Poems of James McIntyre Part 23

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.

Now let the hero of our song, Be he who gentle treats the throng, And would not cruel treat another, But to each be as to a brother.

And he must have both sense and wit, And be possessed of strength and grit, Then strong as proof of holy writ, For to survive he is most fit.

And according to our test, The fittest only is the best, These have a right for to survive, And well they do deserve to thrive.

And this kind of evolution It will bring no revolution, But revolve in Christian sphere, Where scripture truths are prized and dear.

Give us the man doth persevere, And presses on in his career, Undaunted struggling for the right, Though all mankind 'gainst him unite.

Though now on top of highest mount, Where he has found true honour's fount, Yet those below he don't despise, But strives to aid them for to rise.

MOTTO.

Politeness, perseverance and pluck, To their possessor will bring good luck.

THINGS SHOULD BE JUDGED BY MERIT.

A picture hung in a public hall, And it was much admired by all, Painted by a true artist's hand, The subject it was truly grand.

Its fame o'er the whole world resounds, Valued at ten thousand pounds, Beauteous lady none 'ere pa.s.sed her, She was the work of an old master.

At last a critic keen did gaze And saw 'twas work of modern days, Then quick it was p.r.o.nounced a daub, And artist but a money grab.

The true, the n.o.ble and the grand, Will lend to struggling helping hand, Then let no man of dues be shorn, If he a subject doth adorn.

LINES ON A FOUNTAIN.

We love cold water as it flows from the fountain, Which nature hath brewed alone in the mountain; In the wild woods and in the rocky dell, Where man hath not been but the deer loves to dwell; And away across the sea in far distant lands, In Asia's gloomy jungles and Africa's drifting sands; Where to the thirsty traveller a charming spot of green Is by far the rarest gem his eyes have ever seen; And when he has quenched his thirst at the cooling spring, With many grateful songs he makes the air to ring; For many nights he dreams of this scene of bliss, And when he thinks of Heaven it is of such as this.

THE GATES AJAR.

A good kind man who knew no malice, Happy with wife and daughter Alice, More precious far to him than gold, His little darling six years old.

True n.o.bleman with many friends, His career too soon it ends, The casket friends enshrined with flowers, While soul had fled to heavenly bowers.

The wreaths were lovely, but the star, Admired by all was gates ajar, The widow led her little girl To where death his dart did hurl.

And stricken her poor father down, But child exclaimed he's won the crown, And he will watch for me afar, And keep for me the gates ajar.

And when we cross the crystal fount, He will point out the heavenly mount, Here neither sun nor moon doth s.h.i.+ne, Lighted with radiance all divine.

For I know well for me he'll wait Anxious at the pearly gate, For I would fear to view alone The glories of the heavenly throne.

Pa will admit his little Alice Safe into the heavenly palace, And glories to me will unfold As we tread the streets of gold.

CHILD MADE HAPPY.

In a great city hospital There lay poor Mary Crosby small, She had no friends her heart to cheer, So time with her pa.s.sed sad and drear.

She sought for ease but all in vain, Month after month she pa.s.sed in pain, She had no relative nor friend Who aid or comfort could her lend.

A surgeon saw her cheerless state, And deplored the poor child's fate, She tried to make doll of her finger, And sang to it poor little singer.

Her's indeed was an awful lot, The weary days she spent in cot, For the poor child she could not walk, And it soon exhausted her to talk.

But surgeon bought her ribbon gay, And with it she all day did play, The giver often she did bless, And thought sometimes she was princess.

For in it she did take such pride, She fancied she was beauteous bride, And was possessed of great riches, Or thought herself a wealthy d.u.c.h.ess.

And she would bind it round her hair, Imagining that she was fair.

But poor child feels that she must die, She asks the surgeon to come nigh.

And kindly o'er her he doth stand, She asked him for to take her hand, Thanked him for ribbon green and blue, Then evermore bade him adieu.

POETRY.

Poetry to us is given, As stars beautify the Heaven, Or, as the sunbeams when they gleam, Sparkling so bright upon the stream, And the poetry of motion Is s.h.i.+p sailing o'er the ocean; Or, when the bird doth graceful fly, Seeming to float upon the sky, For poetry is the pure cream, And essence of the common theme.

Poetic thoughts the mind doth fill, When on broad plain to view a hill, On barren heath how it doth cheer, To see in distance herd of deer, And poetry breathes in each flower, Nourished by the gentle shower, In song of birds upon the trees, And humming of busy bees, 'Tis solace for the ills of life, A soothing of the jars and strife, For poets feel 'tis a duty To sing of both worth and beauty.