Weekly Anglo-African
Dublin Core
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Weekly Anglo-African
Collection Items
He's None the Worse For That
What though the homespun suit he wears—
Best suit to the sons of toil—
What though no coarser food he fares,
And tends the loom, or tills the soil;
What though no gold-leaf gilds the tongue,
Devoted to congenial chat—
If Right prevails, and not…
Be Active
Onward, onward, sons of freedom,
In the great and glorious strife
You've a high and holy mission
On the battle field of life.
See oppression's feet of iron
Grind a brother to the ground,
And from bleeding heart and bosm,
Gapeth many a fearful…
The Child of James Melville.Born July 9, 1586—Died about January, 1588
"This page, if thou wilt be a pater (parent-father) that reads it, thou wilt apardone me; if nocht, suspend thy censure till thou be a father, as said the grave Lacemaemonian Agesilaus." -Autobiography of James Melville. One time—my soul was pierced…
After the Ball.
They sat and combed their beautiful hair,
Their long bright tresses, one by one,
As they laughed and talked in the chamber there,
After the revel was done.
Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille,
Idly they laughed, like other girls,
Who over…
Linger Not Long
Linger not long! Home is not home without thee,
Its dearest token only make me mourn:
Oh! let its memory, like a chain about thee,
Gently compel and hasten thy return.
Linger not long!
Linger not long! Though crowds should woo thy…
I Wish I Was Again a Child
I wish I was again a child,
To gambol on my native sward,
To roam amid the woodly wild,
And climb the jutting rocks so hard.
How swift the winged moments then!
How light of heart when school was o'er,
I shelved the satchel, book and pen,
The…
The Orphan's Invocation
My sorrow is no dream—the earth has none
Whose bosom-chords are quivering for me;
If the unending universe bears one,
My mother—oh! my mother!—it is thee.
And since the dark grave veiled thee from my sight,
I have endured the loneliness of…
The Irish Potato
We find the following clever parody on Wordsworth's celebrated "Old Oaken Bucket" in the (old) "Spirit of the Times:" How sweet to the taste is the Irish potato,
As memory awakens a thought of the plant;
Its dark verdant vine-top and beautiful…
My Lambs
I loved them soThat when the elder Sheperd of the foldCam, covered with the storm, and pale and cold,And begged for one of my sweet lambs to hold,I bade him go.He claimed the pet,A little foundling thing, that to my breastClung always, either in…
The Dying Fugitive
Slowly o'er his darkened features,
Stole the warning shades of death;
And we knew the shadowing angel
Waited for his parting breath.
He had started for his freedom,
And his heart beat firm and high—
But before he won the guerdon,
Came the…
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