The U.E. Poem

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From Island Ten

New Madrid, Missouri

Rebel lit

"braive Suthren frend,

from iland 10,..."

Guest Poem Entitled In Detroit

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Thanksgiving Poem

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The First Thanksgiving Day Recitation

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Airs And Melodies

Am Filidh gaidhealach, or The Highland minstrel: a collection...:

The McGregors' And Their Powerful Neighbors

The Dean of Lismore's book: a selection of ancient Gaelic poetry from a manuscript collection made by Sir James M'Gregor, dean of Lismore, in the beginning of the sixteenth century :

A LA Nouvelle Orleans

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A Late Phoenix

A Late Phoenix by Catherine Aird, is an English mystery, "With undertones of war." "And overtones of murder."


The Serving Men poem by Rudyard Kipling was mentioned in the Aird book; I was not familiar with it before reading this novel.  Here's an excerpt and illustration:

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Another excerpt included a real person, Doctor Harley Crippen, who was born and raised in the United States though became infamous in England.

"He wouldn't have killed that girl."  "He was a doctor, Inspector."  "He was dedicated to saving life, not wasting it."  "...Sloan didn't argue; though a first-class medical training hadn't stopped those well-remembered doctors Harley Crippen, Buck Ruxton....from doing murder in their day."

A Late Phoenix was described in this blog.

Young Poetess

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From the Biography and Poetical Remains of the late Margaret Miller Davidson, by Washington Irving:

Margaret Miller Davidson, the youngest daughter of Dr. Oliver and Mrs. Margaret Davidson, was born...in the village of Plattsburgh, March 26, 1823.  She and her sister, Lucretia, were young poets.  She [Margaret] departed this life on the 25th of November 1838, aged fifteen years and eight months; her earthly remains repose in the grave yard of the village of Saratoga.

Red Wine Of Youth

Red wine of youth: a life of Rupert Brooke, by Arthur Stringer.

"Rupert Brooke was one of those rare poets who looked the part. With his vivid coloring and his almost womanly smoothness of skin, with his mop of fair hair, with a golden tint, crowning an almost godlike beauty of face, with his English blue eyes that could glow with unanglican ardencies and with his casually responsive and carelessly radiant spirit, he invariably cast a spell over those who came in contact with him."

Lady Of The Lake

Sir Walter Scott's The Lady Of The Lake:

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Heading Towards Point Judith

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From Visit to Grand-papa: Or, A Week at Newport, by Sarah S. Cahoone:

Point Judith (see map published in 1837) was mentioned earlier in the story.

Also see Brenton's Point.

If....

Rewards and Fairies by Rudyard Kipling as seen in book about Empire Day In Ontario:

If you can keep your head when all about you.....


IF--

     If you can keep your head when all about you
     Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
     If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
     But make allowance for their doubting too;
     If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
     Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
     Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
     And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

     If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
     If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim,
     If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
     And treat those two impostors just the same;
     If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
     Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
     Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
     And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

     If you can make one heap of all your winnings
     And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
     And lose, and start again at your beginnings
     And never breathe a word about your loss;
     If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
     To serve your turn long after they are gone,
     And so hold on when there is nothing in you
     Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

     If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
     Or walk with Kings--nor lose the common touch,
     If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
     If all men count with you, but none too much;
     If you can fill the unforgiving minute
     With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
     Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
     And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

The Wreck Of The Julie Plante

Dr. W. H. Drummond, the noted writer of French-Canadian dialect poems, who died in Cobalt April 6, 1907. One of his most popular poems was "The Wreck of the Julie Plante." Believing that it will prove both
amusing and interesting to the reader we publish it in full :

THE WRECK OF THE JULIE PLANTE

'Twas one dark night on Lac St. Clair,

De wind was "blow," "blow," "blow,"

When de crew on de wood skow "Julie Plante"

Got scare and run below.

For de wind she blow like hurricane,

Bineby she blow some more

When de skow buss up just off Grosee Pointe

Ten acres from the shore.

The captain she's walk on the front deck,

She's walk on the hind deck, too,

She's call the crew from up the hole,

She's call the cook also.

De cook his name was Rosa

He come from Montreal,

Was a chambermaid on a lumber barge

On dat big Lachine Canal.

De wind he's blow from nor' eass' wess'

De sou' wind he's blow too,

When Rosa say, "Oh, Captain,

Whatever shall I do."

De captain she's throw the hank,

But still that skow she drif,

And de crew he can't pass on dat shore

Because he loose dat skiff.

De night was dark like one black cat,

De wave ran high and fass

When the Captain took poor Rosa

And lash her to the mass.

When the Captain put on de life preserve

And he jump into the lac,

And he say, "Good-by, my Rosa dear,

I go down for your sak.

Next morning vary hearly,

About half-past two, three, four,

De Captain, cook and wood skow

Lay corpses on dat shore.

For the wind she blow like hurricane,

Bimeby she blow some more,

For dat skow buss up just hoff Grosee Pointe

Ten hacres from de shore.

Moral.

Now all good wood skow sailor mans,

Take lesson by that storm

And go and marry nice French gal

And live on Grosee Pointe farm.

Den the wind may blow like hurricane

And spose she's blow some more,

You can't get drowned on Lac St. Clair

So long you stop on shore.

[Source]

Put to song by Nelson Eddy (Lac St. Pierre instead of Lac St. Clair) and a more traditional reading here (both on YouTube).

Poignant Poem In Mystery Novel

A Killing At Ball's Bluff by Michael Kilian, had character (the real life) Oliver Wendell Holmes reading lines from the poem written by his father, Oliver Wendell Holmes, entitled The Last Leaf:

"The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed
in their blooms;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb."