POETRY.

Western Star, Issue 281, 25 January 1879, Page 7

POETRY.

THE GLASGOW BANK FAILURE. Broken and crushed and sad, Father comes home now at night; Rogues have stript him of all that he had, And his hair is thin and white. Bravely he toils all the day, And thinks that we do not see His heart in his mouth, when he looks the way Of Mother, and Winnie, and me. Work with the hand or the head, With needle or broom or quill. Daily work for my daily bread, Work I must have and I will. I have youth and health and brains — - They said I was clever at school; Others are earning their honest gains, 'u And why should I sit here, and pule ? * I know that he does not care * For the coat that is no more new, Or the dingy house, or the scanty fare, If he could but pay all men their due. But it pains him to think that we May not lounge on our easj chairs, With music and novel and afternoon tea, And gossip of other’s affairs. O, if he only just knew How weary I was of all that! How I longed for a life that was earnest and true, And some useful work to be at! I heed not what people may say, All the bondage of fashion I scorn; To bring girls up in that idiot way — It were better they never were born. But what can Ido ? I could teach j But scores will be eager' to try, With their Music and German and French, and each Far abler to do it than I ;• I had nice nimble fingers of old For trimming a bonnet or gown ; But now folk will find better use for their gold Thau to flaunt in gay dress about town. I know I could tidy a room, And give it a lady-like look ; And I’m almost sure I could handle a broom, And iron a little, and cook; Bnt I must bo at home every night To kiss him and plague him a while, And comb the old hair that is thin now and white, And send him to bed with a smile. Work! O dear, what can Ido ? !>' I hurt my soft hand and it bled, And I wished it were roughened and blistered too, If it only would win me my bread; Yet I shrink from the girls at the mill; ■ I watched them last night in the dark Coming out, and it smote my weak heart with a chill,; But I could be a telegraph clerk. Sick ! I am weary and sick, Ever fretting for something to do; O wouldn’t I work my nails to the quick, Father and mother for you ? Ye are dearer than ever to me, So meek and gentle and brave, . But your shadows grow long, and I seem to see Them creeping ®ut close to a grave. Work with hand or with head, With broom or needle or quill, Daily work tor my daily bread, Any true work that you will ; O just for a week to have toiled, And to give him my wage, and bis kiss, Saying, father, dear father, my hands may be soiled, But my In art is the purer for this. WaliTbe Smith.