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A Providential Escape

Providential escape of Ruby and Niel McLeod, children of Angus McLeod,
Ingersoll, little Neil McKay McLeod, a child three years of age, was carried
under a covered raceway, upwards of one hundred yards, the whole distance
being either covered over with roadway, buildings or ice.

A wonderous tale we now do trace,
Of little children fell in race ;
The youngest of these little dears,
The boy's age is but three years.

While coasting o'er the treacherous ice-
precious pearls of great price-
The elder Ruby, the daughter,
Was rescued from the ice cold water.

But horrid death each one did feel
Had sure befallen poor little Neil ;
Consternation did people fill,
And they cried 'shut down the mill.'

But still no person yet could tell
What had the poor child befel [sic] ;
The covered race, so long and dark,
Of hopes there scarcely seemed a spark.

Was he held fast as if in vice,
Wedged 'mong the timbers and the ice,
Or, was there for him ample room
For to float down the narrow flume?

Had he found there a watery grave,
Or been borne on crest of wave ?
Think of the mothers agony, wild,
Gazing through dark tunnel for her child.

But soon as Partlo started mill,
Through crowd there ran a joyous thrill,
When he was quickly borne along,
The little hero of our song.

Alas ! of life there is no trace,
And be is black all over face ;
Though he then seemed as if in death,
Yet quickly, they restored his breath.

Think now how mother she adored
Her sweet dear child, to her restored,
And her boundless gratitude
Unto the author of all good.

Swept through dark passage 'neath the road,
Saved only by the hand of God,
No wonder Father now feels proud
Of little Niel McKay McLeod.

poem by James McIntyre
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Related quotes

Song: XI

Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.

Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.

Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.

Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.

Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .

Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?

poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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A Mothers Love

A mothers love is everlasting, forever
A mother and her child will always be together
A mothers love for her child through the smiles and the tears
Will stay strong for years and years
A mothers love will never die
Even if sometimes her child makes her cry
A mother can really reach up high, and touch the sky
When next to her is her child
A mothers love will reach beyond the grave
When a mother is with her child she will always be brave
Two children or one, daughter or son
More precious than the stars above
You can never take a mothers love

poem by Natasha Potter
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Missing Link

A sickly child lie
frail on the sofa in the living room.
A knock on the door,
His mother opened.
The man who entered the child knew it was his father.
Whose child is this?
“It is your youngest son” his mother said.
The children in the street
all had a father; the child had waited for him.
But his father ignored him,
gave chocolate to his sister and brother,
then he drank from a bottle,
his mother threw him out.
Next day asked his mother, ” are you sure he is my father? ”
She slapped her son’s face and cried.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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If I were dead

'IF I were dead, you'd sometimes say, Poor Child!'
The dear lips quiver'd as they spake,
And the tears brake
From eyes which, not to grieve me, brightly smiled.
Poor Child, poor Child!
I seem to hear your laugh, your talk, your song.
It is not true that Love will do no wrong.
Poor Child!
And did you think, when you so cried and smiled,
How I, in lonely nights, should lie awake,
And of those words your full avengers make?
Poor Child, poor Child!
And now, unless it be
That sweet amends thrice told are come to thee,
O God, have Thou no mercy upon me!
Poor Child!

poem by Coventry Patmore
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Don't Cry, Child

Don't cry, child
For children starving far away
For homeless people on the streets
Begging for change.

Don't cry, child
For those of us who have no dreams
Who live in dark holes
That we dig ourselves, laboriously - why?

Don't cry, child
For forgotten rainbows
Or melancholy rainstorms
For wispy clouds, always drifting away.

Don't cry, child
For who you are not
Or who you have been
For who you are.

Don't cry, child
For the last animal of it's kind
The mother who cannot feed her children
A planet in need.

Don't cry, child
When you stand on the edge of forever
And wish you could fly
And see the world at your fingertips.

Don't cry, child
For long-gone yesterdays
Or yearned-for tomorrows

Don't cry, child
For what you have done today
Forgive
Start a new day
Make it better than the last.

poem by Nina Dringo
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To Be A Child Again

To Be a Child Again by Kenny Davis

I see the children of today
Their smiles take me away
To my times as a child
And the games that I would play

To be a child again
Means to be taken to an imaginary place
Where a box could be a house or race car
Or a ship in outer space

To be a child again
Means Mother is God in my eyes
My father is like my hero
Like Superman in the skies

To be a child again
There are many times, I would smile from ear to ear
I would jump into my parent’s loving arms
With nothing left to fear

To be a child again
Full of bedtime stories and fairy tales
Whether it was Jack and the Beanstalk
Or Jack and Jill with their water pails

To be a child again
My life filled with Mother Goose
The tails of Humpty Dumpty
And Green Eggs and Ham from Dr. Seuss

Now that I have grown
I recall my times as a child
So young, so innocent
So reckless and wild

To be a child again
My parents would wipe away every tear
It is all of those tender moments as a child
That I will always hold dear

poem by Kenneth Davis
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Agony Of A Child For Her Mother

my mother is the sweetest.
my mother is the cutest.
my mother is the smartest.
my mother is the greatest of all in the world.

my mother is the most wisest.
to save me from accident, she happily enjoyed to die.

i haven't seen my mother's face as i was of 4 years old then.

in my thoughts my mother is the most beautiful person.

she is like:

my mother's face is as white as snow.
my mother's eyes are as white as milk.
my mother is as white as cloud.
because she is completely covered with bandages.

my mother is the happiest person in the whole world.
because she can't feel any thing.

she can't feel any feelings.
she can't feel any pain.
she can't be sad.
as she was in comma, when i saw her.

i am the luckiest child in the whole world.
as i couldn't see her face.
i couldn't talk to her.
i couldn't play with her.
i couldn't share my feelings with her.

i am the reason why she was suffering such agony in life.
to save me from death, she sacrificed everything including her life.

i am the luckiest.
i am the fortunate.
i am the most happiest child for bearing this agony in my life.

As my mother is not with me on this earth.
she will always be with me in my thoughts.

poem by Neelapu Suresh
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I know a child

I know a child,
11 years old, and slices her wrists,
I know a child,
whose name is Elizabeth.

I know a child,
12 years old, and has a pervert daddy,
I know a child,
whose name is Maddie.

I know a child,
13 years old, and wants to die,
I know a child,
whose name is Ty.

I know a child,
14 years old, and came face-to-face with death,
I know a child,
whose name is Seth.

I know a child,
15 years old, and pregnant with a baby,
I am the child,
whose name is Sami.

poem by Sami Woodall
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Adventure on a Raft

The following adventure happened in the experience of an
Ingersoll man.

' Truth is strange, stranger than fiction.'

A man rafting down the river,
Time he will remember ever,
He shouted, ' Pole, the raft to land,
Or we'll be wrecked upon the strand.'
But captain gave him a reply
That all danger he would defy ;
But, in another moment more
Part was wrecked upon the shore
Of a Nova Scotian bay ;
The other half was borne away.
Enough to make a person shiver,
Man was drifted out of river,
All alone on the broken raft,
Driven where e'er the wind did waft ;
Right out on the open sea,
Where the storm did blow so free.
No shelter from the wind or wave,
He thought the gulf would be his grave.

He had no food, life to sustain,
He laid him down, there to remain.
What happened he did know no more,
But old man on Prince Edwards shore,
While gazing through his good spy glass,
' What do I see?' he cried, ' Alas !
Some poor man, and I fear he's dead,
Drifting to my humble shed.'
The body acted like a sail,
And wafted raft before the gale;
He called on men to man a boat,
And quickly crew had it afloat,
And in haste full soon they bore
His lifeless body to the shore.
But old man did them then desire
To place body near the fire,
And wrap it up in blankets warm-
Which did act like to a charm-
soon the breath it did return.
With gratitude his heart did burn,
To think he was again restored
Unto his friends, whom he adored;
But worse misfortunes him befell,
Yet he bears up 'neath troubles well.

poem by James McIntyre
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Children?

Children are the easily led,
Their learning is profound,
Their lift is happy and proud,
Why do parents forgive them?
We produce the fellow children
To lift and uplift each of us
When there happens a life.
Children need growth to boast,
To live and outlive, to death is their journey
After a life of straightforward happiness and bliss.
Felt good? Why children? Because, say Children,
We live among others who are like the mothers
In the land we call Children.
Child after child shall learn of the existing ones
That need admirals and generals of late.
The defence of a child is the greatest concern,
And I laugh at one who destroys life,
Ever in turmoil is a child because of this act.
Children will be enough to be today.
Children can upset no one who is old and ancient,
Selfless students are children.
However much you push and pull at the threads that children weave
And sort, and spread, and sew,
The adult will sew better and more often than a child.
That is the secret, children.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Come Home, Father!

'Tis The
SONG OF LITTLE MARY,
Standing at the bar-room door
While the shameful midnight revel
Rages wildly as before.

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes one;
You said you were coming right home from the shop,
As soon as your day's work was done.
Our fire has gone out our house is all dark
And mother's been watching since tea, --
With poor brother Benny so sick in her arms,
And no one to help her but me. --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes two;
The night has grown colder, and Benny is worse
But he has been calling for you.
Indeed he is worse Ma says he will die,
Perhaps before morning shall dawn; --
And this is the message she sent me to bring
"Come quickly, or he will be gone." --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

Father, dear father, come home with me now!
The clock in the steeple strikes three;
The house is so lonely the hours are so long
For poor weeping mother and me.
Yes, we are alone poor Benny is dead,
And gone with the angels of light; --
And these were the very last words that he said
"I want to kiss Papa good night." --
Come home! come home! come home! --
Please, father, dear father, come home. --

Hear the sweet voice of the child
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of prayers?
"Please, father, dear father, come home."

poem by Henry Clay Work
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Question and answer

THE CHILD

Father! Within the forest's bound
No bird I found,
No sound of song the woods around.

THE FATHER

The bird that glad his song us gave,
Flies o'er the wave;
Perhaps he there will find his grave.

THE CHILD

But why does he not wait till later?

THE FATHER

He goes where light and warmth are greater

THE CHILD

Father! It selfish seems to me,
Far off to flee,
When all we others here must be.

THE FATHER

With new-born spring comes new-born song;
By instinct strong
The better new he'll bring erelong.

THE CHILD

But if in death the cold waves swallow-?

THE FATHER

Others will come; his kin will follow.

poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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The Eve of My Death

The eve of my death, a baby was born, and this kept me alive.
The eve of my death, a baby took her first stumbling steps, and this kept me
alive.
The eve of my death, a school bus filled with laughing children drove away,
and this kept me alive.
The eve of my death, I looked out my window to see my child be swept
away to prom, and this kept me alive.
The eve of my death, my baby, my child reached out her hand to accept her
diploma, she is not a baby or a child any more, and this kept me alive.
The eve of my death, I walked with my daughter down the isle, and this kept
me alive.
The eve of my death, I held my new born grandson in my arms, and this kept
me alive.
The day of my death, I feel my grandson's tears hit me like a cool spring rain,
I see his father behind a podium an inch away from tears, I feel the
flowers on the casket that holds the only thing that keeps me alive.

poem by Stephen Howard
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Little Popeet - the Lost Child

Near by the silent waters of the Mediterranean,
And at the door of an old hut stood a coloured man,
Whose dress was oriental in style and poor with wear,
While adown his furrowed cheeks ran many a tear.

And the poor coloured man seemed very discontent,
And his grief overcame him at this moment;
And he wrung his hands in agony wild,
And he cried, "Oh! help me, great God, to find my child."

"And Ada, my dear wife, but now she is dead,
Which fills my poor heart with sorrow and dread;
She was a very loving wife, but of her I'm bereft,
And I and my lost child are only left.

And, alas! I know not where to find my boy,
Who is dear to me and my only joy;
But with the help of God I will find him,
And this day in search of him I will begin."

So Medoo leaves Turkey and goes to France,
Expecting to find his boy there perhaps by chance;
And while there in Paris he was told
His boy by an Arab had been sold

To a company of French players that performed in the street,
Which was sad news to hear about his boy Popeet;
And while searching for him and making great moan,
He was told he was ill and in Madame Mercy's Home.

Then away went Medoo with his heart full of joy,
To gaze upon the face of his long-lost boy;
Who had been treated by the players mercilessly,
But was taken to the home of Madame Celeste.

She was a member of the players and the leader's wife,
And she loved the boy Popeet as dear as her life,
Because she had no children of her own;
And for the poor ill-treated boy often she did moan.

And when Popeet's father visited the Home,
He was shown into a room where Popeet lay alone,
Pale and emaciated, in his little bed;
And when his father saw him he thought he was dead.

And when Popeet saw his father he lept out of bed,
And only that his father caught him he'd been killed dead;
And his father cried, " Popeet, my own darling boy,
Thank God I've found you, and my heart's full of joy."

Then Madame Mercy's tears fell thick and fast,
When she saw that Popeet had found his father at last;
Then poor Popeet was taken home without delay,
And lived happy with his father for many a day.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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A Little Child Is My Master

A little child is my master
I'm met by him to my nature
He does not worry his past
He does not care to future

Smiles dance on his face
In the joy and serious case
He is hurt he forgets
He lives in joy with bless

He teaches me a holy lesson
I can live happy in the tension
An elder does not know love
A child knows he is above

I started respect the children
He shows me a way of heaven
We are wise but we get zero
He loves us he is a hero

I get a child when I meet
I feel I'm child it's sweet

poem by Aroon George
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Not all blacks

Diamonds are black,
hairs are black,
eyes are also black,
but heart too black?

Bear no grudge,
colours matter less,
does mother throw her child?
if kid is black,

Colour may not remain and vanish,
body may still last but perish,
idea may remain and also cherish,
hatred may remain and us finish,

Body may change from time to time,
The color may fade with passage of time,
nature may not change even with time,
do our feelings change with time?

'Thy' may not appreciate,
human beings should not differentiate,
race, colour and abuse should not substantiate,
where will you seek refuge if atmosphere vitiate?

Let colour not dominate,
race should not subordinate,
let all come together and co-ordinate,
make use of all and not denigrate,

My God was black,
still was loved by many,
Poor are still not hated
even have no money,

I may say it loud,
May feel even proud,
Does that ring so sound?
Let love for all be found,

Let there prevail nationalism,
take credit with idealism,
rationale thinking and some rationalism,
”Ism” all over but term it patriotism,

Sentiments not hurt by calling black,
no wars be fought even stabbed from back,
always carry the ideas in your pack,
remain alert even if you draw a flake,

when out from mother’s womb or mines,
diamond or child will have no shine,
if go by sayings black will not to be liked
with shine in diamond, price will be hiked,

Neither the Black represent dark,
not the dark as word black,
Black may have kind heart,
white may have black,

So say not black is bad,
With black son don’t feel sad,
You will feel good with word dad,
without black or white you will go mad

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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My Fore-Elders

When from the child, that still is led
By hand, a father's hand is gone, ---
Or when a few-year'd mother dead
Has left her children growing on, ---
When men have left their children staid,
And they again have boy and maid, ---
O, can they know, as years may roll,
Their children's children, soul by soul?
If this with souls in heaven can be,
Do my fore-elders know of me?

My elders' elders, man and wife,
Were borne full early to the tomb,
With children still in childhood life
To play with butterfly or bloom.
And did they see the seasons mould
Their faces on, from young to old,
As years might bring them, turn by turn,
A time to laugh or time to mourn?
If this with souls in heaven can be,
Do my fore-elders know of me?

How fain I now would walk the floor
Within their mossy porch's bow,
Or linger by their church's door,
Or road that bore them to and fro,
Or nook where once they build their mow,
Or gateway open to their plough
(Though now indeed no gate is swung
That their live hands had ever hung ), ---
If I could know that they would see
Their child's late child, and know of me.

poem by William Barnes
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Good Friday, A.D. 33

Mother, why are people crowding now and staring?
Child, it is a malefactor goes to His doom,
To the high hill of Calvary He's faring,
And the people pressing and pushing to make room
Lest they miss the sight to come.

Oh, the poor malefactor, heavy is His load!
Now He falls beneath it and they goad Him on.
Sure the road to Calvary's a steep up-hill road --
Is there none to help Him with His Cross -- not one?
Must He bear it all alone?

Here is a country boy with business in the city,
Smelling of the cattle's breath and the sweet hay;
Now they bid him lift the Cross, so they have some pity:
Child, they fear the malefactor dies on the way
And robs them of their play.

Has He no friends then, no father nor mother,
None to wipe the sweat away nor pity His fate?
There's a woman weeping and there's none to soothe her:
Child, it is well the seducer expiate
His crimes that are so great.

Mother, did I dream He once bent above me,
This poor seducer with the thorn-crowned head,
His hands on my hair and His eyes seemed to love me?
Suffer little children to come to Me, He said --
His hair, his brows drip red.

Hurrying through Jerusalem on business or pleasure
People hardly pause to see Him go to His death
Whom they held five days ago more than a King's treasure,
Shouting Hosannas, flinging many a wreath
For this Jesus of Nazareth.

poem by Katharine Tynan
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