When Will Mammy Come? - Poem for recitation - 1885

This poem for recitation brings a theme we have seen before in this short series on poems for recitation, grief, loss and children. Described in one paper as a 'pathetic piece' for the pathos it draws from the audience.

It is a series of rhyming couplets, I am unsure if I have managed to add the verse breaks in the correct spaces. For my mind the first verse seems to long but it is consistent with what I saw in three of the papers in which it was published.

I cannot find any other poetic work by the Gilhooley. The poem was published in at least twelve newspapers in the period July 1885 to January 1886. There are many notes in the papers after this time noting that it was performed publicly. Some of these as concert pieces and others as competition entries. My image to accompany this post are the remarks on one of the performances as reported for a Lyric Competition in the Bendigo Independent, 26 Nov 1913.

When Will Mammy Come?

A Poem for recitation.

By Gilhooley

Twas just at evening at the office, that they came to me, and said,
With kindly words, the news to soften, that my darling wife was dead!
She I'd left that very morning, with the love light in her eye,
Who'd kissed me e'er the garden gate, and waved her hand, to say, "Good-bye!"
Within that lately happy home now cold and silent rested there!
Oh, God! It seemed a horrid dream! A dream too cruel, too hard to bear!
I staggered when the news was brought, and felt as struck by poison'd dart;
A desert drear my life appeared; a piece of stone my broken heart.
And then I thought upon our child, and choked despair for his dear sake;
And went up to my dreary home, while swelled my heart as if 'twould break.
Along the pathway from the house two little feet came toddling down;
And little Willie cried "Oh, Daddy! I's so glad 'on's come from town,
For I cannot find my Mammy!" I kissed the child, but stood, as dumb;
Whilst the tiny lad persisted, "Daddy, when will Mammy come!"
It sear'd my soul to hear him question, and my heart's wound freshly bled;
I cuddled baby close to me, kissed his face, and falt'ring said,
"When will Mammy come? my boy; she cannot come: poor Mammy's dead!"
"Dead! " cried Willy; "Mammy dead!" My heart was dead; I could not speak;
While sobbing loud, " I want my Mammy!" little baby fell asleep.
Into the house I gently bore him; into the room where the body lay;
And stood beside the still white figure, whose soul that morn had flown away.
And as I gazed upon the features, lately filled with joy and life,
Gazed upon this fearsome thing!—That morning mother, friend and wife!
God! I felt I should go crazy with my overpow'ring doom;
If I any longer tarried in that horror—haunted room!
On the morrow, little Willie sought his mother high and low,
And outside the door of death the little boy was seen to go;
Striving hard to turn the handle; crying out amid the din,
"Mammy! Mammy! I is Willie! Won't 'ou come an' let me in?"
And when the funeral was over, oft' within our silent home,
Nestling in my arms, he'd ask me, "Daddy, when will Mammy come?"

And when a few short months were over baby lay with fever ill,
And his merry feet and prattle—All the world to me!—were still.
And one evening in the Autumn, when the sun was sinking fast,
The doctor called me from my study, and said, " this night is baby's last!"
I hastened to the little chamber; there he lay upon his bed,
His little hands so thin and wasted, while the curls from his dear head
Straggled o'er a pale wee face, where the hectic flush was plain;
And his breath was hot and laboured, while throbb'd fast the fever'd brain:
God! To think of that sad picture; mark the minutes quickly go,
Taking from you the last sunshine, filling up your cup of woe,—
This to feel! Oh! none but fathers—none but mothers o'er can know!
"Daddy," said the little fellow, as if he saw a vision fair,
"Mammy's coming, I can see her; and I's going back with her;
And from my neck his hands were loosed, as his lips grew cold and numb;
"Good-bye Daddy, I's going,—going, Daddy: Mammy's come!"

This is all my little story,—tale of long and far away;
But these words are even with me, even at this distant day.
Again I the blue eyes beaming, and the hair like golden foam;
And my soul cries out, with prayer unceasing, "When to me, will Mammy come."

Sources:

When Will Mammy Come? (1885, June 19). The North Eastern Ensign (Benalla, Vic. : 1872 - 1938), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO The North Eastern Ensign.). Retrieved March 28, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article70807065

AFTERNOON SESSION. (1913, November 26). The Bendigo Independent (Vic. : 1891 - 1918), p. 7. Retrieved April 10, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article226790033

Round the Bivouac Fire - poem for recitation - 1885

Another poem from Samuel K. Cowan. Once more with themes of warfare. This one shows an inward struggle, a warrior who recruits God, is eager to give God credit for the bloody mess they have made, yet an awareness that the same God would rather be known as the God of Peace.

This poem was published in at least ten newspapers in the first half of 1885.

Round the Bivouac Fire.

(Poem for Recitation.)

Round the bivouac fire, at midnight, lay the weary warrior-band;
Bloody were their spears with slaughter: gory was each hero's hand :
For the ghastly fight was ended : from each soul a whisper came :
"God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy Mighty Name!"  

It was beautiful, at midnight, when the bloody war was done,
When the battle clashed no longer, and no longer blazed the sun,
Calmly, in the balmy starlight, to repose out wearied limbs,
Not a sound to stir the stillness, save the sound of holy hymns: 

"Thou hast given us the glory: Thou hast cast our foes to shame!
God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy mighty name!
Thou hast given us the glory: Thou hast bade our troubles cease:
Thou art great as God of Battles: Thou art best as God of Peace!"

Peaceful was the world around them: in the peaceful summer skies
Watched the sentry stars above them, like the host of angel-eyes :
Shone the sentinel stars in splendour on each slumbering hero's head,
And the moonlight gleamed in glory on the dying and the dead.

Rosily wore the night to morning: cheerily, at their heart's desire,
Sang the soldiers songs of triumph, round the ruddy bivouac fire:
Flushed their faces were with glory: strong were they, and brave, and tall:
But the tender tears of childhood bathed the bravest face of all!

Pensive, by the gleaming firelight, mute the lonely warrior stood:
In his hand a paper grasped he, scrawled with letters, large and crude:
In his gory hands he grasped it; and the tender childly tear,
From his manly bosom welling, bathed the blood upon his spear!

Silent wore the night to morning: silent, at their heart's desire,
Watching lay the weary warriors, round the gleaming bivouac fire:
"What's the news from England, comrade! What's the sorry news for thee,
From the friends we left behind us, and our home beyond the sea?"

Then the gory paper sped he, scrawled with letters, crude and wild:
"Little news from England, comrades: 'tis a letter from my child."
"From our merry babes in England, welcome is the news!" they said:
And the soldiers lay in silence, while the warrior rose and read :

"Little brother died at Christmas: mother told me not to tell;
But I think it better, father, for you said, 'The dead are well.'
He was buried side o' Mary—mother since has never smiled
Till we meet, good-bye, dear father—from your little loving child "

Silent wore the night to morning; silent, at their soul's desire,
Lay the warriors, lost in dreaming, round the dying bivouac fire;
Home were they, once more, in England! miles were they from war's alarms!
Hark! the sudden bugle sounding! Hark! the cry: " To arms to arms! "

Out from ambush, out from thicket, charged the foemen through the plain;
"Up, my warriors! arm, my heroes! Strike for God and home, again!
For our homes, our babes, our country!" And the ruddy morning light
Flared on brandished falchions bloody still with gore of yesternight!

Purple grew the plain with slaughter-steed and rider, side by side;
And the crimson day of carnage in a crimson sunset died:
Shuddering on the field of battle glimpsed the starlight overhead,
And the moonlight, ghost-like, glimmered on the dying and the dead!

Faint and few, around the fire-light, were the stretched, out wearied limbs:
Faint and few the hero-voices that uprose in holy hymns:
Few the warriors left to whisper, "Thou hast cast our foes to shame :
God of Battles! we have triumphed: hallowed be Thy mighty Name!"

On the purple plain of slaughter, who is this that smiles in rest,
With a shred of gory paper lying on his mangled breast?
Nought remaining, save a fragment, scrawled with letters, crude and wild:
"Till we meet, good-bye, dear father—from your little loving child!"

Raise him softly: lift him gently stanch his lifeblood, ebbing slow:
He is breathing—he is whispering—what is this he murmurs low?
"Saved! my child—my home—my country! Father, give my pangs release:
Thou art great as God of Battles: Thou art best as God of Peace!"

SAMUEL K. COWAN M.A., in The Theatre.

Source:

Round the Bivouac Fire. (1885, April 17). The North Eastern Ensign (Benalla, Vic. : 1872 - 1938), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO The North Eastern Ensign.). Retrieved March 28, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article70806556

The Old Canteen - Poem for recitation - 1885

Bible, bullet damaged © IWM (EPH 2024)

This poem contains historic language and imagery which is offensive or outdated.  The original content has been retained in the interests of research and historical data.

Bibles that stop bullets are a phenomenon that is often celebrated, as the image from the Imperial War Museum above shows. I am confident there is also something similar on display in the Australian War Memorial.

The poet Samuel K. Cowan, will again in this series on 'poems for recitation'. I will endeavour to provide a biography at another date. Perhaps I will, in the process, determine if the poem is auto-biographical, biographical or fiction. There is a Samuel K. Cowan who served in the army.

The poem appears in at least 12 newspapers in 1885, and there are many notations in Trove of the poem being read at specific events in the years that followed.

In the Old Canteen

POEM FOR RECITATION

One more toast at parting, messmats — one more-toast, before I go:
Let us drink "The Grand Old Regiment," as we used to, years ago,
When we lay in trench, at Lucknow, and in camp at Singapore:
It is fifteen years come Christmas since I left the fine old corps!

There be now but four among you who were messmates with me then :
Bugler Brown and Tom the sailor, Sergeant Smith and Corporal Ben :
Gone or dead — the dear old regiment! — still I love it all the same.
As a follow loves a headstone — hallowed with his mother's name.

It was only yester-even, as I sowed and ploughed the plain,
That the young squire told me, " Farmer, your old regiment's back again :
They be stationed down at Chatham;" and I left the seeds and plough
I was home at nine this morning, here I am at Chatham now.

For I say Sally : "Sally, it is fourteen years and more
Since my raiment sailed for india: they are back, the dear old corps!
My old captain's now the colonel: I must go and see him, lass:
I must go and meet my messmates: we must clink a kindly glass:"

But my Sally sighed, and answered:"Yon had better mind your plough!
I have told you, dear, so often, there's no need to tell you now,
That, betwixt old friends and glasses, many's the sorrows we have seen :
When you meet your messmates, Charlie, keep away from the old canteen!"

No I haven't done it; messmates; but I answered softly : " Sal,
I have always done my duty : Go's my duty—and I shall!
I'll be back betimes, my lassie, firm of foot and hale of head
Back in time to read my Bible, and to put my boy to bead!"

Ha! you laugh! to read my bible? Well, my hearties, where's the joke?
Night and morn I always reads it, and I love the dear old book:
I have found no friend in England kinder to me, since my birth ;
And I owe more to my Bible than to any friend on earth.

No, I ain't a saintly fellow; I have lived a soldier's life ;
Loved my pipe and loved my bottle; been in many a rowdy strife;
Had my flings and had my follies; and I tell you, frank and free,
There be straighter roads to heaven than by marchin' after me!

Yet I alway reads my Bible; if you wish, I'll tell you why :
First; fill up your glasses, messmates; I would have you drain them dry.
Here's the health of "The Old Regiment !" coupled with "Our glorious Queen!"
Now, if you would hear my story, ' Attention!" in the old canteen.

My poor mother — rest her sprit! — some few years afore she died —
Just when I had listed, comrades — called me kindly to her side :
"You are going to leave me, laddie: I have little, son, to give,
Save my blessing and my Bible — may it teach you how to live:

It was once your soldier-father's; it was aye your father's pride;
Dear he loved it in his lifetime, dear he loved it when he died.
Take it, with your mother's blessing: prize it for your father's sake;
If my poor lad scorn its precepts, his old mother's heart will break!"

Then the roase, and placed it — bless her — in the breast o' the coat I wore
In the breast o' my scarlet tunic; and I sailed for Singapore.
We were stationed there a 'twelvemonth : many a gallant march we made;
Last; to Lucknow, where the sun, lads, showed a hundred in the shade.

There the children lay a-starving, and the mothers watched them die,
For they couldn't move from weakness, and above them blazed the sky:
And the Black Boys howled upon us, though the smoke of shot and shell,
Like a swarm of swarthy devils — black deserters out of hell!

I was standing outpost sentry; striken by the sickening sun,
Flat I fainted, and a comrade thought me dead, and seized my gun:
But the bombshells bursting round me, shook me from my swoon, awake,
And I rose, and lo! a Sepoy sneaking round me, like a snake!

Sneaking snakelike; then outleapt he, with a yell — a wild halloo —
With his hatchet raised to hack me, with his hatchet raised to hew:
And a second skulking devil slunk behind a heap of slain,
With his rifle raised to shoot me — and I stood betwixt the twain!

Bang! the bullet whizzed — I hear it — pingeing, whistling to my grave!
Struck me on the breast — the Bible — the old Book my mother gave:
And the bullet bounded of it, and before his blow was given,
Split the hatchet — yelled the Sepoy! It's as true as God's in heaven.

You may laugh, and chaff me, comrades : "Any book had served as well;
Any book had stopped your bullet." That may be — I cannot tell.
All I tell you is, my messmates, as I often tell the wife,
"I have no friend like my Bible — for that old friend saved my life"

That's my story — true as gospel : and I often think, thinks I,
"If on earth it never failed me, will it fail a chap on high ? "
Surely not : leastways, I'll trust-it, for my trusty friend it's been.
Good-night, sergeant! good-night, corporal! good night, all, in the old canteen!

Samuel K. Cowan, M. A. in the Theatre

Source

In the Old Canteen. (1885, February 20). The North Eastern Ensign (Benalla, Vic. : 1872 - 1938), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO The North Eastern Ensign.). Retrieved March 25, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article70806059

The story of a picture - poem for recitation - 1884

Chronologically this is the third 'poem for recitation' from Trove. Since the last post I started to map out the size of this project. The phrase 'poem for recitation' gives 305 results. But given that the same article often appears in multiple papers, I had thought that perhaps I would be handling around 30 poems for the project. I have found perhaps ten poems that fit this assumption. The use of the term 'poem for recitation' is less common once we move into the 20th Century, with only a couple of papers using the phrase regularly... we'll have to see how this goes :-).

'Story of a Picture' was published in 15 newspapers, with all but one of them being in the period February to April 1884, the stray being in December 1885.  I can find no other reference to "B. H. in the theatre" on Trove or on Google.

Like my last post this poem falls in the somewhat sad category, a rhyme of lost opportunity and its consequences. A tale of a slide into poverty with the shadow of domestic violence.

The Story of a Picture.

POEM FOR RECITATION.

'Twas late on a wint'ry evening,
    The pitiless rain fell fast,
And sweeping round every corner,
    Came the bitter November blast,
The shops were brilliantly lighted,
    With the flaming gas turned high,
Displaying their warmth and comfort
    To each comfortless passer-by.

The rattle and roar of the traffic
    Came dull through the rainy street,
And the slippery flag-stones echoed
    With the clatter of hurring feet.
And away in the misty distance,
    Like the stars of the clouded night,
The myriad lamps of the city
    Where shining with lustre bright.

To gaze in a gay shop window,
    A desolate crowd had stayed,
And among them a woman lingered
    To glance at the things displayed.
A woman with grim starvation
    Writ on her beautiful face,
A woman whom trouble and sorrow,
    Had robbed of her girlish grace.

A row of theatrical pictures
    Had attracted the little throng,
Of heroes and heroines, famous
    In drama and dance and song.
And over the woman's features
    A look of misery fell,
For she saw in the group of actors,
    A man she had once known well.

Back o'er her memory flitted
    The scenes of the bygone years,
As she gazed with throbbing pulses,
    Through a mist of bitter tears.
The days of her happy girlhood,
    When life was so bright and so gay,
Events in that sweet existence
    Forgotten this many a day.

Then the long, long years of trouble,
    Of misery, want, and care,
That had wasted her pretty figure
    And silvered her nut-brown hair.
Of the swift and reckless changes,
    From the honoured name she bore,
To the ruin that lay behind her.
    And the grim starvation before.

The crowd passed onward and left her
    To stand their silent still,
The cold rain lashing against her,
    As she leant, on the narrow sill,
Heedless of all around her,
    Checking the tears that start,
As she looks on the face of the lover,
    Who first won her pure young heart.

It was on her seventeenth birthday,
    Now six long winters past,
That she saw him first as the hero
    Of a play in a famous cast.
He was handsome and clever and graceful,
    His voice was tender and sweet,
She can hear it still in fancy
    Through the heavy noise of the street.

'Twas long ere she came to know him,
    They moved in a different set,
And though often she saw him acting,
    'Twas a year before they met.
He fell in love with her straightaway,
    And feared not his love to tell,
What wonder he made her love him,
    He knew how to woo so well.

But she had a richer lover,
    Who had run through a mad, wild life,
He loved her because of her beauty,
    And asked her to be his wife.
And because of his wealth and riches,
    She listened to all he said,
Forgetting the penniless actor,
    She gave him her hand instead.

She married as many a girl does,
    For all that his wealth would buy:
But she never could love her husband,
    Though she honestly meant to try.
For she found he was wild and wicked,
    One of a lawless crew,
That his comrades were reckless fellows,
    And his fortune a fiction too.

And the lovely country lassie
    Grew paler day by day,
The life of disgrace and horror
    Was chasing her health away.
At first he treated her kindly,
    Then, finding she loathed him so,
He rained down oaths and reproaches,
    And many a brutal blow.

Now he had left her for ever,
    To starve or beg for her bread,
Homeless, friendless, and dying,
    With nowhere to rest her head.
She had begged a few shillings this evening,
    And, shivering past in the rain,
She saw in the gay shop-window
    The face of her lover again.

Then a sudded hope came round her,
    That perhaps he loved her still,
Might be willing to help her a little,
    Although she'd behaved so ill.
She read his name on a poster
    By the light of a flaring jet,
Then buying the coveted picture,
    She turned to the wind and the wet.

To wait till the play was over,
    She stood at the dark stage-door,
Till her limbs were numb and aching,
    And at last she could stand no more.
So, paying her only shilling,
    She crept to the crowded pit,
To a region of fairy brilliance,
    Where a thousand lamps were lit.

The curtain was up already,
    The stage was a splendid scene,
With a shimmering sea in the distance,
    And in front a bower of green;
And there was the man she worshipped,
    With the light on his handsome face,
Playing his role of lover
    With his easy and manly grace.

She watched with a hungry yearning,
    The love in his glorious eyes,
Striving to keep down and strangle,
    The heartbroken sobs that rise.
Noting the play of the shadows
    On his bright uncovered hair,
Dreading lest he should see her
    Sitting and trembling there.

At last the drama was ended,
    'Mid a yelling peal of applause,
And the audience, jostling and pushing,
    Crowded to reach the doors.
The woman sat still without moving,
    Bending her weary head,
And when they bade her be going,
    They found she was cold and dead.

She had seen the name of the actor
    She'd loved all her sorrowful life,
And further down on the playbill
    The name of her hero's wife.
She had died in that hour of pleasure,
    And gone to a happier land;
But they found her darling's picture
    Clasped in her wasted hand.

B. H. in the Theatre.

Source: The Story of a Picture. (1884, February 15). The North Eastern Ensign (Benalla, Vic. : 1872 - 1938), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO The North Eastern Ensign.). Retrieved March 18, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article70745588

Image: Tracking an Adept in Disguises. (1884, December 12). The Colac Herald (Vic. : 1875 - 1918), p. 1 (Supplement to the Colac Herald). Retrieved March 18, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article88189755

Lotty's Message - poem for recitation - 1883

Scottish Temperance Pledge
Sourced from www.theglasgowstory.com

Warning this poem contains depictions of domestic violence and drug abuse.

This is the second of the 'poems for recitation' I found in Trove. The poem by Murdoch is a harrowing tale told in twenty quatrains in an AABB rhyming pattern. A story of a man, Jack, who destroys his family because of an alcohol addiction. Clearly there is a temperance purpose behind the writing as can be seen by the promise to sign 'the pledge' toward the end (spoilers). One wonders how a public reading of this poem would influence someone who, like Jack, is gripped by an addiction that is breaking their family apart. 

This poem appears in at least seven newspapers in the period August-October 1883. I could find three other poems written by Alex G. Murdoch, Gladstone and the Right, The Brae of Life, and Give back the Land (in the Bulletin). At the time of publication I have not tidied the Trove copies of these. He also published a book ... Lilts on the Doric lyre: a collection of humorous poems and versified sketches of Scottish manners and characters of which a scanned version of the 1873 edition held at the Bodleian Library can be seen at the previous link.

Italics are in the original source.

LOTTY'S MESSAGE.

(NEW POEM FOR RECITATION.)

BY ALEX. G. MURDOCH.

Can you list to a heart-thrilling story, of passion, and pathos, and sin —
A tale of the tragical sorrow that's born of the liking for gin?
Your ears, then, good friends, and I'll tell it, in just as plain words as I can —
How honest Jack Drew was a drunkard, and how he became a new man.

For Jack was a right honest fellow, and handsome and stalwart, as true,
A forgeman, who wrought at steam-hammers, and a large weekly pay-bill he drew;
So Jack, like his fellows, got married, and had in good time a wee "tot,"
A sweet little flaxon-hair'd cherub, as ever fell to a man's lot.

Twas Lotty they call'd her—'Wee Lotty' — and well was the darling caress'd,
Till the demon of drink, like a fell curse, exorcised the sweet love from his breast.
For Jack, who was once a good husband, as never was known to go wrong,
Began to dip into the 'strong stuff,' and the end, you may guess, wasn't long.

And Lotty's poor mother, alas! sirs, now that her "dear Jack" was astray,
Broke down in the fight to make ends meet, and pass'd straight to heaven away;
And Jack, for a moment, was sober'd, and drew himself back from the brink ,
Whereon he'd been reeling in madness — the horrible hell-pit of Drink!

But, alas, for the heart's human weakness; — and, oh, for the pow'r that's in gin!
Jack went back, like a tiger unsated, to drink down the horror within!
Oh, the fires of Remorse that now wrung him! — that scorch'd both his heart and his brain!
The regrets for the wrongs done his dead wife — he'd never on earth see again!

Ah, 'twas Lotty he now had to live for! If, only the Demon of drink
Would unloose the strong bands that enslav'd him, and free him to work, and to think!
For Lotty, neglected Wee Lotty! she, too was fast wearing away
To that Land where her mother had gone to, two years since, last Christmas day.

Well, one night in the depth of dark Winter, when snow lay on house-top and street,
Jack comes home with fierce fire in his sunk eyes, his face gone as white as a sheet.
"Lotty! got me a copper on these, lass! and hurry up! quick! or I'm done!
The pawn will be shut in a minute! and to have you in time, lass, I've run!"

And he handed poor Lotty her wee boots! the only "good pair" she had got!
"Oh, father, the Sunday School soiree! next week! and she smiled at the thought.
"Curse the Sunday School soiree! Be quick, child! Run! run the whole way all your might.
I must have more Drink! or, God help me! the River will have me to-night! '

"Hush, father I Don't speak so! I'll go! Yes, I'll run as I ne'er ran before,
Though weak with a touch of the fever —" "Off! make yourself scarce! out the door!"
So the poor child, ill-clad and sore ailing, slow dying of want and despair,
Ran out on the cold snow barefooted, death-pierced by the cutting night air!

Oh, 'twas painful to Lotty; Just think on't. Her wee Sunday boots thus to "go";
To furnish the gin that was killing all the love that her childhood should know;
And the "Children's Soiree" she had dreamed of, no longer in hope to be hers;
Oh, that drink should tear worse than a tiger! yet that is the truth of it, sirs.

But Lotty ran hard with the "offering"— as hard and as fast as she could,
Till check'd by a sudden exhaustion, then — slowly her way she pursu'd;
Weak and fainting at heart she crept onward, holding on by the wall as she went,
A strange blinding mist o'er her eyesight, and fear in her heart, weak and spent,

Till, reaching the pawnshop's dark threshold, the strong door was slammed in her face!
With a "Come back tomorrow, young slow-coach! We don't 'low five minutes of grace!"
So Lotty, struck dumb with child terror, crept back to her father's abode,
Sinking down in his presence exhausted, as if crush'd by a terrible load.

"Where's the money? — the money! — oh, curse you! — these boots — You have hung back till late!"
"Nay, father; I ran till exhausted; then crawl'd on beneath a great weight;
My boots, I'd have 'pledg'd' them to serve you; but just as I reach'd the 'pawn' door,
"Twas shut in my face —!" "You lie, Lotty! Take that!" and she swoon'd on the floor!

Yes; he lifted his clench'd fist and struck her! — struck down the sweet child of his love!
For he lo'v'd her— but lov'd the gin better — and the angels wept sorrow above.
Strong Remorse in his heart, he bent o'er her, and tenderly lifted the child;
Then, placed her upon her straw pallet, and well-nigh with anguish went wild.

"Oh, you wont die, sweet Lotty!— Speak! — Say so!' and he wiped the warm, blood from her face;
"I was mad, worse than mad when I struck you! — a wretch undeserving of grace!
Oh! speak, Lottie! — Speak!— I'm your father! — sin-bruise'd both without and within!"
It 'twasn't your father that struck you! 'twas the Demon that's born of gin!

"Don't die! For my sake, dearest Lotty! live to see me reclaim'd from this Curse
That binds me with fetters of madness, than slave-chains a thousand times worse!
I'll struggle to brake them for ever, with God's help, as far as I can,
If you'll only, stay with me a little, to see me become a new man!"

As beauty and peace are prefigur'd when God's smile has rainbow'd the sky,
So a smile lighted up Lotty's wan face— an Iris let down from on high;
"No, father; 'twas not you that struck me; I know it 'twas just the bad drink!
God will take these your tears of repentance, and strike off your chains, link by link!

"To be with you, and comfort you, father; I fain for a life-time would stay;
But, just now, do you know, I saw mother! and — I feel I am going away!
Have you not one sweet word for her, father? I should like so to speak of you fair;
Just one dear word of grace from your own lips — a message of Love to take there!"

''Lotty! — Tell her — I've ' signed' it! — yes, sign'd it! — the "Pledge" she oft spoke of while here;
With my heart's anguish'd blood it is written! though the trace of it may not appear!
Tell her— Lotty — I'll join her in heaven— God willing! — for yours, and her sake!
That's my one word of love to your mother! — the message of peace you will take!"

A smile lit the wan face of Lottie— a smile that was not of this earth,
And, ere the dawn checquer'd the heavens, she passed to her heavenly birth.
And Jack, poor dear fellow, he lives yet, right sober, but sad-like of face;
And he hopes a reunion in heaven, where he sent Lotty's Message of Grace!

Source:

LOTTY'S MESSAGE. (1883, August 23). The Shoalhaven Telegraph (NSW : 1881 - 1937), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO THE Shoalhaven Telegraph). Retrieved March 5, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article127950088

The Women of Mumbles Head! : a true story of a lifeboat - poem for recitation - 1883

In my last post I introduced a poem for recitation about a shipwreck. In this post I do the same. However, this is the first poem specifically identified as a 'poem for recitation' in Trove. It consists of 32 rhyming couplets. The poet is identified as Clement Scott. Scott was a theatre critic and other poems written by him can be found in the Trove archive.

Trove's articles mostly mispell the title as 'The poem of mumlbes head' an I have chosen to correct that to mumbles (which is a place near Swansea, UK), this is consistent with spelling in other parts of the poem.

Interestingly Wikipedia notes that "the word 'Mumbles' may be a corruption of the French les mamelles, meaning "the breasts"(Wikipedia | mumbles), a description of the twin peaks that form the headland. If this is true it plays nicely into the theme that Clement Scott is portraying here. The heroic mother love of women. 

There is a memorialised life boat disaster at Mumbles in 1947, but clearly the scene here is from an earlier time. This article by Carol Powell does a good job of telling the story of the wreck on the 27 January 1883, and of indicating how in such times the gallantry of men is rewarded and that of women is merely expected. See also this article by Geoff Brooks.

The poem was published in at least nine Australian papers in the July of 1883. The version needing the least work to tidy up was the one found in the Burra Record. It is worth scanning the multiple records of the same article in Trove if you wish to reduce clean up time :-)

Division into quatrains is my choice (suggested by the 64 lines being divisible by four).

The Women of Mumbles Head! : a true story of a lifeboat.

Poem for Recitation.

Bring, novelists, your note-books! bring, dramatists, your pen !
And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.
It's only a tale of a life-boat, of the dying and the dead,
Of a terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head !

Maybe you have travelled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south :
Maybe you are friends with the 'natives' that dwell at Oystermouth ;
It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way,
And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.

Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone,
In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone ;
It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or when
There was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launch'd, and a desperate cry for men.

When in the world did the coxswain shirk ? a brave old salt was he!
Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted sea,
Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,
Had saved some hundred lives a piece — at a shilling or so a head!

So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,
And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar,
Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!
Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns,

Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love,
Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above !
Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cosy and safe in bed,
For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head ?

It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!
And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew!
And then the anchor parted — 'twas a tussle to keep afloat!
But the father struck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.

Then at last on the poor doom'd lifeboat a wave broke, mountains high!
"God help us now !" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye.'
Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,
But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.

Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,
And saw in the boiling breakers a figure — a fighting form,
It might be a grey-haired father, then the women held their breath,
It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death ;

It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lips
Of the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.
They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst and more,
Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.

There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,
Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.
'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,
But what are a couple of women with only a man to save ?

What are a couple of women ? well more than three craven men
Who stood by the shore with chattering teeth refusing to stir — and then
Off went the women's shawls, sir, in a second they're torn and rent,
Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!

"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper, "for God's sake, girls, come back!"
As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack.
"Come back!" moaned the grey-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,
"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me."

"Come back !" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,
"You will drown if you face the breakers ! you will fall if you brave the gale!"
"Come back !" said the girls, "we will not ! go tell it to all the town,
We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown !'

"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand
Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!
Wait for the next wave darling! only a minute more,
And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him safe to shore.'

Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,
They caught and saved a brother alive! God bless us, you know the rest —
Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,
And many a glass was toss'd right off to 'The Women of Mumbles Head!'

Clement Scott, — in the Theatre.

Source:

The Women of Mumlbes Head! (1883, July 6). Burra Record (SA : 1878 - 1954), p. 2 (Supplement to the Burra Record). Retrieved March 5, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article36008287 

The Dead of the Wreck - poem for recitation - 1893

Original artwork by the author, just click bait really.
Ooh ... bait ... that was apt.

My recent meandering Trove journey was meant to be a hunt for shipwreck poems. Shipwrecks are definitely a common topic for poems (hopefully more on that later in the year). But in searching I also found another way to group poems ... the title says it all, 'Poem for recitation'. Perhaps such poems appear in the papers for poetry recitation competitions. This particular poem is published in twelve different papers. 

If one uses the search term 'poem for recitation' in Trove you will get over 300 hits and many of them like this poem are the same poem published in numerous papers, often around the same time. There were also books, collections of poems, with titles that included the words 'poems for recitation'.

To look at this poem is seems as though a piece of prose at the front of the poem was the poems prompt. But if I drop some these words back into the Trove search engine, or even Google, it yields nothing other than the poem. 

After two verses the poem is indented, I think to indicate the voice of the bell, then bumped back out to finish on the last two verses.

None of the published versions provide an author for the poem. Indeed they all, even the one from 1904, have a piece immediately after in which the Queen expressed some dissatisfaction with marriage laws (with the one exception of the copy in  Areas Express of 1897).

POEM FOR RECITATION.
THE DEAD OF THE WRECK.

"As soon as the boat struck, the bell commenced tolling, probably from the action of the wind upon it, and continued to toll, slowly and mournfully, as long as any portion of the wreck was to be seen."

The God of the storm was above,
And His arm was strong beneath,
And the shrieking wind, and the gurgling wave,
Went up with the wail of death.
Then hushed. And the dead were gone,
And the solemn stars were keeping
Their faithful watch, as the wild waves rocked
The sleepers to their sleeping.

The wind wailed madly above,
And the waves went bounding below :
And above the wind, and above the roar
Of the heavy surge on the highland shore,
Came a solemn sound and slow —
Now faint, now loud, on the tempest swell
They heard the mournful voice of the bell.

Dead and gone! dead and gone !

Where the desolate moan,

Of the wave sinks to sleep,

Where the storm-wail is o'er,

Where the heart throbs no more,

In the deep. 

 

With the foam on her brow,

With a surf-shroud of snow,

Went the maid to her grave ;

With a gasp and a moan,

The strong swimmer went down

In the wave. 

 

With a prayer and a smile

That his lip weareth still,

Looking forth on the gloom,

God's good servant stood strong,

As the surge swept along ;

He's at home. 

 

Dead and gone ! dead and gone !

Wail, wail ye their doom,

For they lie on the billows,

Call them loud ! Call them long !

They are lull'd by my song

On their pillows  

 

But they answer no more !

Doth the surge on the shore

Drown the sound of their cry?

Nay, their lips are grown cold,

For their life-tale is told !

There they lie ! 

 

Dead and gone ! dead and gone !

But the morning shall dawn

And the silent shall speak.

Slumber sweet ! slumber deep !

Till the myriads that sleep

Shall awake ;

The stars went out on high
More flush'd the cold-grey East,
And the heavy surge with a solemn roar,
Unceasingly fell on the island shore
Where the dead lay sleeping to awake no more.

And the sun went down in the West,
And ever above the mocking waves,
With a slow and solemn knell,
Came fitfully and mournfully
The sound of the tolling bell.

Here is the list of papers in which this particular poem was published.

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, January 13). The Riverine Grazier (Hay, NSW : 1873 - 1954), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT). Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article139998638

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, January 20). The Broadford Courier (Broadford, Vic. : 1891 - 1893), p. 3. Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article58576582

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, January 20). The Areas' Express (Booyoolee, SA : 1877 - 1948), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO THE AREAS EXPRESS). Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article219210960

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, January 21). Queenscliff Sentinel, Drysdale, Portarlington and Sorrento Advertiser (Vic. : 1885 - 1894), p. 3. Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article74271119

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, January 24). Camperdown Chronicle (Vic. : 1875 - 1954), p. 5 (Unknown). Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article33435904

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, February 3). Evelyn Observer, and South and East Bourke Record (Vic. : 1882 - 1902), p. 1 (MORNING. : THE EVELYN OBSERVER, SUPPLEMENT.). Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article60668631

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, March 18). Eastern Districts Chronicle (York, WA : 1877 - 1927), p. 1 (SUPPLEMENT. TO THE EASTERN DISTRICTS CHRONICLE,). Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article148498073

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, April 29). The Snowy River Mail and Tambo and Croajingolong Gazette (Orbost, Vic. : 1890 - 1911), p. 2 (SUPPLEMENT TO THE SNOWY RIVER MAIL). Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article197111745

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, May 13). Gympie Times and Mary River Mining Gazette (Qld. : 1868 - 1919), p. 3. Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article171605764

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1893, October 21). Western Star and Roma Advertiser (Qld. : 1875 - 1948), p. 5. Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article97467695

[?]oem for Recitation. (1897, May 7). The Areas' Express (Booyoolee, SA : 1877 - 1948), p. 4. Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article219224179

POEM FOR RECITATION. (1904, September 8). Great Southern Advocate (Korumburra, Vic. : 1889 - 1906, 1914 - 1940), p. 5. Retrieved February 27, 2023, from http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article210871837