Newspaper Poetry

Category: Newspapers

  • 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.

  • At a Gate On the Hill

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 16, 1914. By Gervais Gage.

    At a gate on the hill in the parting hour,
        When the wind blew soft on the sea,
    He laid in the maiden’s hand a flower;
        “O sweet, thy pledge from me!
            Years shall be sped, the flower be dead,
                But not my love to thee;
                    O not my love to thee!
                It liveth still in a heart on the hill
                    In a tender memorie!”

    At a gate on the hill, in a weary hour
        When the rough wind vexed the sea,
    She held in her hand the faded flower;
        “O sweet, my pledge from thee!
            The years are sped, the flower is dead,
                But not thy love to me,
                    Tho there come no news from the sea;
                It liveth still in a heart on the hill
                    In a quenchless memorie!”

    On a grave by the hill he knelt—alone,
        The wanderer, back from the sea;
    He knelt alone by a white gravestone;
        And carven curiously,
            The scroll he read: —“The flower is dead;
                But not thy love in me,
                    Tho thou stayest long on the sea;
                By a higher hill it waiteth still,
                    At a fairer gate for thee;
                In a deathless tryst with thee!”

  • Warning

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 15, 1914.

    When she letteth thee recklessly spend,
        And laugheth to see thee go broke,
    Thou mayest jolly her on without end,
        For she taketh thee but as a joke.

    But when she demureth at price,
        And chideth for what thou hath spent,
    Thou art treading on treacherous ice,
        For the maiden hath solemn intent.

  • The Children Santa Claus Forgets

    From the Newark Evening Star, December 14, 1914. By James J. Montague.

    When the happy little children, up along the avenue
    Hark for Santa Claus’s coming down the yawning chimney flue,
    There’ll be other little children, in another part of town
    Where the streets are dark and grimy and the houses tumble down,
    Looking through the dingy windows toward the snowflake speckled sky,
    Wondering if they will see him when he comes careering by.

    Ragged, dirty little children, yet as eager for the joys
    That will come to countless houses with the Christmas morning toys,
    As the vastly happier children who awaken every year
    To the news from down the staircase: “Mr. Santa Claus was here!”
    Gaunt and pallid little children, oh so pitiful to see,
    But as hungry to be happy as all children ought to be.

    Such a little would delight them, just a trifling toy or two,
    Just one real old-fashioned Christmas that would make their dreams come true.
    Tell old Santa Claus about them, show the old man where they live,
    Let him leave them all the good things that he likes so well to give,
    Then go ‘round on Christmas morning, and you’ll find it’s well worth while;
    For the best of all investments is to buy a baby’s smile.

  • The Magic Mulligan

    From The Sun, December 13, 1914. By Arthur Chapman.

    A rider from the Two-Bar come with news from off the range:
    He said he’d seen a dust cloud that looked almighty strange,
    So he rode his bronco over, and there, as bold as brass,
    He seen a sheepman feedin’ his flock upon our grass.
    The rider turned home, pronto, and he got the boys aroused,
    And then they started, whoopin’, for where them woolies browsed.
    But I met ’em joggin’ homeward, and I heard the hull bunch groan
    When I said: “Now, turn back, fellers, I must play this hand alone.”

    I was mad clear to my gizzard when I started for the camp,
    And I thought of how I’d punish this vile, sheep-herdin’ scamp;
    I’d escort him to the deadline, where he’d run his sheep across,
    And in case I had to kill him, why, it wouldn’t be much loss;
    And with such thoughts churnin’ in me when I spied his wagon-top
    I rode up to the herder as he watched his wooly crop.
    But he simply grinned up at me, and he said: “Now, pardner, say,
    Let’s set down and have some dinner ‘fore we start to scrap to-day.”

    He had a stew jest ready and he dished a plateful out,
    And I set and et that plateful and I heard far angels shout;
    I could hear gold harps a-twangin’ and my rough thoughts seemed to melt
    As he dished another plateful and I loosened up my belt.
    Then I laid aside my six-guns while the herder dished more stew,
    And at last my foreman rode up, as I knowed that he would do,
    And he set cross-legged with me, and he et, and more hands come,
    And afore that sheepman’s cookin’ quite the loudest was struck dumb.

    It was mulligan he’d made there, all alone out on the hills,
    This here cook whose magic humbled all my fightin’ Toms and Bills;
    You kin talk of hotel dishes, made by chefs from furrin lands,
    But I’ll back this sheepman’s cookin’ ‘gainst all European brands.
    So I says, when we had finished: “You kin make yourself to home,
    You kin pick the choicest grazin’ and allow your sheep to roam;
    We will drive our cattle elsewhere—you kin have whate’er you seek—
    If you let us come to dinner, say about three times a week!”

  • The Call to Arms

    From the Grand Forks Daily Herald, December 12, 1914. By W. M. Leets.

    There’s a woman sobs her heart out,
    With her head against the door,
    For the man that’s called to leave her,
    God have pity on the poor!
        But it’s beat, drums, beat,
        While the lads march down the street.
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        Keep your tears until they go.

    There’s a crowd of little children
    That march along and shout,
    For it’s fine to play at soldiers
    Now their fathers are called out.
        So it’s beat, drums, beat,
        But who’ll find them food to eat?
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        Ah! the children little know.

    Ther’s a mother who stands watching
    For the last look of her son,
    A worn, poor widow woman,
    And he her only one.
        But it’s beat, drums, beat,
        Though God knows when we shall meet;
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        We must smile and cheer them so.

    There’s a young girl who stands laughing,
    For she thinks a war is grand.
    And it’s fine to see the lads pass,
    And it’s fine to hear the band.
        So it’s beat, drums, beat,
        To the fall of many feet;
        And it’s blow, trumpets, blow,
        God go with you where you go
        To the war.

  • Grandpa

    From The Daily Missoulian, December 11, 1914.

    There’s no one in this whole world who knows as much as grandpa does.
    I sometimes think that he must be the wisest man that ever was.
    He can predict the weather better than the regular weather man;
    He doesn’t always guess it right, but then, no other feller can.

    He always tells us, far ahead, how all elections will come out;
    He’s seen so many hot campaigns as never has the slightest doubt.
    Of course, he often makes mistakes, and very seldom calls the turn,
    But there are very few who can, that is so far as I can learn.

    He’s got a safe, sure remedy for every ill that man can find;
    There’s no disease that he can’t cure or none that I can call to mind;
    Of course, sometimes they don’t get well, but that is just part of the game;
    A lot of doctors that I know in this town must admit the same.

    His knowledge is as free as air; he always peddles out advice
    Without the form of being asked; his wisdom is beyond all price.
    Some fellows who have followed it have made their fortunes; some have not;
    For grandpa’s human like the rest, although he’s liked an awful lot.

  • He Went for a Soldier

    From The Bridgeport Evening Farmer, December 10, 1914. By Ruth Comfort Mitchell.

    He marched away with a blithe young score of him
        With the first volunteers,
    Clear-eyed and clean and sound to the core of him,
        Blushing under the cheers.
    They were fine, new flags that swung a-flying there,
    Oh, the pretty girls he glimpsed a-crying there,
        Pelting him with pinks and with roses —
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Not very clear in the kind young heart of him
        What the fuss was about,
    But the flowers and the flags seemed part of him—
        The music drowned his doubt.
    It’s a fine brave sight they were a-coming there
    To the gay, bold tune they kept a-drumming there
        While the boasting fifes shrilled jauntily—
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Soon he is one with the blinding smoke of it —
        Volley and curse and groan;
    Then he has done with the knightly joke of it —
        It’s rending flesh and bone.
    There are pain-crazed animals a-shrieking there
    And a warm blood stench that is a-reeking there;
        He fights like a rat in a corner —
        Billy the Soldier Boy!

    There he lies now, like a ghoulish score of him,
        Left on the field for dead;
    The ground all around is smeared with the gore of him—
        Even the leaves are red.
    The Thing that was Billy lies a-dying there,
    Writhing and a-twisting and a-crying there;
        A sickening sun grins down on him —
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    Still not quite clear in the poor, wrung heart of him
        What the fuss was about,
    See where he lies—or a ghastly part of him—
        While life is oozing out;
    There are loathsome things he sees a-crawling there;
    There are hoarse-voiced crows he hears a-calling there,
        Eager for the foul feast spread for them—
        Billy, the Soldier Boy!

    How much longer, O Lord, shall we bear it all?
        How many more red years?
    Story it and glory it and share it all,
        In seas of blood and tears?
    They are braggart attitudes we’ve worn so long;
    They are tinsel platitudes we’ve sworn so long—
        We who have turned the Devil’s Grindstone,
        Borne with the hell called War!

  • Little Breeches

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, December 9, 1914. By John Hay.

    I don’t go much on religion,
        I never ain’t had no show;
    But I’ve got a middlin’ tight grip, sir,
        On the handful o’ things I know.
    I don’t pan out on the prophets
        And free-will, and that sort of thing—
    But I b’lieve in God and the angels
        Ever since one night last spring.

    I come into town with some turnips,
        And my little Gabe come along—
    No four-year-old in the county
        Could beat him for pretty and strong,
    Pert and chipper and sassy,
        Always ready to swear and fight—
    And I’d learnt him to chaw terbacker
        Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

    The snow come down like a blanket
        As I passed by Taggart’s store;
    I went in for a jug of molasses
        And left the team at the door.
    They scared at something and started—
        I heard one little squall,
    And hell-to-split over the prairie
        Went team, Little Breeches and all.

    Hell-to-split over the prairie!
        I was almost froze with skeer;
    But we rousted up some torches,
        And searched for ’em far and near.
    At last we struck hosses and wagon,
        Snowed under a soft white mound,
    Upsot, dead beat—but of little Gabe
        No hide nor hair was found.

    And here all hopes soured on me,
        Of my fellow critter’s aid—
    I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones,
        Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.
    By this, the torches was played out,
        And me and Isrul Parr
    Went off for some wood to a sheepfold
        That he said was somewhar thar.

    We found it at last, and a little shed
        Where they shut up the lambs at night.
    We looked in and seen them huddled
        Thar, so warm and sleepy and white;
    And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped,
        As pert as ever you see,
    “I want a chaw of terbacker,
        And that’s what’s the matter of me.”

    How did he git thar? Angels.
        He could never have walked in that storm.
    They jest scooped down and toted him
        To whar it was safe and warm.
    And I think that saving a little child,
        And fetching him to his own,
    Is a durned sight better business
        Than loafing around the throne.

  • The Prayer of the Army Men

    From The Topeka State Journal, December 8, 1914. By Kenneth Proctor Littauer.

    At the going, when we stumble up the gangway to the ship,
    While we wish, and curse the wish, that we could stay;
    On the Channel, as we watch the yearning cliffs of England dip,
    Help us, Lord, to hide our sickened hearts away!

    On the marches—on the marches with the blisters on our feet,
    When our kits weigh not much less than half a ton,
    And our one idea of Heaven is a place to sleep and eat—
    Give us strength, Lord, ’til our thirty miles are done!

    Through the weary, starlit vigils when we guard the sleeping tents,
    Where they huddle grey behind us in the gloom,
    Bid us challenge every phantom that our fear of death invents;
    Keep our ears alert to hear the creeping Doom!

    In the trenches, with the bullet-ridden earthworks spurting dust
    And the peering rifle muzzles spitting flame;
    In the sweating bayonet charges, with the thrust and wrench and thrust,
    Hear us when we, dying, call upon Thy name!

    In the winning, in the losing, in the triumph, the despair,
    Be we victors or the holders of defeat,
    Keep us mindful of the honor of a nation that we bear;
    Let our souls, Lord, be above the fate we meet!