The Emigrant Mechanic and Other Tales In Verse

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

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CHO.--Hurrah, then! for the Fire Brigade,
Who heed not flame and smoke;
They work as though such working made
The zest of some good joke!

THE FIRE ALARM.

JUNE, 1859

Fire--fire--fire! Nigher still and nigher
Seem the tones of the "Alarum bell" borne on the air!
Awaking with a start, what a sinking of the heart
Even the strong are apt to feel, ere they are well aware!

Fire--fire--fire! Higher now and higher
Leaps the madly raging flames as the cry goes round!
In the darkness of the night what a truly awful sight
Is the burning up of homes, while we listen to the sound.

Fire--fire--fire! Behold the havoc dire!
When the black, wreathing smoke a moment clears away--
The flames both hiss and roar as the brave firemen pour
Constantly the crystal streams from Engines in full play.

Fire--fire--fire! Fresh force it does acquire!
The rising wind has sent the blaze unto the other side!
Yet men are standing round in torpor most profound;
Rouse ye up! now fall to work, and let your strength be tried!

Fire--fire--fire! Two blocks seem one vast pyre.
Oh, pity the poor houseless ones--fleeing now away!
Screen them from Winter's blast, for they are on you cast--
That sympathy in measure their losses may repay.

Fire--fire--fire! Thank God, the flames expire!
For a cold, but drenching rain most opportunely comes.
Now honor that Brigade which has such efforts made,
And don't forget your neighbors who have just lost their homes.

MY OLD ARM CHAIR.

1859.

My old Arm Chair! The wear and tear
Thou hast endured for me,
Long ere this time deserved a rhyme
Expressly made to thee.

When I thee bought, thy varnished coat
And well proportioned frame
My house adorned, and no one scorned
Thee Rocking Chair to name.

But since that day, my bairns in play,
Have tumbled thee about,
Till thou appears well struck with years,
And truly nigh worn out.

Dear to my heart--I'm loth to part
With such a well tried friend;
Yet even repairs to old arm chairs
Must some time have an end.

I've patched thee oft; and cushions soft
Those patches somewhat screen;
Still, thy poor arms--reft of paint's charms
Are scarce fit to be seen.

The rockers, too, I did renew--
Will hardly yield a rocking.
But out of sight to cast thee quite
Would, to my mind, be shocking.

I therefore say: Thou here shalt stay
As long as I remain;
And no neglect I can detect
Shall cause thee to complain.

Farewell, Arm Chair! thou canst not fare
Much worse than I have done;
For, by my pen, from fellow men
Large share of scorn I've won.

A TRIBUTE
TO THE BRAVERY OF MY COUSIN, MRS. T. A. COWHERD, WHO CROSSED
THE ATLANTIC IN MID-WINTER WITH THREE HELPLESS CHILDREN, AND UNDER VERY
TRYING CIRCUMSTANCES.

1855.

Dear cousin, I hail you as Mother most brave,
Who crossed in mid-winter Atlantic's broad wave!
What you had to suffer in part I conceive,
Though no gloomy story you made me believe.

Assisted by Fancy I see your sad plight,
Before busy Liverpool passed from your sight;
On shipboard I view you with three little babes,
While the vessel rides proudly o'er blue ocean waves.

One small, year-old infant then hangs at your breast,
And one child much older disturbs your night's rest
By her frequent wailings from sickness most sore.
The third is but young and yet needs watching o'er.

I still look and wonder how you could bear up,
When drinking so deeply of this bitter cup.
I picture you gazing, with tears in your eyes,
Upon the poor sufferer and hushing her cries.

The vessel by dread winter tempests is tossed,
And many more favored give all up for lost.
But Hope--that sweet Angel! your courage supports,
And in these great trials to _trust God_ exhorts.

I fancy I see you while nearing the land,
On the ship's crowded deck in sorrow now stand,
Still watching your babe as she gives her last sigh;
Yet Thomas, your husband, to help is not nigh.

And then is most vividly brought to my view
_That_ Coroner's Inquest so trying to you;
The bearing your loved one away to the grave,
Though you, quite dejected, are still on the wave.

Oh, then I can paint, it is true but in part,
The anguish and grief of your warm loving heart,
Expecting at lodgings your partner to see,
As anxious as any fond mother can be.

Your painful suspense as day passed after day,
And trifle of money was melting away;
The pleasure which beamed in your calm, patient face,
When _that_ friend was able your sojourn to trace.

Your journey so cold and so cheerless at last,
Till you and the two tender children were cast
On kindness of strangers in reaching our town,
While Winter put on his most terrible frown.

My own keen emotions I need not express
When you first came here and I saw your distress.
Once more I would hail you as Mother most brave,
Who crossed in mid-winter Atlantic's broad wave.

CANADIANS' WELCOME
TO H. R. H. THE PRINCE OF WALES, 1860.

Canadians, welcome now the Prince--
Victoria's noble, first-born son;
Who comes amongst us to evince
How much his Mother's love we've won.

He comes not as, a despot's heir
From serfs their homage to demand.
He comes not with that outward glare
So suited to a slave-cursed land,

But as a freeman to the free,
His errand is of vast concern.
Then let us show our loyalty
By aiming sordidness to spurn.

And thus while he inaugurates
The wondrous triumph of Man's art*,
See that our conduct compensates
For right performance of his part.

*The Victoria bridge at Montreal.

Then shall his stay amongst us here
Fill him with memories so sweet
That he may, at no distant year,
Be led his visit to repeat.

And while he views our country, filled
With wonders of the vastest kind,
May grain fields wide, industrious tilled,
And thriving Arts, please well his mind.

Eager to prove ourselves content
With British rule, and land so fair;
We gladly hail the Prince now sent,
And trust he will our blessings share.

A thousand welcomes then to you,
The Heir to loved Victoria's throne;
Canadians still to Freedom true,
Would warmly make their homage known.

BRANTFORD'S WELCOME
TO THE PRINCE OF WALES, 1860.

Welcome, thrice welcome, to our fair town,
Albert Edward, the heir to Brittania's Crown!
We hail this your visit
With feelings exquisite,
And all party spirit most cheerfully drown
In the joy of the day;
While we earnestly pray
That God's richest blessings may compass your way.

No Niagara's vast glories have we,
No Bridge spanning River as wide as a sea;
Yet we have a county
Whose soil, for its bounty,
Surpassed is by none in this clime of the FREE..
_The Garden_, 'tis named,
Of all Canada, famed
For choicest of land, though but lately reclaimed.

We have no splendid buildings to show,
No Millionaire's palace that might notice draw,
But yet we may boast of
A very fair host of
Both women and men who their duty well know.
While sweet girls and bright boys
Sympathize in our joys,
As your Highness can see by their truth-speaking eyes.

Nor yet men with great titles have we;
But some meet you here brave as bravest can be.
These have been no strangers
To greatest of great dangers,
When war's horrid front threatened Liberty's tree.
Both Red Men and White
Mingled then in the fight,
And still live together to stand for the RIGHT.

Our good town, as your Highness well knows,
Is called after one long released from life's woes.
His memory we cherish,
And gladly would nourish
The motives that led him to march against foes.
For brave Captain Brant
Did most eagerly pant
The Flag of true Freedom in these parts to plant.

Welcome, thrice welcome to our fair town,
Albert Edward, the heir to Brittania's Crown!
No niggardly measure
Would we yield of pleasure,
To you and your Suite, as you doubtless will own.
For we British rule prize,
And would strengthen the ties
Binding us to VICTORIA, the good and the wise.

A CALL FOR HELP FOR GARIBALDI.

1860

Canadian freemen, one and all,
Respond to Garibaldi's call,
And help him now to speed the fall
Of fair Italia's foes.
Our God this year abundance sends,
Oh, spend it not for selfish ends,
But give to him who RIGHT defends,
And strives to heal her woes.

See him as he unselfish stands,
Surrounded by his patriot bands--
The admiration of all lands--
Wave Freedom's banner high.
He moves--acclaiming thousands wait
To open wide each city gate.
And trust to him their future fate--
Assured redemption's nigh.

Whole-souled and brave as man can be,
He fights alone for Liberty;
Nor will he rest till Italy
Shake off her tyrants' chains.
This done he seeks not high estate;
Success does not his soul elate;
In lowliness he can be great,
For meanness he disdains.

Can we to such a one deny
Assistance? when to do or die
He passes outward splendors by
In singleness of heart?
Forbid it, ye of British blood!
Forbid it all who seek for good.
Rise! show that you have understood
An honest freeman's part!

Let not this noble Patriot's fate
Be such as was Kossuth's the Great.
May their magnific deeds create
A glow of sympathy
Which shall increase till every chain
Enslaving man be snapped in twain,
And universal Freedom reign
In glorious majesty.

LINES
SUGGESTED BY THE NEW YORK TRIBUNE'S ACCOUNT OF LINCOLN'S
DEPARTURE FROM SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS, FOR WASHINGTON.

He stood--the noble Lincoln--calm, though, sad,
About to part from those with whom he lived
So many years in sweetest amity.
Before him prospects which might well appal
The stoutest heart. His country, fondly cherished,
But erst so great and fair, the humbled victim
Of black traitors' arts, and on the verge
Of fearful ruin's widely yawning gulf.
While recollections of domestic bliss,
Such as but few enjoy, might well indeed
Make him quite loth to leave his much loved home.
With steady eye he views the concourse vast,
Big thoughts fast welling from his inmost soul
Too big for utterance. Yet a few choice words
Steal forth and fall upon attentive ears:
"Here have I lived for many, many years;
Here were my children born, and one beneath
The graveyard sod rests now in death, at peace!
I know not when each dear familiar face
Now left behind may glad my eyes again;
But this I know--a duty greater far
Than ever fell to man since Washington
Held Governmental reins, now falls to me.
Without God's aid he never could have known
Success. Upon that Being placed he still
His firm reliance, and succeeded well.
Succeed I cannot without aid Divine
Imparted to me in this hour of need.
I place in God my trust; and oh, my friends,
Pray you for me that I may have His help!
Then shall success, such as we well may crave,
Be mine for certain in this crisis dread.
I bid you all affectionate farewell."

This heard with throbbing hearts the gazing throng;
And, deeply moved within their bosom's depths,
Responded soon, "We will all pray for you!"
Upon this scene might Angels fondly gaze,
And place 't on record in high Heaven's archives,
That Lincoln, feeling his own weakness much,
His burden cast upon the Lord of all.

Go thus, thou chosen one, and firmly stand
For Truth and Freedom in the Halls of State!
Let no time-serving policy be thine;
But, placing round thee men of sterling worth,
Grasp tight the reins of Constitutional sway.
If go they will, let dupes of Slavery go,
And reap the baneful fruit they've nurtured long.
In this they'll find a certain, speedy cure,
For madness such as they have always shown.
Go, Lincoln, then, and if Canadians' prayers
May aught avail, thou may'st their prayers command.

FEBRUARY, 1861.

"Sumpter has Fallen, but Freedom is Saved."

(_New York Tribune, April, 1861_.)

Thank God 'tis so! for now we know
All compromise is ended.
List Lincoln's call, then freemen, all
Who have from braves descended.

Your Stripes and Stars, ye gallant tars,
Keep proudly o'er you waving;
Strike for the _right_ with all your might,
Stern danger freely braving!

Ye Soldier hosts, stand to your posts
Like Anderson, unflinching.
Those Southern foes need heavy blows
To cure them of their "lynching."

A traitor's fate may them await,
But yet their monstrous madness
May work you woe for aught ye know,
And fill the world with sadness.

Innocent blood--of this a flood
For vengeance loud is calling!
And God's light hand shall blast that land
With plagues the most appalling,

Which dares to hold from love of gold
Poor slaves in galling fetters!
Rise, East--West--North! Your might put forth,
For you are Freedom's debtors!

SONG.

MY LOVE IS NO GAY, DASHING MAID.

My love is no gay, dashing maid,
With rosy cheeks and golden curls,
Nor high-born lady well arrayed
In glittering diamonds and pearls.
Yet she is a lovely, loving wife,
Who can blithely sing while working well;
And so happy is our married life,
That I on its pleasures fondly dwell.
O my love is no gay, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth, arrayed.

I've seen young girls of beauty rare,
With ruby lips and sparkling eyes,
Use all their charms to form a snare
By which to carry off a _prize_.
I've noted the wedded life of such,
Oft finding them slatterns void of love;
And none need wonder so very much
If I value high my turtle dove.
For she is no vain, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

Through years of matrimonial care,
And constant toil from day to day,
To me her face has still been fair,
As if her charms would ne'er decay.
And our house is full of girls and boys,
The pledges sweet of a sacred love,
Sent to keep young and bright the joys
Which many with wealth oft fail to prove.
O my love is no gay, dashing maid,
But a wife in matronly worth arrayed.

THE SEWING MACHINE.

1861.

I sing the Sewing Machine,
The blessings it brings to the fair.
Some of those blessings I've seen,
And therefore its praises declare.
'Tis a curious thing
Of which I now sing,
And poets have sung it before me;
But if the theme's good,
'Twill be well understood
I'm right in prolonging the story.

Well finished Sewing Machine!
Whose form is so graceful and neat;
Thou of inventions art Queen,
And to look at thy work is a treat.
Each nice burnished wheel,
With the plate of pure steel,
Thy gold bedecked arms and the gauges,
All speak of the skill
Which the genius at will
Puts forth in the work that he wages.

Wonderful Sewing Machine!
No visions of gloom and despair
Float over my mind serene,
As I thy performance compare
To the old-fashioned stitch,
The dread sorrows which
Accompanied work by the fingers
Of those forced to sew
'Midst a life full of woe.
With pity my soul on it lingers.

Excellent Sewing Machine!
Thy musical click-a-click-click,
Removes far away the spleen
From those who of toiling are sick.
Thy task speeds along,
While the fair ones in song
Give vent to their feelings of gladness.
How diff'rent I ween
From the sight often seen
By HOOD with a heart full of sadness.

[Footnote: See "Song of the Shirt."]

Dutiful Sewing Machine!
Now cheerfully stitching away,
Neatly and quickly, as seen
In the things by my wife made to-day;
Enraptured am I,
For no heart-bursting sigh
Escapes from the dear operator;
But a smile of delight
Is now alwavs in sight,
Of happiness sweet indicator.

Beautiful Sewing Machine!
How thankful am I to the man
Through many years who has been
Thus carefully forming thy plan!
May smiles from the fair,
Rid of much toil and care--
Shine on him, in moments of anguish.
May their tender hands
To obey his commands
Be ready, should he in life languish.

TABBY AND TIBBY.

As Tabby and Tibby were playing one day,
I, watching their frolicksome mood,
Greatly wondered they never got tired of play,
But the secret I soon understood.

For, listening, I hear on the drum of the ear,
These thoughts in cat language conveyed--
The which I interpret lest it should appear
Of telling the truth I'm afraid.

Said Tabby to Tibby: "Our master's downcast;
Else why are his looks full of gloom?
There's something like spectres in future or past,
Which strangely before his mind loom.

"So, daughter, still further in frolic indulge,
And thus chase his sadness away;
Our motives we need not to mortals divulge;
Then at it in right earnest play."

This said, she gave Tibby a sly, knowing wink,
And straight on her haunches sat down,
While Tibby, who is of all kittens the pink,
Laid the counsel safe by in her crown.

And now, as if struck by electrical shock,
The young one swift bounded aside,
And then with an air which would true valor mock,
Some strange soldiers' antics she tried.

Advancing, retreating, with rig well upreared,
Her looks testify to her ire;
And every manoeuvre, it is to be feared,
Will bring some calamity dire.

But meantime, the mother in calmest content,
And careless as cat could well be,
Just waited till Tibby's flash-valor was spent,
Yet now and then winking at me.

I judged from this fact that a wrinkle had struck,
To the depths of her sage cat-like brain;
And I thought of my beautiful kitten's ill-luck
In entering on such a campaign.

The thought had scarce flashed through the chambers of mind,
When she pounced like a tiger on prey!
Oh, horror! but stop! with relief I now find
They both were engaged in mere play.

But whether in play or real earnest, it seems
Young Tibby's no match for her mother;
So thus I now end this my first of cat dreams,
Not caring to write such another.

LINES
COMPOSED AT MR. M'LARTY'S, WEST MISSOURI, AUGUST 3,
1873.

McLarty, I can't leave your house,
Your darling daughter, charming spouse,
Without at least a single rhyme
Commemorating that sweet time
When I, with my beloved wife,
Shared your dear home, with comforts rife.

And now I backward cast my eye
O'er eight-and-twenty years, gone by,
Since first to you the land I sold
Which now you prize far more than gold.
Ah, then with trees 'twas covered o'er
Thousands of which are now no more;
But in their stead rich, waving grain,
On hill and dale and pleasant plain
Abundant grows; and year by year
Adds comforts to your home so dear.

Fair trout creek still flows softly by,
Though not so pleasing to the eye,
As when at first its stream I saw,
So many, many years ago.
For then no logs unshapely, rude,
Did on that beauteous creek intrude;
But o'er its smooth and gravelly bed
It held its course, and murmur shed
Like sweetest music on my ear,
And made me long to live just here.

But urgent duty called me hence,
To scenes less pleasing to the sense
Of one who had a poet's eye
For Nature's works. I bade good bye
To what so quickly had become
To me almost as dear as home.

And now, kind friends, we must return
To that same home, while bosoms burn
With platitude for kindness shown
To those you had so little known.

We linger still: 'tis hard to part
From you, when fondly heart to heart
Beats now, as if for years we'd been
Fast bound in friendship's bands serene.

God bless you all! we fervent pray,
And make you happier every day!
Should we in future meet no more,
O, may we all reach Canaan's shore.

FAMILY PIECES

LINES TO MY MOTHER,
WHO DIED WHEN I WAS ABOUT TWO YEARS OLD.

I had a mother once, and her dear name
Has power even now to thrill my very frame,
And call forth feelings which can only rise
When Love doth view its object in the skies.
So would I view thee, Mother, and rejoice
That I have power to raise my feeble voice
And tell what thoughts arise within my breast,
As thus I view thee entered into rest.

O, say, my Mother, canst thou see thy son?
Dost thou behold the poor, erratic one
Who has been tossed on Life's tempestuous wave
Till he has fairly longed to find his grave?
I fain would know if, when I heave a sigh,
Tears e'er bedim thy sympathetic eye?
When I have drunk so deep of heartfelt woe,
And: roved the vanity of all below,
Oh, say, my Mother, hast thou felt a share
Know'st thou what 'tis to be weighed down with care?

Why write I thus? for souls in heavenly bliss
Feel not our woes--know not what sorrow is--
Unless their past experiences they feel,
To aid, by contrast, in producing weal.
For it is written, "God shall wipe away
Tears from all faces," in Eternal Day!
Then let me rest content, and strive to show
True patience, while I suffer here below,
And follow Christ wherever he may lead:
Thus proving faith sincere by every deed.
O, then, whenever he may call me hence,
I shall be willing to leave time and sense
And mount aloft to dwell with God forever,
To taste that bliss from which naught can me sever.

TO MY WIFE.

Ellen, dear, it is clear
I have not half thy merits told;
Sweet of life, lovely wife,
More precious thou hast been than gold.

Listen now; truth I trow
Will be my guide while I relate
What pure love, sweetest dove,
Thou still hast shown in marriage state.

When I'm ill thou dost fill
The office of a comforter;
Soothing sickness with such quickness
That disease seems banished far.

If low spirits we inherit,
Thou swiftly drivest them away
By sweet song all day long,
Until I feel quite young and gay.

Then our house, tidy spouse,
Is kept by thee so trim and neat,
That from home I'll not roam
To try and find a snug retreat.

Of girls and boys, and many joys,
We have, my dearest, quite our share;
How to use them, not abuse them,
Should always be our constant care.

But alas! how soon pass
All present good desires away.
Feel we weakness? then in meekness
Let us unto our Father pray.

He is strong, and has long
Upheld us by His mighty arm;
O how glorious! Faith victorious
Will us preserve always from harm.

Then let us pray, love, day by day,
That our dear children may be brought
Into His fold, ere they are old:
Even as God himself hath taught.

O, what pleasure in rich measure
We then should feel, my own true love!
For naught ever could us sever,
But all at last would dwell above--

By God's grace in that place
Inhabited by Spirits bright.
This secured, we allured,
Might view by Faith the glorious sight.

TO THE SAME,
WHEN AWAY FROM HOME

Oh, when will my beloved come
To her own home again?
Surely it will not be my doom
To miss her always in each room,
And of her loss complain.

Dear Chris and Jenny wish her home,
And ask why she's not here;
And I in quest of her would roam,
But fear to miss her much-loved form,
Which I would hope is near.

Yet I would not impatient be;
Thou art on Mother tending.
Thy love to her I like to see.
It will not lessen mine to thee,
Until my life is ending.

And should'st thou stay another week,
A month, or even a year--
Thy conduct past would loudly speak
Thy faithfulness, thy spirit meek,
And say I've naught to fear.

Then stay, my dear, till thou hast done
All that thy mother needed;
Yet just remember there is one
Who will be sadly woe-begone,
His loneliness unheeded.

For well I know that such a wife
Is better far than gold;
And all the joys of bachelor life,
However free from care and strife,
On my mind take no hold.

Just now her brother brings me word
That I must go and see her.
For all the joys this will afford
May I be thankful to the Lord,
And go from care to free her.

Within an hour I see her face
Bedecked with smiles to greet me,
But yet she seems in woeful case,
For marks of _toothache_ I can trace
As she comes forth to meet me.

We spend the night with th' dear old folk,
The moments quickly fly,
While we link-armed start on a walk,
But soon return to sing and talk--
The fire all sitting by.

Upon the morrow then return
To home, "sweet home," again.
Our hearts afresh with love do burn,
As we at hand our house discern,
And all it does contain.

TO MY DEAR LITTLE BOYS,
JAMES, CHRISTOPHER AND ALFRED.

Three lovely boys who bear my name,
Have all upon me equal claim,
And seem to ask a rhyme from me--
A humble poet as you see.
James, Christopher and Alfred, dear,
You often do my spirit cheer,
Each in his own most charming way,
From hour to hour, from day to day.
James by his often tuneful mood,
And other things best understood
By a fond parent, at the time,
To he as sweet as music's chime.
In him, though young, my eye can trace
A something in his pretty face
Which shows strong passion lurks within
That childish breast--the fruit of sin.
I also think I truly see
A trait somewhat too miserly.
I may be wrong--I hope I am,
For 'twould be sad in my sweet lamb.

Then Chris, what must I say of him,
Who shows us many a little whim?
But with it all displays affection
For one so young in much perfection,
And can forget his sorrows all,
Though his young heart he filled with gall.
If but his mother seem to cry
he upward turns his bright brown eye,
And asks so earnestly a kiss
That we're compelled to love our Chris.

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