Alas! Beautiful Summer now hath fled,
And the face of Nature doth seem dead,
And the leaves are withered, and falling off the trees,
By the nipping and chilling autumnal breeze.
The pleasures of the little birds are all fled,
And with the cold many of them will be found dead,
Because the leaves of the trees are scattered in the blast,
And makes the feathered creatures feel downcast.
Because there are no leaves on the trees to shield them from the storm
On a windy, and rainy, cloudy morn;
Which makes their little hearts throb with pain,
By the chilling blast and the pitiless rain.
But still they are more contented than the children of God,
As long as they can pick up a worm from the sod,
Or anything they can get to eat,
Just, for instance, a stale crust of bread or a grain of wheat.
Oh! Think of the little birds in the time of the snow,
Also of the little street waifs, that are driven to and fro,
And trembling in the cold blast, and chilled to the bone,
For the want of food and clothing, and a warm home.
Besides think of the sorrows of the wandering poor,
That are wandering in the cold blast from door to door;
And begging, for Heaven’s sake, a crust of bread,
And alas! Not knowing where to lay their head.
While the rich are well fed and covered from the cold,
While the poor are starving, both young and old;
Alas! It is the case in this boasted Christian land,
Where as the rich are told to be kind to the poor, is God’s command.
Oh! Think of the working man when he’s no work to do,
Who’s got a wife and family, perhaps four or two,
And the father searching for work, and no work can be had,
The thought, I’m sure, ’tis enough to drive the poor man mad.
Because for his wife and family he must feel,
And perhaps the thought thereof will cause him to steal
Bread for his family, that are starving at home,
While the thought thereof makes him sigh heavily and groan.
Alas! The pangs of hunger are very hard to hide,
And few people can their temper control,
Or become reconciled to their fate,
Especially when they cannot find anything to eat.
Oh! Think of the struggles of the poor to make a living,
Because the rich unto them seldom are giving;
Wereas they are told he that giveth to the poor lendeth unto the Lord,
But alas! they rather incline their money to hoard.
Then theres the little news-vendors in the street,
Running about perhaps with bare feet;
And if the rich chance to see such creatures in the street,
In general they make a sudden retreat.
© William McGonagall 🔒
Some other random works of this poet:
- The Blind Girl
- The Nithsdale Widow And Her Son
- An Address To The Rev. George Gilfillan
- The Black Watch Memorial
- Mcgonagall’s Ode To The King
- The River Of Leith
- Nora, The Maid Of Killarney
- Lines In Reply To The Beautiful Poet Who Welcomed News Of Mcgonagall’s Departure From Dundee
- The Burial Of The Reverend Gilfillan
- The Relief Of Mafeking
- The Battle Of Corunna
- Captain Teach Alias Black Beard
- Saving A Train
- Calamity In London
- Lines In Praise Of Professor Blackie
- The Clepington Catastrophe
- The Crucifixion Of Christ
- Jenny Carrister, The Heroine Of Lucknow-Mine
- Beautiful Nairn
- Farewell Address At The Argyle Hall
- The Great Franchise Demonstration
- Lines In Defence Of The Stage
- The Ashantee War
- The Wreck Of The Steamer Stella
- The Burial Of Mr. Gladstone
- The Battle Of Shina, In Africa, Fought In 1800
- An Address To Shakespeare
- The Battle Of Flodden Field
- The Wreck Of The Barque Wm. Paterson Of Liverpool
- Beautiful Balmerino
- Bonnie Kilmany
- The Great Yellow River Inundation In China
- General Gordon, The Hero Of Khartoum
- The Tay Bridge Disaster
- The Albion Battleship Calamity
- Mary, The Maid O’ The Tay
- Lines In Memoriam Regarding The Entertainment In Reform Street Hall, Dundee
- Little Pierre’s Song
- Attempted Assassination Of The Queen
- The Fair Maid Of Perth’s House
- The Battle Of Inkermann
- The Battle Of Atbara
- Loch Ness
- The Death Of Captain Ward
- The Disastrous Fire At Scarborough
- The Hero Of Rorke’s Drift
- The Battle Of Waterloo
- The Inauguration Of The Hill O’ Balgay
- Richard Pigott, The Forger