Classic Poem

I — ON THE FIRST RUNNING OF SUNDAY TRAINS ON THE NORTH BRITISH RAILWAY .

Now range up the carriages, feed up the fires!
To the rail, to the rail, now the pent-up desires
Of the pale toiling million find gracious reply,
On the pinions of steam they shall fly, they shall fly,
The beauties of nature and art to explore,
To ramble the woodlands and roam by the shore
The city spark here with his smart smirking lass,
All peg-topped and crinolined, squat on the grass,
While with quips and with cranks and soft-wreathed smiles,
Each nymph with her swain the dull Sabbath beguiles.
Here mater and pater-familias will come
With their rollicking brood from their close city home.
How they scramble and scream, how they scamper and run,
While pa and mamma are enjoying the fun!
And the urchins bawl out, " Oh, how funny and jolly,
Dear ma, it is thus to keep Sabbath-day holy. "
Now for pipe and cigar and the snug pocket flask,
What's the rail on a Sunday without them, we ask?
What the sweet-scented heather and rich clover-blooms
To the breath of the weed as it smoulders and fumes?
So in courting and sporting, in drinking and smoking,
Walking and talking, in laughter and joking,
They while the dull hours of the Sabbath away
What a Sabbath it is! Who is Lord of the day?
Son of Man, Son of God in the sacred record,
'Tis written that Thou art of Sabbath the Lord;
But impious man hath reversed the decree,
And declares himself lord of the Sabbath to be.
In a world without souls it might not be amiss
The Sabbath to spend in such fashion as this;
But men having souls, if aware of the fact,
Should remember the Sabbath to keep it intact.
For souls are immortal, and bodies are clay,
And life but a vapour that fleeteth away;
To the soul and to God in His worship be given,
Oh, is it too much? — 'tis but one day in seven.

II. — A SCOTTISH SUMMER SABBATH MORNING .

T HE still repose, the holy calm
Of this blest morn, a sacred balm
Sheds on my world-worn weary heart;
Its quiet beatitudes impart
A peace benign, a yearning love,
A wish for perfect peace above.

The liquid music of the rill;
The crow of muircock on the hill;
The chirping, twittering, warbling gush
Of feathered throats in brake and bush;
And high o'erhead, on quivering wings,
The lark her thrilling anthem sings.
These only are the sounds I hear;
But ah! I feel that God is near —
Near to the soul that from her wings
Shakes off the soil of earthly things
That mar her flight and chill her life
Through six days' care, and toil, and strife.
Thank God, to us one day in seven,
The blessed Sabbath rest is given —
Given that the soul may prune her wing,
And to the Sabbath altar bring,
And on its sacred circle lay
The hallowed offerings of the day, —
Thoughts, winged with faith, that to the skies
In prayer and meditation rise.

To praise Thy name and hear Thy Word,
Within Thy sacred Temple, Lord,
Our love and duty we unite,
And call the Sabbath a delight.
Not such the Sunday tourist feels
When on the steam-car's rushing wheels,
In quest of health and recreation —
We add, of pleasure and flirtation —
He flies along the sounding line
And thinks the day indeed divine;
And says, " From bigot trammels free,
The Sunday holiday for me! "
Oh; Scottish workmen! Oh, my brothers!
I plead with you above all others:
Why lose your prestige? — why backslide
From fathers, once their country's pride,
From whom you boast you are descended?
Ah! they could ne'er have apprehended
That ye, their sons by blood and name,
Should thus dishonour — shame! oh, shame! —
The Hallowed Day, ordained most holy,
By idle pleasure, sin, and folly.