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Norman Mcleod
The Drunkard's Daughter.
O, feel what I have felt, Go, bear what I have borne; Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt, And the cold, proud world's scorn; Thus struggle on from year to year, Thy sole relief-the scalding tear.
Go, weep as I have wept, O'er a loved father's fall, See every cherished promise swept- Youth's sweetness turned to gall; Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way That led me up to woman's day. 5 Go, kneel as I have knelt; Implore, beseech, and pray, Strive the besotted heart to melt, The downward course to stay; Be cast with bitter curse aside- Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied.
Go, stand where I have stood.
And see the strong man bow; With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, And cold and livid brow; Go, catch his wandering glance, and see There mirrored, his soul's misery.
Go, hear what I have heard- The sobs of sad despair, As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, And its revealings there Have told him what he might have been, Had hethe drunkard's fate foreseen.
Go to my mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer; Thine own deep anguish hide, Wipe from her cheek the tear.
Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, The gray that streaks her dark hair now; Her toil-worn frame, her trembling umh And trace the ruin back to him Whose plighted faith, in early youth, Promised eternal love and truth; But who, forsworn, hath yielded up That promise to the deadly cup, And led her down from love and light, From all that made her pathway bright, And chained her there 'mid want and str That lowly thing, a drunkard's wife!
And stamped on childhood's brow so mild, That withering blight, a drunkard's child Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know, All that mysoul hath felt and known, Then look upon the wine-cup's glow; See if its brightness can atone; Think if its flavor you will try, If all proclaimed, "'tis drink and die !"
Tell me I hate the bowl- Hate is a feeble word :
I loathe, abhor-my very soul With strong disgust is stirred Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell, Of the dark beverage of hell!
The Song of Steam.
ARNESS me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As a tempest scorns a chain.
How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight For many a countless hour, At the childish boasts of human might, And the pride of human power!
When I saw an army upon the land, A navy upon the seas, Creeping along, a snail-like band, Or waiting the wayward breeze; When I marked the peasant faintly reel With the toil that he daily bore, As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, Or tugged at the weary oar; 1 When I measured the panting courser's speed, The flight of the carrier dove, As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love, I could but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripped afar, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chained to the flying car.
Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last, They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast, And laughed in my iron strength !
O then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind nor tide !
Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er, The mountain's steep decline; Time-space-have yielded to my power:
The world, the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest, Or those where his beams decline, The giant streams of the queenly West, Or the Orient floods divine.
The ocean pales wherever I sweep To hear my strength rejoice, And monsters of the briny deep Cower trembling at my voice.
I carry the wealth of the lord of earth, The thoughts of his God-like mind; The wind lags after my going forth, The lightning is left behind.
In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine My tireless arm doth play, Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline, Or the dawn of the glorious day; I bring earth's glittering jewels up From the hidden caves below, And I make the fountain's granite cup With a crystal gush o'erflow.
I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, In all the shops of trade; I hammer the ore and turn the whee Where my arms of strength are made; I I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint, I carry, I spin, I weave, An all my doings I put into print On every Saturday eve.
I have no muscles to weary, no brains to decay, No bones to be laid on the shelf, And soon I intend you may go and play, While I manage the world myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As the tempest scorns the chain.