McGonagall, Writer Of Bad Verse

Press, Volume CVII, Issue 31500, 14 October 1967, Page 26

McGonagall, Writer Of Bad Verse

written Jot “The Frew" bf GARDNER MILLER)

Comic poets are rare. When one does arise he should never be forgotten for, of a truth, we need his words, even if they are silly, to smooth out our exasperations in this mad, rushing world in which we find ourselves.

Such a poet must be of the common people, knowing their languages, and not ashamed of being sentimental, even to the extent of being mawkish. I wonder if many have read, or even heard of, the poet William McGonagall who lived before we were born. Perhaps I should not call him a poet, but he was certainly a rhymester. His collection of poems (?) Is in its twelth edition and you will find a copy in many a Scotsman’s pocket He will pull it out at a festive occasion and read bits until you ache with laughter. Not laughing, mind you, at McGonagall the man, for he was greatly respected, but at the quirks of his fancy and the comicality of his rhymes. I don’t think tie was aware that he was funny; I rather think be was just a wee bit daft. The Great McGonagall, for he believed he was great, was born in 1880 in the city of Edinburgh. Although he spent his life in Scotland from the time he was but a callant, his parents had crossed over from Ireland just before he was bom. As an Irishman he became a Scot in all else, but I fancy much of Irish remained in his make-up.

Although he called himself “poet and tragedian" he was, in fact, a handloom weave of Dundee. His rhymes were printed on broadsheet (large sheets of paper and printed on one side only) and found a ready sale at tuppence a sheet He was a poor man and many times was hungry, but never lost his sense of dignity and was not “blate” (sheepish or bashful) about blowing his own trumpet Visit To Balmoral He worked from Dundee to Balmoral Castle to give Queen Victoria a copy of his poems. He was met at the gate by a constable. On being asked what he wanted he said he wanted to see the Queen and to present her with a copy of his opems. The constable took the sheet of poems and after a while came back saying: “Well, I have been up to the castle and the answer I got for you is they cannot be bothered with you.” He, of course, had not gone to the Queen, for she would never have spoken like that to one of her subjects. Exeerpts from his collections are humorous. Here is what he says about Glasgow.

Beautiful city of Glasgow, with your streets so neat and clean Your stately mansions, and beautiful Green! Likewise your beautiful bridges across th< river Clyde, And on your bonnie banks I would like to reside. To which there was a chorus

Then away to the West—to the beautiful West' To the fair city of Glasgow that I like the best. Where the river Clyde rolls on to the sea. And the lark and the blackbird whistle with glee.

The sheer blarney of the description, so woefully different from the actual, raises a smile.

McGonagall has a long screed about the attempted assassination of the Queen. My knowledge of history must be wearing thin, for I have never heard of the old Queen being shot at; he even gives the name of the villain, one Maclean who “aimed at her head, and he felt very angry because he didn’t shoot her dead.” If the Queen ever read McGonagall’s effusions she must have said “We are not amused!” McGonagall was a teetotaller. Though he was often asked to recite his poems in public houses for which he received about Is 6d, or per-

haps a collection would be taken in someone’s hat he never drank strong liquor. It appears that in Scotland there was a Mr Murphy who sponsored what was known as the Blue Ribbon Army, the members of which wore a piece of blue ribbon on their coats to show to all and sundry that they were teetotallers. Murphy was an Irishman from America—the forerunner of Pussyfoot Johnson. There was much excitement one day in Dundee when a whale arrived there: Resolved for a few days to spout and play, and devour the small fishes in the silvery Toy The whale was caught and was. shown as a rare sight—for a price. The hurrah for the mighty wonder whale, which has got 17 feet, 4 inches from tip to tip of a tail which can be seen for sixpence or a shilling, that is to sag, if the people are all willing. So much for William McGonagall. Punch said of him that he was “the greatest bad verse writer of tiis age.” A bit caustic. Even if true, McGonagall evoked laughter and goodness knows we have much need of laughter in our day.