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We have found several of
Joseph Warren's poems and songs in the Ypsilanti Commercial newspaper. Click
on the titles to take you to the article. Every effort has been
made to retype the articles accurately, however some of the microfilm was hard
to read at times I did correct obvious typos. If the words couldn't
be made out, it is indicated by ------.
A GREAT MAN’S LIFE
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, May 29, 1869)
From the Philadelphia Post.
Climbing up to the summit of fame,
With a firm and impervious tread,
With a mouth coldly chiseled in scorn
And a heart that is feelingless - dead!
With ambition still spurring me on
I neglect humble friendship and live!
Yes, I trample the flowers at my feet,
For I covet the stars far above!
Years have past, and the bauble is mine
From renown’s dizzy height I can gaze
On the pigmies whose scorn I once felt,
And despise both their censure and praise!
Smiling Fortune extends me her hand,
Free from grief’s bitter, cankerous leaven;
Yet I’d change all my laurels for FAITH -
For the pauper’s meek Jesus and Heaven!
Denton, Mich., 1869
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ALFRED TO EMMA - A RURAL LOVE SONNET
BY J. WARREN WATSON
(Ypsilanti Commercial - April 17, 1870)
I’m as pure as the rose!
It is thus your soul speaks
In the blush overspreading
Your soft velvet cheeks!
Love’s ecstatic pleasure!
You’ll nev’er understand
How it thrills at the touch
Of thy little brown hand!
No slippers or satin
Could make thee as sweet
As thy calico frock
And thy tiny, bare feet.
While the sun sheds its light
I will never regret
That I centered my hopes
In thy bright eyes of jet.
When the world is asleep
Neath the light of the stars,
Come and meet me to night
By the east pasture barn,
For the sweetest love sonnet
The poet has penned,
Don’t express half I’ll tell thee
Bonnie, beautiful friend!
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DID SHE TEACH HIM?
By J. Warren Watson
For the Commercial
(Ypsilanti Commercial, October 23, 1869)
From his seat the judge rises slowly,
Then in measured tones he said
"We have found you GUILTY prisoner,
You must HANG until you are dead!
God have mercy on your spirit,
And your awful crime forgive!
Have you ought to tell us prisoner?
Can you say why you should live?"
Hark! A child’s voice breaks the stillness
To the awe-struck crowd’s surprise -
"He has none on earth to love him,
And no hope beyond the skies!"
Quoth she, turning to the jury
With a pained and saddened air -
"Oh perhaps his ma ne’er taught him
Not to lie, and steal and swear!"
What great mind could frame such language?
To each heart the pathos crept;
Hundreds sobbed with o’er wrought feeling,
Original judge and jury wept;
Down those cheeks the bright drops trickle,
Free from the tears for many a day;
Yes, the voice so stern, now falters -
"Sheriff, take that man away!"
Canton, Mich., 1864
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FAREWELL
By. J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, March 19, 1870)
Farewell! Oh farewell!
Like a funeral knell
Sounds this word to the loved one’s ear!
Ah, it strikes to the heart,
And intrusive tears start,
For it robs us of all that is dear!
Farewell, tears away
All our idols of clay,
Pointing up to the Righteous and True,
‘Tis the weary soul’s balm,
Our remorse it should calm,
When we’ve bidden our sins all adieu!
It is falt’ringly said,
O’er the dying one’s bed;
Hopes of bliss doth its syllables tell,
When we feel we must sing
"Praise Jehovah our King!"
In a language that has no "Farewell."
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FLORA BELLE
By J. Warren
Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, January 30, 1869)
Earnest blessings the afflicted
On her jetty ringlets pour;
She's a friend to all that know her,
She has lovers half score!
She's the queen of every may-day,
And the pride of every ball,
But we know not who will win her
For she smiles upon them all!
Even the statesman's voice is tim'd
When he seeks her for dance,
And the brave of thirteen battles
Blushes crimson at her glance!
Genius trembles in her presence,
Clouded in his massive brow
Haughty wealth scarce hope she'll listens
To his yet unuttered vow.
To the swain who ask approval
Answers thus her parents mild,
Do not think of loving Flora,
Why! She's nothing but a child!
Gentle, dark-eyed, little
Flora!
Thou wouldst cause naught living pain,
Thou art fair as any primrose
That bedecks thy native plain!
May the orbs never dim with sorrow
Whence those sunbeams glances dart.
Nor the dagger false affection
Wound they young confiding heart
May the "frost of many winters"
Leave untouched each glossy curl -
Would that thou couldst be forever
Little Flora - darling girl
Waverley Magazine
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FOOLS
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, November 27, 1869)
(The greatest minds at time feel oppressed with a sense of
their own inferiority, said a friend, to one of the wisest astronomers the world
has known. "It seems hard that one so wise should ever die." "Men
call me wise," replied the old sage, a painful expression sweeping over his
face, "but I am in truth only a fool; even as the child who standing upon
the sea-shore picks up a shell, and guesses that a fish has lived in it, but has
no conception of what inhabits the vast deep before him.)
There are Scores of fools among us -
Bring your scales and plumb and square.
Let them weigh and try each other -
For yourself judge which they are.
Minnie thinks her Jack is noble
Tho’ he takes a "whiskey slug!"
Minnie’s nose Jack thinks is piquant,
When in truth its only pug.
There’s your pickle-faced curmudgeon
With reproach each woman stings,
And the disappointed spinster
Says all men are ugly things.
Sympathetic fools are useful,
But get cursed for their pains,
The misanthrope fool and villain
Has got neither heart nor brains..
Mr. Bulldog’s ever ready
With his hand, or dagger thrust.
Mr. Doughface walks in slippers -
In life’s road kicks up the dust.
There’s young Soft Soap, always petted,
"He’s a noble, harmless youth."
Young Spread Eagle he is hated,
He’s a fool and tells the truth.
Your religious "fools" are plenty,
Mormon, Pagan, Quaker, Jew -
Each is going right straight to heaven
And wants you to go there too.
There’s the
sluven fool, he swaggers -
Wears an ancient, battered "--le."
And his brazen self-assurance
Makes the knowing dandy smile.
The precise fool, who’s not seen him
Going through the world by rule?
He performs in life’s pavilion
Like an educated mule.
There are fools in every station,
Richer and poor and old and young.
But the wisest fool that’s living
Knows he’s one, and holds his tongue.
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FRIENDSHIP
From the Western Rural
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial,
April 17, 1869)
I thank thee for they
kindly smile!
The pressure of the hand.
I’d not exchange for all
the gold;
Mid Africa’s burning
sand.
Were all our race like
thee, dear friend,
Hate’s fires would ne’er
awake;
The sensitive would feel
no pangs -
Fond hearts would cease to
ache.
The undeserved, malicious
slight,
And haughty, scornful
glance,
Sometimes inflict a deeper
wound
Than does the warrior’s
lance.
Oh, turn not from God’s
lowly ones
With cold and stately
tone;
Be not the first to cry
them down,
Nor last their worth to
own!
Should those whom you
fully trust
Prove fickle and untrue,
Then only cherish all the
more
The precious, constant few
Who soothe your pathway
to the goal
At which life’s journey
ends,
And hope to meet them in
the world
Where all mankind are
friends!
*Dedicated to Miss Minnie Cass of Detroit
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GO HOME, YOU BLOCKHEAD
(Composed by J. Warren Watson and Sung by Miss Natalie
Hechluk,
of Chapin’s Minstrels)
Air - Come Home, Father
You’ve talk’d of your business, the weather and crops -
The clock in the kitchen strikes nine,
And why you still linger here twirling your hat
I certainly cannot divine!
Already dear Henry quite jealous has grown,
You stay in the evening so late;
And one flossy ringlet of his auburn hair
Is worth more than your homely pate.
CHORUS - Go home! Go home! You great awkward blockhead, go
home! &c.
‘Tis true that I call you "dear friend," when we
meet,
But surely my meaning is clear -
"Our Father" pays extra each month for your light;
And that’s why your friendship is "dear;"
You think I have wisdom? Then take my advice;
From "ma’s" watchful care never roam:
A dutiful son you had better become -
You know there’s no place like one’s home.
CHORUS - Go home! &c
The fire has expir’d, the room’s getting cold,
The lamp has burned empty since tea,
A great stupid booby, the cat and the dog
Are keeping the vigil with me.
The family have all gone to sleep in their chairs:
Indeed Sir, I think it is a shame!
And if I should presently show you the door.
Remember that I’m not to blame.
CHORUS - Go home! &c
First grinning, the blushing, you bashfully sit,
At me casting glances of love:
O think you a hawk or a raven would make
A suitable mate for a dove!
The clock in the kitchen is now striking twelve;
I scare can refrain from a yawn:
Your ears are much shorter than those of your kind -
O truly I wish you were gone!
CHORUS - Go home! Go home! You great awkward blockhead, go
home!
Go home! Go home! You great awkward blockhead, go home!
South Plymouth, Mich., May, 1867
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HAVE
CHARITY
By J.
Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti
Commercial, July 24, 1869)
Do not
call they brothers sinful -
To
themselves their souls belong!
They
should do as conscience bids them,
Though
you think it ev’er so wrong!
None
have trod the road to heaven
That
they know the path aright!
And the
surest footed stumble
In the
darkness of night..
Do not
scourge them with your censure!
For
sufficient are the smarts
From
the wounds received in battling
With
their own weak, sinful hearts..
Envy’s
serpent doth unfold them -
Slander’s
darts are at them hurl’d
By the
blind who seek perfection,
In this
wicked, wicked world!
Could
you only feel their trials,
Know
their vigils fraught with care
You’d
not add a feather’s burden
To the
cross they strive to bear.
Denton, Mich. 1869.
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MINNIE
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti commercial, March 6, 1869)
Minnie's face is as sweet as an
angel!
Gentle smiles on her lips ever play,
And her hair is the twin of a sunbeams,
That enhances the flowers of May!
She has eyes that are brighter than diamonds,
And blue as the fathomless sea;
She's as graceful of the form as Acantha,
And she pays her alliance to me!
Oh, her whisper makes far sweeter music
Then the church-organs powerful lungs,
And I'd not change her young hearts affection
For the praise of fame's myriad tongues!
Well I know she's as pure as the snow-drift
And her beauties are all that they seem,
Yet I never have gaze on her features -
Darling Minnie - is only a dream!
Denton, Mich., 1849.
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MY DAY DREAM
From the N.Y. Journal.
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, March 29, 1869)
I’ve been dreaming, ah yes, I been dreaming
As none but a Poet can dream,
When the life giving sun light of joy,
On his path casts a lingering beam.
I have bowed at a shine I thought holy,
And ‘tis naught but an idol of clay!
It is shattered, unvalled, and discarded’
Slowly, sadly, I lay it away!
There’s a fun’ral to day, tho' no cortege;
And the bells of Gate mournfully toll;
Guardian angels look down in compassion
On the grief of weak, human soul.
Hope is saying the landscape in gorgeous!
Yes, I know it’s enchantingly grand,
Yet, oh why should I care to behold it,
"I’m a stranger and in a strange land!"
Ne'er again will I pause to admire
Grove, brooklet and flowerily lawn
But my feet shall grope on thro’ the shadows
Where millions before me have gone!
Denton, Mich. 1869
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NATURE’S POEMS
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, May 23, 1870)
Ye have asked me whence I garner
A new burthen for my song;
Think ye that the river tires
As it gently flows along?
To the --t there are poems
---- ---- ---- — — ----
On the mountain here prater
And the pinions of the dove
There are poems in the tempest,
In the deserts awful hush;
In the charging warrior’s valor
And the timid maiden’s blush
In the little round, white pebbles
At the bottom of the brook,
And the fragile stem of clover
Growing in a barren nook.
There are poems in the mother’s
Watchful, idolizing ears;
In the prattler’s lilting accent
Nay, each fiber of its hair!
In the monster of the ocean,
In the insect of the land,
Every where the poet finds them
In the awful, good, and grand!
There are poems in June roses,
In December’s chilling breath,
In the drunkard’s causeless fury,
And the Christian’s peaceful death!
Hope, and Love; and Faith and Pity;
Planets, oceans, grains of sand’
All comprise one mighty poem
by God’s own right hand!
Western Rural
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PRAYER OF THE WEAK
For the Commercial
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, Sept. 25, 1869)
O God, if I had but the power,
I’d heal each heart that bleeds!
No lonely one should need a friend,
If thoughts were only deeds,
Shield those O God besides thy home hearth
Peace settles like a dove -
Help those who at the altar’s foot
Have found the grave of love.
Help those on whose young, clouded brows
I trace the hand of care,
And on whose fixed, far gazing eyes
I read the world "despair!"
Save those whose fevered, burning lips
Thirst for the goblet’s bane,
And those who in their selfish pride
Exult in others’ pain!
The meteors of the moral sky -
Thou knowest well their needs,
Then keep them in the narrow path
That to Thy kingdom kneels!
Bring home the ones who know their sins,
And yet will not atone!
Help those who journey through the world
Unloved, bereft, alone!
Pity those who o’er some crushing grief
In gloomy silence brood,
And her who by the midnight lamp
Toils for her children’s food.
Ah, me, how many weary hearts
Will welcome life’s door closed,
O Jesus on thy ------ ----
Can any ---- -----
Save those who ---- the ---- — ----
Are foremost in the van!
And those who’ve sold their souls for power,
To rule their fellow man!
O Father take my sinful thoughts,
---- ---- ----- -------,
Grant me the strengthening wine of grace,
And faith the Christian’s bread.
----- ----- Thy will be
done"
And feel my gain in loss;
I shrink from 'neath Thy chastening rod,
I faint and drop my cross.
The tide of sin sweeps o’er my soul,
Earth’s vanities I seek!
Now once again my greatest prayer,
Great God, sustain the weak!
Denton, Mich. 1869
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SONG OF THE COMPOSITOR
DEDICATED TO THE PRINTERS OF YPSILANTI, MICHIGAN
By. J. Warren Watson
From the Detroit Commercial Advertiser.
(Ypsilanti Commercial, May 21, 1870)
I.
From their boxes the types find their way to my
"stick,"
And each falls to its place with a musical click,
By sunlight and by gaslight I toil at my "case,"
Till my eyes are scare able the "copy" to trace.
I am weary in body, my brain’s in a whirl,
Still the banner of knowledge I will help to unfurl,
For my ears hear the sounds that all Christendom bless
‘Tis the "click" of the types, and the
"clang" of the press!
II.
Mighty engine of Truth, ah, methinks thee sublime,
For thy cylinder turns as relentless as Time.
Yonder blanks are like souls when this life they begin;
Each receives its imp— mingled virtue and sin.
Some perhaps will be cleansed, and be white as to-day,
As the blood of the Lamb takes earth’s type marks away.
Yonder arm is like death, with its pitiless air,
And it says "printed sheet, ye are finished, lie
there!"
Sound forever the music all Christendom bless!
"Tis the "click" of the types and the
"clang" of the press!
Denton, Mich. 1870
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THE CHIP BASKET
Edited by J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, June 19, 1869)
THE MAN WHO WROTE "HOME SWEET HOME," NEVER HAD A
HOME. - EXCHANGE.
No of course not. All his folks at home say he didn’t.
Nobody who writes about anything ever has it. If a man is out of anything he
immediately goes and writes about it.
Certainly he didn’t ever have any home. The man who wrote
"Old Arm Chair" never had an arm chair in all his life. The best he
had was an old split bottom chair without any back to it.
"Mother, I’ve Come Home to Die:" hasn’t spoken to the
old woman for years, and wouldn’t go near the house. Besides he is one of that
class of spiritualists who don’t believe they ever will die. His health was
never better. His mother is nothing but a mother-in-law, and she is dead anyhow.
There is the author of "Old Oaken Bucket," too.
There wasn’t a bucket on the whole farm, water being drawn with a tin-pail and
a cistern-pole.
"If I had but a thousand a year" stated privately
to his friends that he would be perfectly contented with half that sum, as he
was doing chores just for his board and three months’ schooling in the winter.
"Shells of ocean" is a humbug. The plaintive poet
who represents himself as wandering, one summer’s eve, with sea-beat thoughts,
on a pensive shore, was raised in the interior of Pennsylvania, and never was
ten miles away from home in all his life. "Gathered shells," did he?
All the shells he ever gathered were some egg-shells back of his mother’s
kitchen window.
The author of "We met by chance" knew very well it
was all arranged before hand. He had been weeks in contriving it - and she
admired his contrivance.
"Who will care for mother now?" Who indeed! You
took the old woman to the poor-house just before writing the song, and there is
nobody but the Poormaster to care for her now.
"I’m saddest when I sing" was tickled almost to
death if invited to.
"No one to love," having just killed off his fifth
wife, naturally felt like the devil about it. - Cincinnati Times
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THE COLOR BEARER’S LAST WORDS
From the Western Rural
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, August 7, 1869)
No longer fire streams from the ranks of the foeman
-
Their broken battalions have fled in dismay
The cannons hoarse thunders are hurled in silence,
And the sulphurous war cloud is rolling away;
The victors scare knew that the battle was theirs,
But now the glad tidings each warrior divines;
From right, left and centre comes strains of sweet music,
And a mighty cheer burst from their silent grim lines.
On a part of the field where the conflict was fiercest,
‘Mong the debris of strife and the heaps of the slain.
Lies a young Northern boy who is wounded and dying -
His frank handsome face is distorted in pain!
See! Fast from his bosom the life-tide is ebbing,
His white lips are moving in penitent prayer
His hands firmly close o’er a time sullied portrait,
At his side is the flag he will never more bear.
He smiles, faintly smiles, on his sorrowing comrades,
When the surgeon is called that his wound may be dressed,
And murmurs, "Tis useless, I know it is useless,
Pray let me lie still and I’ll soon be at rest!
But, comrades remember forever this parting,
This dread scene of fore, and this coarse covered sod,"
He gasped, as his spirit was freed from the casket,
Be true to the FALLEN, YOUR COUNTRY and GOD!
Denton, Mich..
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THE
COUNTRY BELLE
by J.. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, May 20 that, 1867)
I will tell you of a country girl,
A girl I often meet:
She has neither wit or beauty,
But a world of self-conceit.
And she thinks her "NO" upon each beau
Inflicts unheard of pain
Whenever one designs to "see her home,"
He loves her - but in vain!
For the country youths don't suit her
They are "awkward" and "so green,"
And none but stylish gentlemen
Need court our rural queen.
Tho her face is like a harvest moon
So round, and full, and bright!
But ah 'tis brass, and shines, alias:
By day as well as night.
And if she's treated civilly
And accents firm and cool,
She quietly will hint to you
She thinks you are a fool.
For the country youths don't suit her
They are "stupid" and "so green,"
And none but stylish gentlemen
Need court our rural queen.
It is true her hat is "not in style,"
She wears no waterfall -
Her head is very large indeed, her feet - not very small!
Still she thinks she's as handsome
As some houri of the east,
And intends to wed a President
Or Governor at least.
For the country youths don't suit her
They are "homely" and "so green,"
And none but stylish gentlemen
Need court our rural queen.
South Plymouth, 1867
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THE EXILES TRIBUTE
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, November 16, 1867)
Air - Take your gun and go John
As on the wings of memory
I'm wafted back apace,
Once more methinks that I behold
Her patient, angel face,
And ah, this world's delusive hopes,
No longer seemth bright.
But sorrow's tears, pent up for years,
Steal down my cheeks tonight.
I sit and thoughtfully I gaze,
Athwart the ocean's tide,
My heart is with my native land,
The land where Minnie died.
Naught breaks the solemn quiet, save
That night-birds plaintive cry,
And as I muse I can but feel,
Her spirit hovers high!
Though beauty tempt me with her smile,
Or fortunes golden store,
I never, never will forget,
The one I loved of yore,
I sit and thoughtfully I gaze,
Athwart the ocean's tide,
My heart is with my native land,
The land where Minnie died.
Time's ruthless iron hand hing'd
My jelly locks with gray,
Ere long upon my soul will dawn,
The great eternal day,
Yet since I saw her pallid face,
upon the funeral bier,
O never have I ceased to think,
Of her in childhood dear,
I sit and thoughtfully I gaze,
Athwart the ocean's tide,
My heart is with my native land,
The land where Minnie died.
Respectfully dedicated to Miss Sarah Holcomb, of Pine Run, Mich.
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THE MISANTHROPE’S REVERIE
By J. Warren Watson, South Plymouth
(Ypsilanti Commercial, March 16, 1867)
What’s man but a heathenish bandit?
Earth’s charity proves but a lie -
Tis given with looks that remand it;
Philanthropy’s all in your eye.
Friendship is thing of convenience,
And happiness does not exist;
Hope something far in the distance;
Honor’s a prize fighter’s fist.
Contentment is found in the gutter;
Prosperity’s robbing the poor;
Base envy and hatred are thriving;
Morality’s voted a bore.
Indeed Young American hatch it!
With him it is getting -------- out;
He don’t go to meeting on Sunday,
He’d rather go fishing for trout.
He’s wiser than father and mother,
And proud as a Turkish Hussar,
And ere he’s well out of the cradle
e's puffing a fragrant (!) cigar.
Politeness is taught by our dandies,
When with a fair lady they meet,
They stare at her features a moment
Then down go their eyes to her feet.
From noting the size of her gaiters
True gentlemen never abstain;
If larger than those of a bay
They pass her in royal distain.
Fane’s bought from the critic with greenbacks;
Attorneys for lying are paid;
The Printer’s ashamed of his calling -
The devil is learning the trade.
The teacher ! And what of the teacher,
Who DARES A YOUNG LADY to strike?
He is the hapeth--- ruler
Of children and parents alike!
Collectors of customs, and doctors -
Poor brothers, ------- curse;
---------- "we" is a block head;
Reporters are something much worse.
All honor is due to the clergy:
Their efforts are saving the lost.
The merchant’s a very ti– fellow,
Who sells all his goods ‘less than cost
True virtue a sorry old maid is,
Whose looks keep temptation away
While fashion makes all our the ladies
Who live but to make a display.
True greatness is being successful
No matter how wrong or how right;
True love is a thing very blissful,
But seldom remains over night.
Both libel and slander are common,
---- and daggered rhyme
Tho’ beauty has magical power,
E’en beauty is conquered by time.
If Jonathan speak to his Sarah,
Miss Gerdy will swear that he kissed her;
For every — woman is ready
And ---- — help a "---- sister"
Religion ----- ------ ------
For com-------- --------- ----
Tis not for the ----------
Who ---------------
It dwells where the church steepest tower,
As if they ---- ---- ----
Tis "owned by a ---- people,
Repent all just one day in seven
But poverty ---- — evil
Will keep you in bondage for life,
Twill change your connection ----
And make a poor slave of your wife.
Your children are objects of pity,
Aristocracy christen them "brats;"
They are kicked here and there o’er the city
Like spaniels or troublesome rats!
Deception is found in all places
Tis born of — — — class
We all have it marked in our faces
To prove it I looked in glass!
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THE ORPHAN’S REQUEST
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, April 20, 1867)
("A NEW CONTRIBUTION.")
Let me die, for I am weary
Of this darksome world of woe,
With no friends it seems so dreary
To the grave then let me go!
For my soul is steeped
in anguish
And all my bones are crushed below -
From life’s chilling blasts I languish
To the grave then let me go!
In the churchyard ‘neath the willow
Let me from my sorrows sleep,
There I’ll find a welcome pillow
In the grave so dark and deep.
Let sweet flowers flourish o’er me
They will cheer my lonely tomb,
And give true type of what’s before me
In the world that’s free from gloom.
O let the wild birds o’er me warble
I shall love the cheerful sound
Though I lay beneath the marble
In the cold and loathsome ground.
Let me die, I’d see the faces
For whom I’ve cast so may sighs,
Freed from sin, with the angel graces,
In the portals of the skies.
South Plymouth, 1867
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THE REIGN OF PEACE
For the Ypsilanti Commercial
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, January 16, 1869)
I
No longer flows the crimson flood:
No brother sheds fraternal blood!
All strife and pain and discord cease;
We welcome back the reign of peace!
The cloud is past – our banner waves
Above a land where dwell no slaves!
Again each star appears in view -
God bless the men who wore the blue!
Again each star appears in view -
God bless the men who wore the blue!
II.
Hail! Brothers hail! For we are free;
From North to South, from sea to sea!
Then let our thankful voices raise
To day, a joyful hymn of praise!
The ones who tell ‘mid leaden rain
At Bunker Hill died not in vain.
Again each star appears in view -
God bless the men who wore the blue!
Again each star appears in view -
God bless the men who wore the blue!
III.
Columbia
mounds her fallen braves!
Each stripe has cost ten thousand graves,
With tears each fold is consecrate,
And yet the price is none too great!
The cloud is past – our banners waves,
Above a land where dwell no slaves!
Again each star appears in view -
God bless the men who wore the blue!
Again each star appears in view -
God bless the men who wore the blue!
Denton, Mich. 1969
Dedicated to U. S. Grant, the Nation’s Hero
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THOUGHTS AT GETTYSBURG
From the New York Weekly.
By J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, April 11, 1860)
When on the war befreighted a’r
Rings martial trumpets blare,
Rich silken ---- ----- ----;
When in dark battle lives array’d
With waving plume and dishing blade,
Each burns with patriotic ire -
Then thousand eyes emitting fire!
When ‘mid the cannon’s murky breath,
The mounted squadron faces death,
— ---- ----- ------- -------
I, ---- ------ ----- -----
To join the conflict world.
Though he who dies ‘midst smoke and flame
May be immortalized by fame,
God help his wife and child!
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WE WILL GIVE POOR MA THE BREAD
Song and Chorus
Words by J. Warren Watson
(Ypsilanti Commercial, June 29, 1867)
1. Disease and want had sadly chang’d
The mother once so fair,
Unconsciously she whisper’d food!
There’s food! O tell me where!
Her child bent o’er and caught her words; -
She turn’d away and said:
"O Nellie we will do without
And give poor ma the bread!"
Chorus
Have faith in Him who rules the wave
And bids the thunders roll:
For of its gloom He’ll rob the grave
And those who weep corsole.
2. The moon has twice shone down upon
The meadow's placid streams,
And twice has Georgia's noon day sun
Shot forth its torrid beams,
Since Alice with averted face,
And heaving bosom said:
"Oh Nellie we will do without
And give poor ma the bread."
Chorus, Have faith, etc.
3. Beside their cherished
parent's couch
Now tenderly they knell:
And around her neck their little arms
Affectionately seal..
And tho' her soul from earth has fled.
Those childish voices cry,
"Please ma look up once more and smile
And say you will not die!"
Chorus, Have faith, etc.
4. No kindred tie like final love
Ever made life pathway bright!
Tis as the beacon light that guides
The storm tossed ship at night.
Twas stronger than dreaded famine's pain
With her who kindly said:
"Oh Nellie we will do without
In give poor ma the bread!"
Chorus have faith, etc.
South Plymouth, Mich., 1867
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