,
Are now trotting briskly over the ground.

Then hasten the day when our grain and hay
Well secured beneath our good barn dome--
Will inspire our hearts to perform their parts
In the cherished joy of Harvest Home.

STANZAS,
ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. B. HOWARD AND HIS FAMILY AS A TRIBUTE
OF RESPECT ON THEIR DEPARTURE FROM BRANTFORD, AUGUST, 1858.

Howard, thy fervid Christian zeal,
Combined with large amount of love,
So blessed to bonny Brantford's weal,
So truly owned by God above,
Lead me, ere from our midst thou move
With those who form thy family,
To seek assistance from that Dove--
Inspirer of true Poesy,

That I may sing a well-timed lay;
One which may thy best feelings suit,
And thou may'st read when far away
With pleasure, as the genuine fruit
Of well-spent years that are not mute,
But which have spoke in loudest tone
To some who have been most astute,
As I in truth would frankly own.

They've told us of a work begun
Amongst thy people, brought quite low
By worldliness, which Saints should shun
If God's pure will they seek to know,
Or wish in safety's path to go.
Thou foundest them in this sad state
And to the yoke thy neck didst bow
With ardor, for thy soul was great.

Satan, no doubt, with jealous eye
Watched keenly for thy halting then;
But thy Redeemer, ever nigh,
Made much of his dread malice vain.
He spake the word and wicked men
Fell down before the high-raised Cross,
And forthwith steadily refrain
From pleasures now viewed but as dross.

Backsliding Christians trembling came
To that blest place--neglected long,
And there rekindled worship's flame,
And freely owned they had been wrong.
Then, feeling sense of pardon strong,
Afresh they family altars raise--
On which to offer sacred Song,
And join sweet prayer to grateful praise.

But 'tis a small, small part indeed
Of what God had for thee to do
Which I can sing; so I proceed
To waft my meed of tribute through.
For I would name, with pleasure too,
The part performed by thy good wife.
O, that I could in measure due
Descant upon her Christian life.

No party motives sway my soul,
Nor thirst for paltry worldly fame;
But feelings I need not control
Prompt me to dwell on her dear name.
Sweet sufferer, deem me not to blame
If I have sacred rapture felt
In noting freely since you came,
The virtues that with you have dwelt.

I frequent heard from one who saw
You lying oft on bed of pain,
How bright in you was love's pure glow,
Meek Patience following in his train.
Now, could we see our loss your gain,
Pleased we would bid you all depart;
And might from vain regrets refrain
Glad still to cherish you at heart.

GRUMBLINGS.

Man professes to be humble,
Signs himself "your servant, sir!"
But he's very prone to grumble,
Till it forms his character.

Grumbles he about the weather,
Now too hot, anon too cold;
Fancies oft 'tis both together
Ere the day is twelve hours old.

Then the dryness of the season
Rouses up anew his ire;
Next its wetness without reason
Makes him grumbling bolts to fire.

Grumbles he of prospects darkening,
Now, because _hard times_ have come,
And to evil promptings hearkening
By much grumbling spoils his home.

Hard to please in point of dinner,
Flings he grumblings at his wife,
Breaking her dear heart--the sinner!
Inch by inch in daily life.

Nor at night are matters mended;
Grumbles he if supper's late.
She had need to be offended,
Being tied to such a mate.

For a little kind enquiry
Of existing state of things
Might well curb his temper fiery,
As each day her troubles brings.--

Bonny Fred's about his teething,
Jane is sick in bed of mumps,
Chris from croup has labored breathing,
Maid-of-all work has the dumps.

Often thus are grumblings marring
Man's great duties in the world;
Filling it with strife and jarring,
Till God's judgments forth are hurled.

Grumblers sometimes vent their spite in
Gross abuse of those in power,
Promise well to show their might in
Doing right, had they their hour.

Give it them, and still they grumble,
Having not got all they want;
Neither are they longer humble,
Which but proves them full of _cant_.

Many will not cease their grumbling
Till death puts a stop to it.
May God save all such from tumbling
Into the eternal Pit!

VERSES,
SUGGESTED BY THE FEARFUL ACCIDENT ON THE GREAT WESTERN R. R.
NEAR COPETOWN, ON THE NIGHT OF THE 18TH MARCH, 1859.

March, with his usual terrors armed,
Resolved again to mark his flight
O'er the "Great Western," which has swarmed
With human freight by day and night.

Leagued closely, with a mischievous crew,
Held by stern winter in reserve,
He up and down the doomed track flew,
But did not from his purpose swerve.

His eye he fixed upon a part--
A deep embankment on a slope,
And joy o'erflowed his chilly heart
While lingering near the town of Cope.

Musing, he to himself thus spoke:
"Here shall my darling scheme be tried;
I and my gang at one bold stroke
Can easily produce a slide.

"Better to serve my purpose foul
I'll fix it for the eighteenth night,
And raise such storm as may appal
The bravest soul that lacks daylight!"

Then, as by some mysterious spell
He called for elemental strife.
Forth came dread clouds as black as hell
That seemed with every mischief rife.

Impelled by many a howling blast,
Uniting in terrific roar,
They down their fearful contents cast,
And quickly a deep chasm tore.

The midnight train came rushing on,
Nor dreamt the passengers of death.
Nor thought perhaps that ere day's dawn
God would call some to yield their breath.

With furious speed the Iron Horse
Plunged headlong in the new-formed deep,
While raging elements their force
Spend as if laughing at the leap.

Dragged swiftly down is every car
Save one, the last of all the train,
And still the storm prolongs the war
With drifting snow or pelting rain.

Imagination scarce conceives
The shrieks, the groans, the heart-wrung wails,
Which rent the air! One yet believes
They did exceed what's told in tales.

And still the wind its keenest darts
Hurls at the living and the dead.
Blest then were those whose fearful hearts
Could cling to Christ who for them bled.

A TRIBUTE
TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. THOMAS FAWCETT WHO LOST HIS LIFE BY
THE ACCIDENT ABOVE MENTIONED.

Fawcett, twelve years have swiftly fled
Since first we one another knew.
Then mutual sufferings quickly led
To friendship which but stronger grew.

The Angel Death hath ta'en thy wife
From thy loved arms to dwell above;
I the sweet partner of my life
Had lost, and sadly missed her love.

Joy seized our sympathetic souls
As each to each his trials told;
We found that Bible Truth consoles
For loss of wives--worth more than gold.

Left with young families each was soon
Compelled again to seek a mate;
In love Heaven gave once more the boon
Of partners suiting well our state.

Laboring as Gospel Minister,
Thou Brantford left for other place,
Yet did thou not, I can aver,
Neglect to tell of God's rich grace.

Nobly thy work thou did'st pursue,
With a fair share of good success;
Daily grew clearer in thy view
The Scripture plan of Happiness.

At last amongst the poor Red Men,
Who needed much thy pastoral care,
Thy lot was cast, and O how fain
They were such ministry to share.

Of this we had the fullest proofs
When thy sad end to them was known;
Wailings were heard beneath their roofs,
And other signs of grief were shown.

They'll miss thee much, as Sabbath day
Brings fresh thy memory to their mind,
And gratefully a tribute pay
To thee--in thine thus left behind.

Oh! how can I now further sing?
How tell the horrors of that blow
Which caused thy death, when each rude string
Of my poor lyre doth tremble so?

Ah, me! that one on mercy bent,
Hasting to his sick brother's side,
Should be from life thus strangely rent,
And have his faith so greatly tried!

Peace! God All-wise gave this dread shock
And took his soul with Him to dwell.
He to the last stood on that Rock
Which can withstand the rage of Hell.

A TRIBUTE
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. RICHARD FOLDS, WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE
APRIL 21, 1859.

"The Righteous are taken away from the evil to come."

This truth may to Christians in darkness be shrouded,
While mourning for friends in the grave newly laid,
But a time will soon come when the Dayspring unclouded
Of doubt, from our souls shall dispel every shade.

These words to his people by God have been spoken,
To light up their passage on Life's dreary way,
And each day's fresh mercy is from Him a token
That he will prove to them a Comfort and Stay.

This friend, who by conduct to us so endearing
Has drawn from us sympathy, called forth our love,
Is gone--O, the thought is transportingly cheering!
To join the glad throng of Redeemed Ones above.

And we who have witnessed his pure conversation
Have listened to Truths which he uttered so well,
Rejoice that the theme of Christ's glorious Salvation
Was that upon which he delighted to dwell.

His constant infirmities were but refining
A soul well endowed by both choice gifts and rare,
And he through a long course of years has been shining
By light gained from Heaven, which guided him there.

Friends, let these remembrances cheer and delight you,
And patiently wait till your own change shall come.
The death of dear Richard should not now affright you,
Since he through that portal has passed to his home.

TO THE HUMMING BIRD.

1859

Hail to thee, Humming Bird
Beauteous and bright,
That flitt'st like a spirit
Before my rapt sight!
I bid thee a welcome
To sip from my flowers
The rich, honied produce
Of sunshiny hours.

O, be not so easily
Moved to depart!
Thy presence is cheering
To my saddened heart.
Thine shall be the treasures
Of clove-currant trees
And bells of the Columbine
Prized by the Bees.

My odorous tulips
I will with thee share,
Nor grudge thee the blossoms
Of apple or pear.
The sweet-scented woodbine
I shall not withhold,
Nor rare perfumed lilies,
Like pure burnished gold.

O then, pretty Humming Bird,
Stay thou with me,
Midst bright blushing roses
So charming to see.
I'll hail thee at morning
Or woo thee at noon--
Thy presence at all times
Regard as a boon.

Then why be so anxious
My garden to leave?
Know'st thou that I never
Attempt to deceive?
I would not confine thee
In cage if I could:
I glory in Freedom--
The best earthly good.

Then, Humming Bird, listen
My earnest appeal;
The love I have for thee
I cannot conceal.
My children, too, love thee,
My wife does the same,
And I am in transports
At sound of thy name.

TO THE SAME.

JUNE, 1859.

Whence, and what art thou? O thou beauteous little thing!
That like a dazzling sprite
Appearest in my sight,
Sipping from sweet flower-cups the honey stores of Spring.

I have sought for many days to find a proper word
As a fitter name for thee
More pleasing unto me,
But cannot find a better than that of Humming Bird.

True, I might thee call A Fluttering Ray of Light
Decked in prismatic hues,
Which a radiance diffuse
Just like a beam of glory straying from a Seraph bright.

Yea, I could picture thee as a new-born infant's soul,
Bidding adieu to Earth
A moment after birth,
But having love for flowers which it scarcely can control.

Or, I might describe thee as a precious, new-coined thought
Illumined by the Truth,
Always enjoying youth,
Till into Wisdom's Temple 'tis by its Builder wrought.

Yet, whatever thou may'st be, or howsoever called,
Thou'rt welcome to remain--
My garden sweets to drain,
And a lonely _Vision_ be evermore enrolled.

FIRE SONG.

TUNE, "AULD LANG SYNE."

When the wild cry of fire is heard
Borne on the midnight air,
And those who listen soon are stirred
To anxious ask "Where? Where?"
Our Firemen brave, full bent to save,
Rush to their engine room;
And flushed with hope they grasp each rope,
And with the "Rescue" come.

CHO.--Hurrah, then! for the firemen brave!
Who with stout hearts and arms
Are bent our lives and goods to save--
Not fearing fire's alarms.

While still the cry is going round,
And bells peal forth their notes,
The engine comes with rumbling sound,
Dragged by our bold "Red Coats."
And there too, rush, as if they'd crush
The ground on which they tread,
The band of "Hook and Ladder," who look
Truly devoid of dread!

CHO.--Hurrah, boys! for the fire brigade--
The men resolved to stand
In danger's front and bear the brunt
Of this foe to our land.

When fire is reached and water got;
In haste the hose they lay;
They fall to work, each brave "red coat,"
By night as well as day.
And now the hook and ladder boys--look!
Have made their "grapples" fast
To that huge frame midst glowing flame,
And down it comes at last.

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