Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newark Evening Star

  • The Face On the Floor

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 9, 1914. 

    ’Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there,
    Which well-nigh filled Joe’s barroom, on the corner of the square;
    And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
    A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

    “Where did it come from?” someone said. “The wind has blown it in.”
    “What does it want?” another cried. “Some whiskey, rum or gin?”
    “Here, Toby, seek him, if your stomach’s equal to the work—
    I wouldn’t touch him with a fork, he’s filthy as a Turk.”

    This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace—
    In fact, he smiled as though he thought he’d struck the proper place;
    “Come, boys, I know there’s kindly hearts among so good a crowd—
    To be in such good company would make a deacon proud.

    “Give me a drink—that’s what I want—I’m out of funds, you know.
    When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow;
    What? You laugh as if you thought this pocket never held a sou.
    I once was fixed as well, my boys, as any one of you.

    “There, thanks, that’s braced me nicely; God bless you one and all.
    Next time I pass this good saloon, I’ll make another call;
    Give you a song? No, I can’t do that; my singing days are past,
    My voice is cracked, my throat’s worn out, and my lungs are going fast.

    “Say, give me another whiskey, and I’ll tell you what I’ll do—
    I’ll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too;
    That I was ever a decent man, not one of you would think,
    But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give us another drink.

    “Fill her up, Joe; I want to put some life into my frame—
    Such little drinks to a bum like me are miserably tame;
    Five fingers—there, that’s the scheme—and corking whiskey, too.
    Well, here’s luck, boys, and landlord, my best regards to you.

    “You’ve treated me very kindly, and I’d like to tell you how
    I came to be the dirty sot you see before you now.
    As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame, and health,
    And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth.

    “I was a painter—not one that daubed on bricks and wood,
    But an artist, and for my age, was rated pretty good;
    I worked hard at my canvas, and was bidding fair to rise,
    For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes.

    “I made a picture perhaps you’ve seen, ’tis called the Chase of Fame.
    It brought me fifteen hundred pounds, and added to my name;
    And then I met a woman—now comes the funny part—
    With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart.

    “Why don’t you laugh? ’Tis funny that the vagabond you see
    Could ever love a woman, and expect her love for me;
    But ’twas so, and for a month or two, her smile was freely given,
    And when her loving lips touched mine, it carried me to Heaven.

    “Boys, did you ever see a girl for whom your soul you’d give,
    With a form like Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
    With eyes that would beat the Kohinoor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
    If so, ’twas she, for there never was another half so fair.

    “I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
    Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way;
    And Madeline admired it, and much to my surprise,
    Said that she’d like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes.

    “It didn’t take long to know him, and before the month had flown,
    My friend had stole my darling, and I was left alone;
    And ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
    The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished and was dead.

    “That’s why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile,
    I thought you’d be amused and laughing all the while;
    Why, what’s the matter, friend? There’s a tear-drop in your eye.
    Come, laugh like me, ’tis only babes and women that should cry.

    “Say, boys, if you give me another whiskey I’ll be glad,
    And I’ll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad;
    Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score—
    You shall see the lovely Madeline upon the barroom floor.”

    Another drink, and with chalk in hand, the vagabond began
    To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
    Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,
    With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture—dead.

  • All Smiles Tonight, Love

    From the Newark Evening Star, May 8, 1914.

    I’ll deck my brow with roses, for loved ones will be there;
    And the gems that others gave me I’ll wear within my hair,
    And even those that know me will think my heart is light
    Though my heart shall break tomorrow, I’ll be all smiles tonight.

    And when the dance commences, oh, how I will rejoice!
    I’ll sing the songs he taught me without a faltering voice,
    And flatterers gathered ‘round me will think my heart is light
    Though my heart shall break tomorrow, I’ll be all smiles tonight.

    And when the room he enters, with the bride upon his arm,
    I’ll stop to gaze upon her as though she wore a charm.
    And if he smiles upon her as oft he smiled on me
    They’ll know not what I suffer; they’ll find no change in me.

    And when the dance is over, and all have gone to rest,
    I’ll pray for him, dear mother, the one that I love best;
    For once he loved me true, dear, but now he’s cold and strange;
    He said he’d never deceive me. False friends have wrought the change.

  • In the Garden of My Heart

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 23, 1914. By Caro Roma.

    We never miss the sunshine, until the shadows fall.
    We ne’er regret the bitter words, till passed beyond recall.
    We never miss the laughter, until the eyes are wet—
    We never miss the happiness, till love’s bright sun has set.

    We never miss the singing, until the birds have flown.
    We never miss the blossoms, until the spring has gone.
    We never miss our joyousness, till sorrow bids us wake.
    We never know we have a heart, till it begins to break.

    Dear love, bring back the sunshine, my bitter words forget.
    Bring back the old-time happiness, my eyes with tears are wet.
    Bring back the birds’ soft singing, dear love, why should we part?
    Bid springtime blossoms bloom again in the garden of my heart.

  • The Modern Polonius

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 22, 1914.

    It never pays to whine, my son;
        The world has little time to hear
    Complaints from those who have not won
        The prizes that are scarce and dear.
    The man who haunts a gloomy nook
        Is never cheered and seldom praised;
    Assume an air and try to look
        As if your pay had just been raised.

    It never pays, my son, to let
        Your neighbor see your empty purse,
    Nor will it help your case to fret
        When things have gone from bad to worse;
    When luck deserts you, as it will,
        Conceal the fact from foe and friend
    And try to look as if you still
        Had money that you wished to spend.

    It never pays, my son, to show
        That fear is lurking in your breast;
    When trouble weighs your spirit low
        ’Tis time to smile your merriest.
    I cannot tell you how to strut
        With pride when trouble crushes you,
    Or how to laugh while grieving, but
        I know it is the thing to do.

  • Wolf Tone’s Grave

    From the Newark Evening Star, April 18, 1914. By Thomas Davis.

    In Bodenstown churchyard
        There is a green grave,
    And wildly around it
        The winter winds rave.
    Small shelter, I ween,
        Are the ruined walls there
    When the storm sweeps down
        On the plains of Kildare.

    Once I stood on the sod
        That lies over Wolfe Tone;
    And I thought how he perished
        In prison alone.
    His friends unavenged,
        And his country unfreed,
    “Oh, bitter,” I said,
        “Is the Patriot’s meed.”

    For in him the heart
        Of a woman combined
    With heroic spirit
        And a governing mind.
    A martyr for Ireland,
        His grave has no stone,
    His name seldom named,
        And his virtues unknown.

    As I stood there I heard
        Both the voices and tread
    Of a band who came into
        The home of the dead.
    They carried no corpse,
        Nor they carried no stone, 
    But they stopped when they came
        To the grave of Wolfe Tone.

    There were students and peasants,
        The wise and the brave,
    And an old man who knew him
        From cradle to grave.
    The children there thought me
        Hard-hearted, for they
    On that sanctified sod
        Were forbidden to play.

    But the old man who saw
        I was mourning there said,
    “We’ve come, sir, to weep
        Where young Wolf Tone is laid.
    And we’re going to build him
        A monument too,
    A plain one, yet fit for
        The simple and true.”

    My heart overflowed,
        And I clasped his old hand,
    And I blessed him, and blessed
        Every one of his band.
    Sweet, sweet tis to find
        That such faith can remain
    To the cause and the man
        So long vanquished and slain.

    In Bodenstown churchyard
        There is a green grave,
    And wildly around it
        The winter winds rave.
    Far better they suit him
        The ruin and gloom,
    Till Ireland, a nation,
        Can build him a tomb.

  • When the Birds Go North Again

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 21, 1914. By Ella Higginson.

    Oh, every year hath its winter,
        And every year hath its rain;
    But a day is always coming
        When the birds go north again.

    When new leaves swell in the forest
        And grass springs green on the plain,
    And the alder’s veins turn crimson
        And the birds go north again.

    Oh, every heart hath its sorrow,
        And every heart hath its pain;
    But a day is always coming
        When the birds go north again.

    ’Tis the sweetest thing to remember
        If courage be on the wane,
    When the cold, dark days are over—
        Why, the birds go north again.

  • A Dozen Men in One

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 6, 1914. By Thomas F. Porter.

    How many men fail of success
    And bring upon themselves distress,
    Because year after year they wait
    Ere they their powers concentrate.
    They flit about on roving wing
    And never stick to anything;
    So of each task they undertake
    A failure they are sure to make.

    A while they work with zeal intense,
    But soon a different task commence,
    When, meeting with some slight reverse,
    They change again, perhaps to worse;
    And so they turn about, and shift,
    With no direction idly drift,
    And think, like many another dunce
    To be a dozen men at once.

    Noting how little some folks work,
    Their tasks they are inclined to shirk;
    Seeing how others forge ahead,
    To follow them they oft are led;
    Unsuited to the work, they fail,
    And then at Fate they wrongly rail,
    Or, making but a slight advance
    Claim that they never had a chance.

    Though there are dangers in a rut,
    To this our eyes we must not shut:
    If we in some one line would win,
    At once our task we must begin,
    And not too much our powers divide
    Upon a thousand things outside;
    Nor e’er attempt, in work or fun,
    To be a dozen men in one.

  • Still Waters

    From the Newark Evening Star, March 5, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.

    Kitty never had no use for men,
        Seemed to us she’d rather read an’ sew;
    None of us could ever point to when
        She had ever entertained a beau.
    Every time a feller came to call,
        Kitty never had a word to say,
    Never even showed him to the hall
        When at 10 o’clock he went away.

    Jim, we used to think, was jes’ as queer,
        Women used to scare him to a chill;
    When the girls come visitin’ us here
        He jes’ spent the evenin’ sittin’ still.
    “Women ain’t fer me,” he used to say,
        “I can’t get accustomed to their ways,”
    Then he’d grab his hat an’ run away
        Jes’ as though his mind was in a daze.

    Jim an’ Kitty scarcely ever spoke,
        Least we never saw ‘em, if they did;
    Never heard ‘em ever pass a joke.
        Much beneath still waters, though, is hid.
    Both of ‘em lived on the farm for years,
        Never once we saw ‘em arm in arm;
    But you shouldn’t judge from what appears,
        Leastwise if you’re livin’ on a farm.

    Kitty disappeared one mornin’ bright,
        All that day we looked in vain for Jim;
    But they both came back again at night,
        Kitty, smiling, hand in hand with him.
    Seemed they both had tired of single life,
        So she said, while brushing back the tears,
    Parson Brown had made ‘em man an’ wife,
        An’ they’d been engaged for twenty years.