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Greenland's Icy Mountains

Greenland's icy mountains are fascinating and grand,
And wondrously created by the Almighty's command;
And the works of the Almighty there's few can understand:
Who knows but it might be a part of Fairyland?

Because there are churches of ice, and houses glittering like glass,
And for scenic grandeur there's nothing can it surpass,
Besides there's monuments and spires, also ruins,
Which serve for a safe retreat from the wild bruins.

And there's icy crags and precipices, also beautiful waterfalls,
And as the stranger gazes thereon, his heart it appals
With a mixture of wonder, fear, and delight,
Till at last he exclaims, Oh! what a wonderful sight!

The icy mountains they're higher than a brig's topmast,
And the stranger in amazement stands aghast
As he beholds the water flowing off the melted ice
Adown the mountain sides, that he cries out, Oh! how nice!

Such sights as these are truly magnificent to be seen,
Only that the mountain tops are white instead of green,
And rents and caverns in them, the same as on a rugged mountain side,
And suitable places, in my opinion, for mermaids to reside.

Sometimes these icy mountains suddenly topple o'er
With a wild and rumbling hollow-starting roar;
And new peaks and cliffs rise up out of the sea,
While great cataracts of uplifted brine pour down furiously.

And those that can witness such an awful sight
Can only gaze thereon in solemn silence and delight,
And the most Godfearless man that hath this region trod
Would be forced to recognise the power and majesty of God.

Oh! how awful and grand it must be on a sunshiny day
To see one of these icy mountains in pieces give way!
While, crack after crack, it falls with a mighty crash
Flat upon the sea with a fearful splash.

And in the breaking up of these mountains they roar like thunder,
Which causes the stranger no doubt to wonder;
Also the Esquimaux of Greenland betimes will stand
And gaze on the wondrous work of the Almighty so grand.

When these icy mountains are falling, the report is like big guns,
And the glittering brilliancy of them causes mock-suns,
And around them there's connected a beautiful ring of light,
And as the stranger looks thereon, it fills his heart with delight.

Oh! think on the danger of seafaring men
If any of these mighty mountains where falling on them;
Alas! they would be killed ere the hand of man could them save
And, poor creatures, very likely find a watery grave!

'Tis most beautiful to see and hear the whales whistling and blowing,
And the sailors in their small boats quickly after them rowing,
While the whales keep lashing the water all their might
With their mighty tails, left and right.

In winter there's no sunlight there night or day,
Which, no doubt, will cause the time to pass tediously away,
And cause the Esquimaux to long for the light of day,
So as they will get basking themselves in the sun's bright array.

In summer there is perpetual sunlight,
Which fill the Esquimaux's hearts with delight;
And is seen every day and night in the blue sky,
Which makes the scenery appear most beautiful to the eye.

During summer and winter there the land is covered with snow,
Which sometimes must fill the Esquimaux' hearts with woe
As they traverse fields of ice, ten or fifteen feet thick,
And with cold, no doubt, their hearts will be touched to the quick.

And let those that read or hear this feel thankful to God
That the icy fields of Greenland they have never trod;
Especially while seated around the fireside on a cold winter night,
Let them think of the cold and hardships Greenland sailors have to fight.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Loch Katrine

Beautiful Loch Katrine in all thy majesty so grand,
Oh! how charming and fascinating is thy silver strand!
Thou certainly art most lovely, and worthy to be seen,
Especially thy beautiful bay and shrubberies green.

Then away to Loch Katrine in the summer time,
And feast on its scenery most lovely and sublime;
There's no other scene can surpass in fair Scotland,
It's surrounded by mountains and trees most grand.
And as I gaze upon it, let me pause and think,
How many people in Glasgow of its water drink,
That's conveyed to them in pipes from its placid lake,
And are glad to get its water their thirst to slake.

Then away to Loch Katrine in the summer time,
And feast on its scenery most lovely and sublime;
There's no other scene can surpass in fair Scotland,
It's surrounded by mountains and trees most grand.
The mountains on either side of it are beautiful to be seen,
Likewise the steamers sailing on it with their clouds of steam:
And their shadows on its crystal waters as they pass along,
Is enough to make the tourist burst into song.

Then away to Loch Katrine in the summer time,
And feast on its scenery most lovely and sublime;
There's no other scene can surpass in fair Scotland,
It's surrounded by mountains and trees most grand.
'Tis beautiful to see its tiny wimpling rills,
And the placid Loch in the hollow of a circle of hills,
Glittering like silver in the sun's bright array,
Also many a promontory, little creek, and bay.

Then away to Loch Katrine in the summer time,
And feast on its scenery most lovely and sublime;
There's no other scene can surpass in fair Scotland,
It's surrounded by mountains and trees most grand.
Then to the east there's the finely wooded Ellen's Isle,
There the tourist can the tedious hours beguile,
As he gazes on its white gravelled beautiful bay,
It will help to drive dull care away.

Then away to Loch Katrine in the summer time,
And feast on its scenery most lovely and sublime;
There's no other scene can surpass in fair Scotland,
It's surrounded by mountains and trees most grand.
The mountains Ben-An and Ben-Venue are really very grand
Likewise the famous and clear silver strand;
Where the bold Rob Roy spent many a happy day,
With his faithful wife, near by its silvery bay.

Then away to Loch Katrine in the summer time,
And feast on its scenery most lovely and sublime;
There's no other scene can surpass in fair Scotland,
It's surrounded by mountains and trees most grand.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Beautiful Torquay

All ye lovers of the picturesque, away
To beautiful Torquay and spend a holiday
'Tis health for invalids for to go there
To view the beautiful scenery and inhale the fragrant air,
Especially in the winter and spring-time of the year,
When the weather is not too hot, but is balmy and clear.

Torquay lies in a very deep and well-sheltered spot,
And at first sight by strangers it won't be forgot;
'Tis said to be the mildest place in ah England,
And surrounded by lofty hills most beautiful and grand.

Twas here that William of Orange first touched English ground,
And as he viewed the beautiful spot his heart with joy did rebound;
And an obelisk marks the spot where he did stand,
And which for long will be remembered throughout England.

Torquay, with its pier and its diadem of white,
Is a moat beautiful and very dazzling sight,
With its white villas glittering on the sides of its green hills,
And as the tourist gases thereon with joy his heart fills.

The heights around Torquay are most beautiful to be seen,
Especially when the trees and shrubberies are green,
And to see the pretty houses under the cliff is a treat,
And the little town enclosed where two deep valleys meet.

There is also a fine bathing establishment near the pier,
Where the tourist can bathe without any fear;
And as the tourists there together doth stroll,
I advise them to visit a deep chasm called Daddy's Hole.

Then there's Bablicome, only two miles from Torquay,
Which will make the stranger's heart feel gay,
As he stands on the cliff four hundred feet above the sea,
Looking down,'tis sure to fill his heart with ecstasy.

The lodging-houses at Bablicome are magnificent to be seen,
And the accommodation there would suit either king or queen,
And there's some exquisite cottages embowered in the woodland,
And sloping down to the sea shore, is really very grand.

You do not wonder at Napoleon's exclamation
As he stood on the deck of the "Bellerophon," in a fit of admiration,
When the vessel was lying to windbound,
He exclaimed - "Oh, what a beautiful country!" his joy was profound.

And as the tourist there in search of beautiful spots doth rove,
Let them not forget to enquire for Anstey's Cove,
And there they will see a beautiful beach of milky white,
And the sight will fill their hearts with delight.

Oh! beautiful Torquay, with your lovely scenery,
And your magnificent cottages sloping down to the sea,
You are the most charming spot in all England,
With your picturesque bay and villas most grand.

And, in conclusion, to tourists I will say,
Off! off to Torquay and make no delay,
For the scenery is magnificent, and salubrious the air,
And 'tis good for the health to reside there.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Oban

Oh! beautiful Oban with your lovely bay,
Your surroundings are magnificent on a fine summer-day;
There the lover of the picturesque can behold,
As the sun goes down, the scenery glittering like gold.

And on a calm evening, behind the village let him climb the hill,
And as he watches the sun go down, with delight his heart will fill
As he beholds the sun casting a golden track across the sea,
Clothing the dark mountains of Mull with crimson brilliancy.

And on a sunny morning 'tis delightful to saunter up the Dunstaffnage road,
Where the green trees spread out their branches so broad;
And as you pass the Lovers' Loan your spirits feel gay
As you see the leaflet float lightly.on the sunny pathway.

And when you reach the little gate on the right hand,
Then turn and feast your eyes on the scene most grand,
And there you will see the top of Balloch-an-Righ to your right,
Until at last you will exclaim, Oh! what a beautiful sight!

And your mind with wonder it must fill
As you follow the road a couple of miles further, till
You can see Bennefure Loch on the left hand,
And the Castle of Dunstaffnage most ancient and grand.

Then go and see the waters of Loch Etive leaping and thundering
And flashing o'er the reef, splashing and dundering,
Just as they did when Ossian and Fingal watched them from the shore,
And, no doubt, they have felt delighted by the rapids' thundering roar.

Then there's Ganevan with its sparkling bay,
And its crescent of silver sand glittering in the sun's bright array,
And Dunolly's quiet shores where sea crabs abide,
And its beautiful little pools left behind by the tide.

Then take a sail across to Kerrera some day,
And see Gylen Castle with its wild-strewn shore and bay,
With its gigantic walls and towers of rocks
Shivered into ghastly shapes by the big waves' thundering shocks.

Then wander up Glen Crootyen, past the old village churchyard,
And as you pass, for the dead have some regard;
For it is the road we've all to go,
Sooner or later, both the high and the low!

And as you return by the side of the merry little stream,
That comes trotting down the glen most charming to be seen,
Sometimes wimpling along between heather banks,
And slipping coyly away to hide itself in its merry pranks.

Then on some pleasant evening walk up the Glen Shellach road,
Where numberless sheep the green hillside often have trod,
And there's a little farmhouse nestling amongst the trees,
And its hazel woods climbing up the brae, shaking in the breeze.

And Loch Avoulyen lies like a silver sea with its forests green,
With its fields of rushes and headlands most enchanting to be seen,
And on the water, like a barge anchored by some dreamland shore,
There wild fowls sit, mirrored, by the score.

And this is beautiful Oban, where the tourist seldom stays above a night,
A place that fills the lover of the picturesque with delight;
And let all the people that to Oban go
View it in its native loveliness, and it will drive away all woe.

Oh! beautiful Oban, with your silvery bay,
'Tis amongst your Highland scenery I'd like to stray
During the livelong summer-day,
And feast my eyes on your beautiful scenery, enchanting and gay.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Then There Are The Mountains

On a mountain's peak is there peace?
Mountains that overlook the quiet prairie.
Mountains that borders life in rural counties.
Mountains chiseled by years of wind and rain.
Mountain winds creep keeping all secrets.
Mountains a kin to the lower hills of death.
Mountains at the height of glamour baked in sunshine.
Mountains that reach for more majestic planes.
Mountains giving to the ridges, valleys and cliffs.
Mountains in spring the fulfillment of adventure and dream.
Mountains which can shelter one from storm.
Mountains an enduring symbol in poetry.
Mountains which inhabit the calls of the wild.
Mountains of spectacle, below the bending roads between.
Mountains embracing, magnifying the sounds of river.
Mountains the stellar monuments of time.

poem by William Blackman
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Makarora

Rocky peaks of Makarora in the summer wear their snow
And down the lush green grassy valley the clear mountain river flow
Songbirds piping in the beechwoods songthrush, bellbird and
redpoll
This a place of peace and beauty Makarora has a soul.

These great mountains look no different than to when the first man came
They have a wild rugged beauty for want of a better name
To the coming generations these high peaks will look the same
Man will not build houses on them man such wildness could not tame.

Summer's come to Makarora and along with her brought her green
Beauty to compare with any with the finest I have seen
This place would inspire an artist peaks in summer white
with snow
Beechwoods and through lush green valley sparkling mountain river flow.

Those high peaks of makarora will not change as years go by
Out there on those rugged mountains bones of Maori hunter lie
Still these mountains keep their secrets monarchs of the higher ground
Overlooking Makarora and the woodlands all around

Snow clad peaks of Makarora reaching upwards towards the sky
I am just a passing stranger and I'll be bidding you goodbye
But I will take with me the memories of beauty I have seen
today
Woodlands in a lush green valley by those mountains far away

poem by Francis Duggan
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Bonnie Callander

Chorus --

Bonnie Helen, will you go to Callander with me
And gaze upon its beauties and romantic scenery
Dear Helen, it will help to drive all sorrow away;
Therefore come, sweet Helen, and let's have a holiday.
Callander is a pretty little town most lovely to see,
Situated in the midst of mountains towering frowningly;
And Ben Ledi is the chief amongst them and famous in history,
Looking stern and rugged in all its majesty.

Chorus

And as for Bracklinn Falls, they are impressive to sight,
Especially the Keltie, which will the visitor's heart delight,
With its bonnie banks bordered with beautiful trees,
And the effect would be sure the spectator to please.

Chorus

The hawthorn hedges and the beautiful wild flowers
Will help to enliven the scene and while away the hours;
And as the spectator gazes upon Keltie waterfall,
The rumbling and fumbling of the water does his heart appall.

Chorus

As it makes one fearful plunge into a yawning abyss below,
Fifty or sixty feet beneath, where it splashes to and fro,
And seethes and boils in a great deep pool,
And the sweet, fragrant air around it is very cool.

Chorus

'Tis said two lovers met there with a tragic fate.
Alas! poor souls, and no one near to extricate.
The rail of the bridge upon which they were leaning gave way,
And they were drowned in the boiling gulf. Oh, horror and dismay!

Chorus

The Pass of Leny is most wild and amazing to see,
With its beetling crags and towering mountains and romantic scenery;
And the brawling Leny, with its little waterfalls,
Will repay the visitor for the time occupied any time he calls.

Chorus

Then lovers of the picturesque make haste and go away
To the pretty little village of Callander without delay,
And breathe the fresh air in the harvest time,
And revel amongst romantic scenery in the beautiful sunshine.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Beautiful Balmoral

Ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see
Beautiful Balmoral, near by the River Dee;
There ye will see the deer browsing on the heathery hills,
While adown their sides run clear sparkling rills.

Which the traveller can drink of when he feels dry,
And admire the dark River Dee near by,
Rolling smoothly and silently on its way,
Which is most lovely to see on a summer day.

There the trout do sport and play
During the live-long summer day;
Also plenty of salmon are there to be seen,
Glittering like silver in the sun's sheen.

And the mountains are rugged and wild to be seen,
But the woodlands are beautiful when Nature's face is green;
There numerous rabbits do gambol all day
Amongst the green scrubbery all lively and gay.

There's one charming spot most magnificent to be seen,
'Tis Balmoral Castle, the Highland Home of our Queen;
The surrounding scenery is enchanting to see,
While near by rolls past the lovely River Dee.

Therefore, ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see
Beautiful Balmoral Castle and its grand scenery,
And the sight will fill your hearts with glee,
As ye walk along the bonnie banks o' the River Dee.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Beautiful Aberfoyle

The mountains and glens of Aberfoyle are beautiful to sight,
Likewise the rivers and lakes are sparkling and bright;
And its woods were frequented by the Lady of the Lake,
And on its Lakes many a sail in her boat she did take.

The scenery there will fill the tourist with joy,
Because 'tis there once lived the bold Rob Roy,
Who spent many happy days with his Helen there,
By chasing the deer in the woods so fair.

The little vale of Aberfoyle and its beautiful river
Is a sight, once seen, forget it you'll never;
And romantic ranges of rock on either side
Form a magnificent background far and wide.

And the numerous lochs there abound with trout
Which can be had for the taking out,
Especially from the Lochs Chon and Ard,
There the angler can make a catch which will his toil reward.

And between the two lochs the Glasgow Water Works are near,
Which convey water of Loch Katrine in copious streams clear
To the inhabitants of the Great Metropolis of the West,
And for such pure water they should think themselves blest.

The oak and birch woods there are beautiful to view,
Also the Ochil hills which are blue in hue,
Likewise the Lake of Menteith can be seen far eastward,
Also Stirling Castle, which long ago the English beseiged very hard.

Then away to Aberfoyle, Rob Roy's country,
And gaze on the magnificent scenery.
A region of rivers and mountains towering majestically
Which is lovely and fascinating to see.

But no words can describe the beautiful scenery.
Aberfoyle must be visited in order to see,
So that the mind may apprehend its beauties around,
Which will charm the hearts of the visitors I'll be bound.

As for the clachan of aberfoyle, little remains but a hotel,
Which for accomodation which will suit the traveller very well.
And the bedding thereis clean and good,
And good cooks there to cook the food.

Then away to the mountains and lakes of bonnie Aberfoyle,
Ye hard-working sons and daughters of daily toil;
And traverse its heathery mountains and viewits lakes so clear,
When the face of Nature's green in the spring of the year.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Loch Ness

Beautiful Loch Ness,
The truth to express,
Your landscapes are lovely and gay,
Along each side of your waters, to Fort Augustus all the way,
Your scenery is romantic...
With rocks and hills gigantic...
Enough to make one frantic,
As they view thy beautiful heathery hills,
And their clear crystal rills,
And the beautiful woodlands so green,
On a fine summer day...
From Inverneaa all the way...
Where the deer and the doe together doth play;
And the beautiful Falls of Foyers with its cystal spray,
As clear as the day,
Enchanting and gay,
To the traveller as he gazes thereon,
That he feels amazed with delight,
To see the water falling from such a height,
That his heed feels giddy with the scene,
As he views the Falls of Foyers and the woodlands so green,
That he exclaims in an ecstasy of delight -
Oh, beautiful Loch Ness!
I must sincerely confess,
That you are the most beautiful to behold,
With your lovely landscapes and water so cold.
And as he turns from the scene, he says with a sigh-
Oh, beautiful Loch Ness! I must bid you good-bye.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Rise Up

rise up and fly like eagles
rise up through the sky
we've got to rise up
over higher mountains
rise up, rise up, rise up
Everybody's come a long long way
such a long way ,to be here today
we're going hard ,giving it all
we've been knocking on wood with our backs to the walls
we've been working every day and night
waiting for the chance for the day to arrive
and now we've all got something to prove
win or lose, there's only one thing to do
We've got to rise up
and fly like eagles
rise up through the sky
you've got to rise up
over higher mountains
rise up, rise up, rise up
Inside the sweat, inside the heat
in each and every heart there's a pounding beat
to do it wrong, to do it right
each of us has put up, one hell of a fight
and as we face the final test
all that we can do is to do our best
and as we're making time stand still
to get to the top you've got to give all you've got
You've got to rise up
and fly like eagles
rise up through the sky
you've got to rise up
over higher mountains
rise up, rise up
Shine a light and let them see
everything you want to be
Shine a light and let them know
you are never letting go
Rise up... win or lose there's only one thing to do
We've got to rise up
and fly like eagles
rise up through the sky
you've got to rise up
over higher mountains
rise up, rise up, rise up
Rise, and fly like eagles
rise up through the sky
you've got to rise up
over higher mountains
rise up, rise up, rise up, rise up,
over higher mountains, rise,
We've got to rise up.

song performed by by Vanessa Amorosi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The witch of Hex River

According to legend
a beautiful girl
Eliza Meiring stayed

on the farm Buffelskraal
at the foot
of the mountains

and so many suitors
were interested in her
that she would only
be the girlfriend of the man
that brought her a red disa flower.

These ground orchids
only grow on the highest peaks
and it was extremely difficult
to get the flower.

The few guys that tried
quickly got discouraged
but Frans whom she really loved

climbed up Groothoek ravine
against a wet moss covered cliff
and there fell to his death.

Eliza was deranged
when she heard the news
and was kept by her parents
in the loft of their house
where she notched Eliza Meiring 1868
onto the wooden windowsill

and one night
she got the top window open,
went down to the ground,
wearing her long white night gown

and climbed the foot hills
and sat down crying on a rock
which suddenly crumbled beneath her
and she also fell to her death.

It is said
that when the first winter snow
falls on that mountains
and the moon rises
glittering on them

her spirit dwells
on the mountain peaks
and that she still mourns
the death of her lover.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Descriptive Jottings of London

As I stood upon London Bridge and viewed the mighty throng
Of thousands of people in cabs and 'busses rapidly whirling along,
All furiously driving to and fro,
Up one street and down another as quick as they could go:

Then I was struck with the discordant sound of human voices there,
Which seemed to me like wild geese cackling in the air:
And the river Thames is a most beautiful sight,
To see the steamers sailing upon it by day and by night.

And the Tower of London is most gloomy to behold,
And the crown of Englandlies there, begemmed with precious stones and gold;
King Henry the Sixth was murdered there by the Duke of Glo'ster,
And when he killed him with his sword he called him an impostor.

St. Paul's Cathedral is the finest building that ever I did see;
There's nothing can surpass it in the city of Dundee,
Because it's most magnificent to behold
With its beautiful dome and spire glittering like gold.

And as for Nelson's Monument that stands in Trafalgar Square,
It is a most stately monument I most solemnly declare,
And towering defiantly very high,
Which arrests strangers' attention while passing by.

Then there's two beautiful water-fountains spouting up very high,
Where the weary travellers can drink when he feels dry;
And at the foot of the monument there's three bronze lions in grand array,
Enough to make the stranger's heart throb with dismay.

Then there's Mr Spurgeon, a great preacher, which no one dare gainsay
I went to hear him preach on the Sabbath-day.
And he made my heart feel light and gay
When I heard him preach and pray.

And the Tabernacle was crowded from ceiling to floor,
And many were standing outside the door;
He is an eloquent preacher, I solemnly declare,
And I was struck with admiration as I on him did stare.

Then there's Petticoat Lane I venture to say,
It's a wonderful place on the Sabbath day;
There wearing apparel can be bought to suit the young or old
For the ready cash-- silver, coppers, or gold.

Oh! mighty city of London! you are wonderful to see,
And thy beauties no doubt fill the tourist's heart with glee;
But during my short stay, and while wandering there,
Mr Spurgeon was the only man I heard speaking proper English I do declare.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Fairy Tale

Now this is the story of Olaf
Who ages and ages ago
Lived right on the top of a mountain,
A mountain all covered with snow.

And he was quite pretty and tiny
With beautiful curling fair hair
And small hands like delicate flowers--
Cheeks kissed by the cold mountain air.

He lived in a hut made of pinewood
Just one little room and a door
A table, a chair, and a bedstead
And animal skins on the floor.

Now Olaf was partly fairy
And so never wanted to eat;
He thought dewdrops and raindrops were plenty
And snowflakes and all perfumes sweet.

In the daytime when sweeping and dusting
And cleaning were quite at an end,
He would sit very still on the doorstep
And dream--O, that he had a friend!

Somebody to come when he called them,
Somebody to catch by the hand,
Somebody to sleep with at night time,
Somebody who'd quite understand.

One night in the middle of Winter
He lay wide awake on his bed,
Outside there was fury of tempest
And calling of wolves to be fed--

Thin wolves, grey and silent as shadows;
And Olaf was frightened to death.
He had peeped through a crack in the doorpost,
He had seen the white smoke of their breath.

But suddenly over the storm wind
He heard a small voice pleadingly
Cry, "I am a snow fairy, Olaf,
Unfasten the window for me."

So he did, and there flew through the opening
The daintiest, prettiest sprite
Her face and her dress and her stockings,
Her hands and her curls were all white.

And she said, "O you poor little stranger
Before I am melted, you know,
I have brought you a valuable present,
A little brown fiddle and bow.

So now you can never be lonely,
With a fiddle, you see, for a friend,
But all through the Summer and Winter
Play beautiful songs without end."

And then,--O she melted like water,
But Olaf was happy at last;
The fiddle he tucked in his shoulder,
He held his small bow very fast.

So perhaps on the quietest of evenings
If you listen, you may hear him soon,
The child who is playing the fiddle
Away up in the cold, lonely moon.

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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A Father's Innocence: the Princess Child

my soul who chooses
to live in solitude
has always cried in the winter cold -
seeking for your silky skin
to warm the snowy wave of air
that forms the morning dew.

in the green fields
beneath the mountain tops, my gaze
plays with the horizon between the lonely sky
and the grassy land i patiently till,
as tears fill up my emptiness
because it seeks for your heart.

my soul who chooses
to live in solitude
has always cried in the winter cold
like the soft white feathers from the heavens
that fall in the leafy woods,
lost, wandering -
deprived of the songs by the lake.

between the pristine sky
and the mountains of forests,
or the castle of our love
my heart shall seek for you
in vain, in infinity,
within the sweetness of innocence.

hear my heart from afar,
oh sweet songs of boundaries;
hear my heart from afar,
oh white doves of destiny;
for in the comforts of her embrace,
to her i shall rest, and for her i shall rest.

poem by Jaypee Belarmino
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Jottings of New York

Oh, mighty city of New York, you are wonderful to behold--
Your buildings are magnificent-- the truth be it told--
They were the only thing that seemed to arrest my eye,
Because many of them are thirteen storeys high;

And as for Central Park, it is lovely to be seen--
Especially in the summer season when its shrubberies are green
And the Burns Statue is there to be seen,
Surrounded by trees on the beautiful sward so green;
Also Shakespeare and the immortal Sir Walter Scott,
Which by Scotchmen and Englishmen will never be forgot.

There are people on the Sabbath day in thousands resort--
All lov'd, in conversation, and eager for sport;
And some of them viewing the wild beasts there,
While the joyous shouts of children does rend the air--
And also beautiful black swans, I do declare.

And there's beautiful boats to be seen there,
And joyous shouts of children does rend the air,
While the boats sail along with them o'er Lohengrin Lake,
And fare is 5 cents for children, and adults ten is all they take.

And there's also summer-house shades, and merry-go-rounds
And with the merry laughter of the children the Park resounds,
During the live-long Sabbath day
Enjoying themselves at the merry-go-round play.

Then there's the elevated railroads abont five storeys high,
Which the inhabitants can hear night and day passing by;
Of, such a mass of people there daily do throng--
No less than five 100,000 daily pass along;
And all along the city you can get for five cents--
And, believe me, among the passengers there's few discontent.

And the top of the houses are mostly all flat,
And in the warm weather the people gather to chat;
Besides, on the housetops they dry their clothes;
And, also, many people all night on the housetops repose.

And numerous ships end steamboats are there to be seen,
Sailing along the East River water, which is very green--
Which is certainly a most beautiful sight
To see them sailing o'er the smooth water day and night.

And as for Brooklyn Bridge, it's a very great height,
And fills the stranger's heart with wonder at first sight;
And with all its loftiness I venture to say
It cannot surpass the new railway bridge of the Silvery Tay.

And there's also ten thousand rumsellers there--
Oh, wonderful to think of, I do declare!
To accommodate the people of New York therein,
And to encourage them to commit all sorts of sin.

And on the Sabbath day ye will see many a man
Going for beer with a big tin can,
And seems proud to be seen carrying home the beer
To treat his neighbours and his family dear.

Then at night numbers of the people dance and sing,
Making the walls of their houses to ring
With their songs and dancing on Sabbath night,
Which I witnessed with disgust, and fled from the sight.

And with regard to New York and the sights I did see--
Believe me, I never saw such sights in Dundee;
And the morning I sailed from the city of New York
My heart it felt as light as a cork.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Let them share, all what I see with my eyes

Twinkling eyes,
She was
Staring the skies
Praying
To the almighty
Oh lord, give sight
To the ones without it
Let them also see
The nature’s beauty
The flowing water
Beautiful birds
Green trees
Blooming flowers
Mountains
And the blue sky
The living beings
You created
Nears and dears
Whose
Voice they hear
Let them share
All what I see
With my eyes
If needed take
One of mine

poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wreck of the Indian Chief

'Twas on the 8th of January 1881,
That a terrific gale along the English Channel ran,
And spread death and disaster in its train,
Whereby the "Indian Chief" vessel was tossed on the raging main.

She was driven ashore on the Goodwin Sands,
And the good captain fearlessly issued hie commands,
"Come, my men, try snd save the vessel, work with all your might,"
Although the poor sailors on board were in a fearful plight.

They were expecting every minute her hull would give way,
And they, poor souls, felt stricken with dismay,
And the captain and some of the crew clung to the main masts,
Where they were exposed to the wind's cold blasts.

A fierce gale was blowing and the sea ran mountains high,
And the sailors on board heaved many a bitter sigh;
And in the teeth of the storm the lifeboat was rowed bravely
Towards the ship in distress, which was awful to see.

The ship was lifted high on the crest of a wave,
While the sailors tried hard their lives to save,
And implored God to save them from a watery grave,
And through fear eome of them began to rave.

The waves were miles long in length;
And the sailors had lost nearly all their strength,
By striving hard their lives to save,
From being drowned in the briny wave.

A ration of rum and a biscuit was served out to each man,
And the weary night passed, and then appeared the morning dawn;
And when the lifeboat hove in sight a sailor did shout,
"Thank God, there's she at last without any doubt."

But, with weakness and the biting cold,
Several of fhe sailors let go their hold;
And, alas, fell into the yawning sea,
Poor souls! and were launched into eternity.

Oh, it was a most fearful plight,
For the poor sailors to be in the rigging all night;
While the storm fiend did laugh and roar,
And the big waves lashed the ship all o'er.

And as the lifeboat drew near,
The poor sailors raised a faint cheer;
And all the lifeboat men saw was a solitary mast,
And some sailors clinging to it, while the ahip was sinking fast.

Charles Tait, the coxswain of the lifeboat, was a skilful boatman,
And the bravery he and his crew displayed was really grand;
For his men were hardy and a very heroic set,
And for bravery their equals it would be hard to get.

But, thank God, out of twenty-nine eleven were saved,
Owing to the way the lifeboat men behaved;
And when they landed with the eleven wreckers at Ramsgate,
The people's joy was very great.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Winter Freedom

Freedom across all oceans and skies
Looking through a window into white
Into a glassy, cold terrain
I see my winter freedom
Into the mountains and pass the bare trees
I see my winter freedom
Pass the snow white roads and trees full of mysteries
Comes the joy of the first snow
The innocent breeze across your face
The endless walk into the night
Gazing across the sky at the night’s moon
To the morning sun across the horizon
Reflecting off the glassy ice and foggy mountain tops
Seeing and breathing in the first days of winter
But mostly…
Believing
In the wonders and joys of
Your Winter Freedom

poem by Rachel Pedroza
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The Wreck of the Thomas Dryden

As I stood upon the sandy beach
One morn near Pentland Ferry,
I saw a beautiful brigantine,
And all her crew seem'd merry.

When lo! the wind began to howl,
And the clouds began to frown,
And in the twinkling of an eye
The rain came pouring down.

Then the sea began to swell,
And seem'd like mountains high,
And the sailors on board that brigantine
To God for help did loudly cry.

Oh! it was an awful sight
To see them struggling with all their might,
And Imploring God their lives to save
From a merciless watery grave.

Their cargo consisted of window-glass,
Also coal and linseed-oil,
Which helped to calm the raging sea
That loud and angry did boil.

Because when the bottoms of the barrels
Were with the raging billows stove in,
The oil spread o'er the water,
And smoothed the stormy billows' din!

Then she began to duck in the trough of the sea,
Which was fearful to behold;
And her crossyards dipped in the big billows
As from side to side she rolled.

She was tossed about on the merciless sea,
And received some terrible shocks,
Until at last she ran against
A jagged reef of rocks.

'Twas then she was rent asunder,
And the water did rush in --
It was most dreadful to hear it,
It made such a terrific din.

Then the crew jumped into the small boats
While the Storm-fiend did roar,
And were very near being drowned
Before they got ashore.

Then the coal-dust blackened the water
Around her where she lay,
And the barrels of linseed-oil
They floated far away.

And when the crew did get ashore,
They were shaking with cold and fright,
And they went away to Huna inn,
And got lodgings for the night!

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When I Roved a Young Highlander

When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow!
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below,
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,--
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But still I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image alone on my bosom impress'd,
I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days I have witness'd before:
Ah! splendour has raised but embitter'd my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot;
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen;
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long, flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.

Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow:
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me?--ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,--
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?

poem by Byron (1807)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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