As we are well into autumn now, here is a poem authored by William Topaz McGonagall, who spent his childhood in Edinburgh. His parents were Irish. Do you think McGonagall's work (below) has the substance to make a great song, as so many of Burn's works have (in addition to the songs that he authored)? If Tam' O Shanter is closer to your heart this time of year, some background can be found here (to assist with any issues with the language):
Alas! Beautiful Summer now hath fled,
And the face of Nature doth seem dead,
And the leaves are withered, and falling off the trees,
By the nipping and chilling autumnal breeze.
The pleasures of the little birds are all fled,
And with the cold many of them will be found dead,
Because the leaves of the trees are scattered in the blast,
And makes the feathered creatures feel downcast.
Because there are no leaves on the trees to shield them from the storm
On a windy, and rainy, cloudy morn;
Which makes their little hearts throb with pain,
By the chilling blast and the pitiless rain.
But still they are more contented than the children of God,
As long as they can pick up a worm from the sod,
Or anything they can get to eat,
Just, for instance, a stale crust of bread or a grain of wheat.
Oh! Think of the little birds in the time of the snow,
Also of the little street waifs, that are driven to and fro,
And trembling in the cold blast, and chilled to the bone,
For the want of food and clothing, and a warm home.
Besides think of the sorrows of the wandering poor,
That are wandering in the cold blast from door to door;
And begging, for Heaven's sake, a crust of bread,
And alas! Not knowing where to lay their head.
While the rich are well fed and covered from the cold,
While the poor are starving, both young and old;
Alas! It is the case in this boasted Christian land,
Where as the rich are told to be kind to the poor, is God's command.
Oh! Think of the working man when he's no work to do,
Who's got a wife and family, perhaps four or two,
And the father searching for work, and no work can be had,
The thought, I'm sure, 'tis enough to drive the poor man mad.
Because for his wife and family he must feel,
And perhaps the thought thereof will cause him to steal
Bread for his family, that are starving at home,
While the thought thereof makes him sigh heavily and groan.
Alas! The pangs of hunger are very hard to hide,
And few people can their temper control,
Or become reconciled to their fate,
Especially when they cannot find anything to eat.
Oh! Think of the struggles of the poor to make a living,
Because the rich unto them seldom are giving;
Wereas they are told he that giveth to the poor lendeth unto the Lord,
But alas! they rather incline their money to hoard.
Then theres the little news-vendors in the street,
Running about perhaps with bare feet;
And if the rich chance to see such creatures in the street,
In general they make a sudden retreat.
William McGonagall didn't have Burns's skill in his choice and arrangement of words, to put it mildly! He is famous as Britain's "Worst Poet" - he *always* got it wrong, resulting in unintentionally hilarious bathos. Though there have been very many who rival or outmatch him in this, including singer-songwriters I have heard in folk clubs.
That doesn't mean his heart wasn't in the right place, as the above poem indicates. And who knows, it might inspire you or someone else to write a translation or paraphrase in your own language which turns out to be far better as a poem or a song.
In later life McGonagall was awarded a genuine knighthood of the Order of the White Elephant by the King of Burma, thus becoming Sir William Topaz McGonagall; although who or what induced the good King to award McGonagall one of the highest honours is anyone's guess.
"The Improved McGonagall, A Collection of Poems", probably not a bad idea if you've got the skill to avoid being told that the collection submitted to a publisher has caused you to usurp the original author's historic title.
Honestly, I read this poem, and it speaks to me of the poems I heard read in classrooms in a public school before going off to college. The poems were created by persons that I knew were not planning to become English majors, or to pursue higher education. Perhaps McGonagall deserves better to be known as one of the most notable poets ever to arise as a voice of the working man of his era, daring to speak honestly from that perspective. There's a certain courage in that act that Byron would never have even contemplated.
McGonagall has a certain appeal if only to experience his level of involvement with his world, outside of his "inner world", a motif more commonly employed by the acknowledged master's, such a Blake. McGonagall represents not "his world" but "the world", one in which he is involved very much in the first person, with little adornment, a perspective that seems assured by his origins and limited educational background. He is not, and can not be, a great poet as great poets have come to be measured by those with the wealth to serve as their patrons, but he dares to express himself, and in the process may speak for a much larger segment of the population of his era than those whose historical shadows are much longer and more revered.
One must wonder, given the content of the above work, if those who named McGonagall one of the worst poets did so as the product of a class centric society led by an elite group that felt obliged to discount the poems of a working man in part to discourage others from speaking up with similar compassion for the disadvantaged in a manner that was so entirely accessible to the disadvantaged and their families. By calling him "the worst", did they intend to discount sentiments such as those voiced in "Autumn Reverie" as unworthy of the English?
Was it only acceptable to encrypt poems that spoke of the disadvantage and the poor, the victims of the industrial revolution, as with Blake in his work, "The Rose" (presumably England), so long as it was maintained on a strictly intellectual level using images that the poor and lower working classes could not (and would not attempt) to unmask? Blake offers us a looking glass that distorts the world around us with brilliant images that must be translated via a historical reference frame to have meaning. McGonagall simply points.
The ones I absolutely love are "The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay", "The Tay Bridge Disaster" and "An Address to the New Tay Bridge". One only has to look at the open stanzas of the three poems to realise MacGonagall's genius. (Although, they do repay reading in full. I defy anyone not to have tears in their eyes after reading these poems in full.)
"The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay
BEAUTIFUL Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green."
"The Tay Bridge Disaster
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time."
"An Address to the New Tay Bridge
BEAUTIFUL new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay,
With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array,
And your thirteen central girders, which seem to my eye
Strong enough all windy storms to defy.
And as I gaze upon thee my heart feels gay,
Because thou are the greatest railway bridge of the present day,
And can be seen for miles away
From North, South, East or West of the Tay
On a beautiful and clear sunshiny day,
And ought to make the hearts of the "Mars" boys feel gay,
Because thine equal nowhere can be seen,
Only near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green."
One moment I wonder how McGonagall ever became known, then I take it back as I reflect on how close he came in "Autumn Reverie" to sentiments periodically expressed by my father, the "handy-man". In the railway bridge poems, he seems to assert the wonder felt by many of his time for trains and all that is associated with them. Such bridges are, to many, common object built for function rather than form. McGonagall looks at them, sees the repeating structure of the squat, wrought iron bridge supports, the impressive span, the water below, and lets himself be moved. I can't claim to love the poetry, but I do feel a certain admiration for the way he gave voice to thoughts that may have been felt by many others.
God prosper long our noble Queen,
And long may she reign!
Maclean he tried to shoot her,
But it was all in vain.
For God He turned the ball aside
Maclean aimed at her head;
And he felt very angry
Because he didn't shoot her dead.
There's a divinity that hedges a king,
And so it does seem,
And my opinion is, it has hedged
Our most gracious Queen.
Maclean must be a madman,
Which is obvious to be seen,
Or else he wouldn't have tried to shoot
Our most beloved Queen.
Victoria is a good Queen,
Which all her subjects know,
And for that God has protected her
From all her deadly foes.
She is noble and generous,
Her subjects must confess;
There hasn't been her equal
Since the days of good Queen Bess.
Long may she be spared to roam
Among the bonnie Highland floral,
And spend many a happy day
In the palace of Balmoral.
Because she is very kind
To the old women there,
And allows them bread, tea, and sugar,
And each one get a share.
And when they know of her coming,
Their hearts feel overjoy'd,
Because, in general, she finds work
For men that's unemploy'd.
And she also gives the gipsies money
While at Balmoral, I've been told,
And, mind ye, seldom silver,
But very often gold.
I hope God will protect her
By night and by day,
At home and abroad,
When she's far away.
May He be as a hedge around her,
As he's been all along,
And let her live and die in peace
Is the end of my song.
____________________________
I'm particularly fond of the second verse and also reminded that Peter Sellers played Queen Victoria in the film 'The Great McGonagall', with the blessed St. Spike of Milligan as the bard himself.
I like that one. He was cheerful about the Great British / Unionist Project and liked to dwell on its sunnier side - the great works of the time, and Queen Victoria of course, who I feel did deserve a lot of the loyalty that was felt or expressed for her.
But McGonagall had invincible conceit regarding his poetic abilities. He turned up at a Royal palace expecting to be made Poet Laureate (he was refused admission). He was really rather like someone who might turn up at a session with a violin who thinks he's a fiddler but hasn't the first clue, breaks in by playing The Mason's Apron in all parts three times over, then goes on to presume he's the session leader!
For real poetry by an English working man about the details of a small world he knew intimately, you could do worse than look up John Clare. He died in 1864 (born in late c18) and saw his rural community done away with by the Enclosures.
Nicholas, I think there must, statistically, be one or two "McGonagalls" amongst our fellow members. A true "McGonagall" would be recognised instantly by others as such, but would be quite incapable of recognising it for himself, even if it is explained to him. But this does not mean names should be named
The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
What's the betting that if William McGonagall were around today he'd find a lucrative little niche for himself as a singer-songwriter in the clubs, quite possibly extending into an even more lucrative career as an eccentric celebrity on television?
Autumn Reverie
Autumn Reverie
Many of Robert Burns' great works have been set to music (in addition to the songs he wrote), including the following collection by Jim Malcolm:
http://www.musicscotland.com/cd/jim-malcolm-tam-oshanter-other-tales.html .
As we are well into autumn now, here is a poem authored by William Topaz McGonagall, who spent his childhood in Edinburgh. His parents were Irish. Do you think McGonagall's work (below) has the substance to make a great song, as so many of Burn's works have (in addition to the songs that he authored)? If Tam' O Shanter is closer to your heart this time of year, some background can be found here (to assist with any issues with the language):
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tam_o'_Shanter_(Burns_poem) .
A recording from a Burns Supper is said to reside here:
http://www.scotsindependent.org/features/burns/index.htm .
An Autumn Reverie by William Topaz McGonagall
Alas! Beautiful Summer now hath fled,
And the face of Nature doth seem dead,
And the leaves are withered, and falling off the trees,
By the nipping and chilling autumnal breeze.
The pleasures of the little birds are all fled,
And with the cold many of them will be found dead,
Because the leaves of the trees are scattered in the blast,
And makes the feathered creatures feel downcast.
Because there are no leaves on the trees to shield them from the storm
On a windy, and rainy, cloudy morn;
Which makes their little hearts throb with pain,
By the chilling blast and the pitiless rain.
But still they are more contented than the children of God,
As long as they can pick up a worm from the sod,
Or anything they can get to eat,
Just, for instance, a stale crust of bread or a grain of wheat.
Oh! Think of the little birds in the time of the snow,
Also of the little street waifs, that are driven to and fro,
And trembling in the cold blast, and chilled to the bone,
For the want of food and clothing, and a warm home.
Besides think of the sorrows of the wandering poor,
That are wandering in the cold blast from door to door;
And begging, for Heaven's sake, a crust of bread,
And alas! Not knowing where to lay their head.
While the rich are well fed and covered from the cold,
While the poor are starving, both young and old;
Alas! It is the case in this boasted Christian land,
Where as the rich are told to be kind to the poor, is God's command.
Oh! Think of the working man when he's no work to do,
Who's got a wife and family, perhaps four or two,
And the father searching for work, and no work can be had,
The thought, I'm sure, 'tis enough to drive the poor man mad.
Because for his wife and family he must feel,
And perhaps the thought thereof will cause him to steal
Bread for his family, that are starving at home,
While the thought thereof makes him sigh heavily and groan.
Alas! The pangs of hunger are very hard to hide,
And few people can their temper control,
Or become reconciled to their fate,
Especially when they cannot find anything to eat.
Oh! Think of the struggles of the poor to make a living,
Because the rich unto them seldom are giving;
Wereas they are told he that giveth to the poor lendeth unto the Lord,
But alas! they rather incline their money to hoard.
Then theres the little news-vendors in the street,
Running about perhaps with bare feet;
And if the rich chance to see such creatures in the street,
In general they make a sudden retreat.
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by Arthur Nordstrom
Re: Autumn Reverie
William McGonagall didn't have Burns's skill in his choice and arrangement of words, to put it mildly! He is famous as Britain's "Worst Poet" - he *always* got it wrong, resulting in unintentionally hilarious bathos. Though there have been very many who rival or outmatch him in this, including singer-songwriters I have heard in folk clubs.
That doesn't mean his heart wasn't in the right place, as the above poem indicates. And who knows, it might inspire you or someone else to write a translation or paraphrase in your own language which turns out to be far better as a poem or a song.
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by nicholas
Re: Autumn Reverie
In later life McGonagall was awarded a genuine knighthood of the Order of the White Elephant by the King of Burma, thus becoming Sir William Topaz McGonagall; although who or what induced the good King to award McGonagall one of the highest honours is anyone's guess.
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by lazyhound
Re: Autumn Reverie
"The Improved McGonagall, A Collection of Poems", probably not a bad idea if you've got the skill to avoid being told that the collection submitted to a publisher has caused you to usurp the original author's historic title.
Honestly, I read this poem, and it speaks to me of the poems I heard read in classrooms in a public school before going off to college. The poems were created by persons that I knew were not planning to become English majors, or to pursue higher education. Perhaps McGonagall deserves better to be known as one of the most notable poets ever to arise as a voice of the working man of his era, daring to speak honestly from that perspective. There's a certain courage in that act that Byron would never have even contemplated.
McGonagall has a certain appeal if only to experience his level of involvement with his world, outside of his "inner world", a motif more commonly employed by the acknowledged master's, such a Blake. McGonagall represents not "his world" but "the world", one in which he is involved very much in the first person, with little adornment, a perspective that seems assured by his origins and limited educational background. He is not, and can not be, a great poet as great poets have come to be measured by those with the wealth to serve as their patrons, but he dares to express himself, and in the process may speak for a much larger segment of the population of his era than those whose historical shadows are much longer and more revered.
One must wonder, given the content of the above work, if those who named McGonagall one of the worst poets did so as the product of a class centric society led by an elite group that felt obliged to discount the poems of a working man in part to discourage others from speaking up with similar compassion for the disadvantaged in a manner that was so entirely accessible to the disadvantaged and their families. By calling him "the worst", did they intend to discount sentiments such as those voiced in "Autumn Reverie" as unworthy of the English?
Was it only acceptable to encrypt poems that spoke of the disadvantage and the poor, the victims of the industrial revolution, as with Blake in his work, "The Rose" (presumably England), so long as it was maintained on a strictly intellectual level using images that the poor and lower working classes could not (and would not attempt) to unmask? Blake offers us a looking glass that distorts the world around us with brilliant images that must be translated via a historical reference frame to have meaning. McGonagall simply points.
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by Arthur Nordstrom
Re: Autumn Reverie
I'm reminded of this.
I must go down to the sea again
the lonely sea and sky
I left my shoes and socks there
I wonder if they 're dry?
S. Milligan
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by Eòsaph
Re: Autumn Reverie
I must arise and go now,
And get a Guinness free...
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by nicholas
Re: Autumn Reverie
The ones I absolutely love are "The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay", "The Tay Bridge Disaster" and "An Address to the New Tay Bridge". One only has to look at the open stanzas of the three poems to realise MacGonagall's genius. (Although, they do repay reading in full. I defy anyone not to have tears in their eyes after reading these poems in full.)
"The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay
BEAUTIFUL Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay !
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beautification to the River Tay,
Most beautiful to be seen,
Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green."
"The Tay Bridge Disaster
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time."
"An Address to the New Tay Bridge
BEAUTIFUL new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay,
With your strong brick piers and buttresses in so grand array,
And your thirteen central girders, which seem to my eye
Strong enough all windy storms to defy.
And as I gaze upon thee my heart feels gay,
Because thou are the greatest railway bridge of the present day,
And can be seen for miles away
From North, South, East or West of the Tay
On a beautiful and clear sunshiny day,
And ought to make the hearts of the "Mars" boys feel gay,
Because thine equal nowhere can be seen,
Only near by Dundee and the bonnie Magdalen Green."
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by ethical blend
Re: Autumn Reverie
"... the opening stanzas ..."
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by ethical blend
Re: Autumn Reverie
One moment I wonder how McGonagall ever became known, then I take it back as I reflect on how close he came in "Autumn Reverie" to sentiments periodically expressed by my father, the "handy-man". In the railway bridge poems, he seems to assert the wonder felt by many of his time for trains and all that is associated with them. Such bridges are, to many, common object built for function rather than form. McGonagall looks at them, sees the repeating structure of the squat, wrought iron bridge supports, the impressive span, the water below, and lets himself be moved. I can't claim to love the poetry, but I do feel a certain admiration for the way he gave voice to thoughts that may have been felt by many others.
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by Arthur Nordstrom
Re: Autumn Reverie
Yes, indeed. He died in 1902, the 29th of September. A day which many will long remember.
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by ethical blend
Re: Autumn Reverie
Here's my favourite.
______________________
Attempted Assassination of the Queen
God prosper long our noble Queen,
And long may she reign!
Maclean he tried to shoot her,
But it was all in vain.
For God He turned the ball aside
Maclean aimed at her head;
And he felt very angry
Because he didn't shoot her dead.
There's a divinity that hedges a king,
And so it does seem,
And my opinion is, it has hedged
Our most gracious Queen.
Maclean must be a madman,
Which is obvious to be seen,
Or else he wouldn't have tried to shoot
Our most beloved Queen.
Victoria is a good Queen,
Which all her subjects know,
And for that God has protected her
From all her deadly foes.
She is noble and generous,
Her subjects must confess;
There hasn't been her equal
Since the days of good Queen Bess.
Long may she be spared to roam
Among the bonnie Highland floral,
And spend many a happy day
In the palace of Balmoral.
Because she is very kind
To the old women there,
And allows them bread, tea, and sugar,
And each one get a share.
And when they know of her coming,
Their hearts feel overjoy'd,
Because, in general, she finds work
For men that's unemploy'd.
And she also gives the gipsies money
While at Balmoral, I've been told,
And, mind ye, seldom silver,
But very often gold.
I hope God will protect her
By night and by day,
At home and abroad,
When she's far away.
May He be as a hedge around her,
As he's been all along,
And let her live and die in peace
Is the end of my song.
____________________________
I'm particularly fond of the second verse and also reminded that Peter Sellers played Queen Victoria in the film 'The Great McGonagall', with the blessed St. Spike of Milligan as the bard himself.
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by Floss the Tethers
Re: Autumn Reverie
I like that one. He was cheerful about the Great British / Unionist Project and liked to dwell on its sunnier side - the great works of the time, and Queen Victoria of course, who I feel did deserve a lot of the loyalty that was felt or expressed for her.
But McGonagall had invincible conceit regarding his poetic abilities. He turned up at a Royal palace expecting to be made Poet Laureate (he was refused admission). He was really rather like someone who might turn up at a session with a violin who thinks he's a fiddler but hasn't the first clue, breaks in by playing The Mason's Apron in all parts three times over, then goes on to presume he's the session leader!
For real poetry by an English working man about the details of a small world he knew intimately, you could do worse than look up John Clare. He died in 1864 (born in late c18) and saw his rural community done away with by the Enclosures.
# Posted on October 26th 2009 by nicholas
Re: Autumn Reverie
(He ended up in a lunatic asylum.)
# Posted on October 27th 2009 by nicholas
Re: Autumn Reverie
Nicholas, I think there must, statistically, be one or two "McGonagalls" amongst our fellow members. A true "McGonagall" would be recognised instantly by others as such, but would be quite incapable of recognising it for himself, even if it is explained to him. But this does not mean names should be named
# Posted on October 27th 2009 by lazyhound
Re: Autumn Reverie
"...statistically...."
Found John Clare on-line at:
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-3/
He wrote a bit about autumn as well:
Autumn by John Clare
The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
# Posted on October 28th 2009 by Arthur Nordstrom
Re: Autumn Reverie
What's the betting that if William McGonagall were around today he'd find a lucrative little niche for himself as a singer-songwriter in the clubs, quite possibly extending into an even more lucrative career as an eccentric celebrity on television?
# Posted on October 28th 2009 by lazyhound