Friday, November 29, 2013

"In Memoriam. William Ambrose, 1846-1932" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1932)

                            In Memoriam.

                William Ambrose, 1846-1932.

        The following sonnet has been written in affectionate remembrance of William Ambrose, my father-in-law, late of Melrose, N.Y., formerly of Cambridge, Eng. Mr. Ambrose was highly regarded and greatly beloved by all who knew him, especially by the members and friends of the Methodist churches at Williamstown, Mass., Melrose, Mayfield, Waterford, Levings in Troy and Brandon, Vt.


The loss of loved ones leaves an aching void

That none but God can fill: The vacant chair,

The face benevolent, the voice of prayer;

The hand of diligence, so well employed;

The heart of deep affection—unalloyed:

Trustworthy, honest, free from anxious care,

Whose faith in God led him to do and dare

And leave behind an impress undestroyed.

When wicked men depart earth feels no loss,

Not so with men of faith and righteousness;

In life and death they gloried in the Cross

And, now, their friends arise their names to bless:

There rests our loved one 'neath the vernal sod.

At Schaghticoke—beloved by man and God!

                    (REV.) JOSEPH C. BOOTH.

        Melrose, N. Y.

        "William Ambrose is seriously ill at the home of his daughter and son-in-law, Rev. and Mrs. J.C. Booth."

"Melrose." Troy Times. April 23, 1942: 2 col 8.

        The death of William Ambrose occurred Saturday at the home of his son-in-law and daughter, Rev. and Mrs. Joseph C. Booth at Melrose, after a short illness. He was born in Cambridge, England, 86 years ago and had resided in this country 21 years. He was a member of the Melrose Methodist Church. Surviving are two daughters, Mrs. Booth and Miss Sarah A. Ambrose, also of Melrose. The funeral will be conducted in that village tomorrow afternoon at 2:30 o'clock daylight saving time. Rev. Lester W. Ward, pastor of the Melrose Methodist Church, will officiate, assisted by Rev. Thomas Stevenson, pastor of the Methodist Church at Salem. Interment will be in Elmwood Cemetery at Schaghticoke.

"Obituary." Troy Times. April 25, 1932: 5 col 1.

        The funeral of William Ambrose was conducted yesterday afternoon from the residence of Rev. and Mrs. Joseph C. Booth at Melrose. Rev. Lester W. Ward, pastor of the Melrose Methodist Church, officiated, assisted by Rev. Thomas Stevenson, pastor of the Methodist Church at Salem. Bearers were Albert Stuart, Charles H. Sipperley, William Worthington and Wilbur Simon. Interment was int he family plat in Elmwood Cemetery, Schaghticoke.

"Obituary." Troy Times. April 27, 1942: 5 col 1.

"Epigrams" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1919)




The lazy man has voice and lung,

His energy is in his tongue;

If what he says "I'll do" he did,

His strength would build a pyramid!


Little griefs, like shallow streams,

        Are noted for their sound;

Silent griefs, as waters deep,

        Are still because profound!/p>


"Some tongues are silver, " I have oft been told,

If so, I think some have been made of gold;

But what of those that sound like brass or lead?

'T is plain—the tongue rings like a person's head.


'T is better to be dumb, if peace abound

Than own a gossip's tongue to wag around;

A cannon's mouth is harmless when it's still,

But when it opens there's an awful spill!


If you wear a sunny face, others will reflect your beam;

If you wear a dark grimace, blackness will in others seem;

Lo! the truth is plain and clear—Man's the maker of his sphere.

Troy Times. May 16, 1919: 13 col 1.

"The Methodist Hymnal" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1915)

The Methodist Hymnal.


(Dedicated to Troy Conference.)

Rich heritage of Methodism, hail!

To fill our hearts with praise thou canst no fail;

Thou hast the holy fire whose flame imparts

Love, peace and harmony to human hearts;

The churches North and South, alike, in thee

Have found the healing balm of unity.

Inspired by thee, the saints of God shall rise

The race to win, to wrestle for the prize,

The fight of faith advance, no banner furled,

Till they have won the kingdoms of the world.

Aroused by thee, the sinner shall behold

"The Door of Hope," the portal of the fold;

Repent, believe, escape death's threatening rod.

And find his way to Heaven, his peace with God.

Speed, speed thy course, thou messenger of song!

Reclaim the sinner, make the Christian strong;

Humiliate the proud, the humble raise;

The forward check, the dumb-mouth fill with praise;

The tempted rich sustain, the poor redress;

The wounded heal, the meek with courage bless;

The aged comfort; fortify the young;

Throughout the church be thy sweet lyrics sung;

Into our souls pour thy symphonic leaven;

Prepare us for the melodies of Heaven.

Troy Times. September 10, 1915.

        Rev. Joseph C. Booth, 77, retired Methodist minister, died early today at Melrose, after a long illness. He had been retired since 1927.

        From 1922 until 1924, Mr. Booth served at the Levings Methodist Church here. After leaving Troy, he went to Brandon, Vt., during 1925 and 1926, retiring the next year.

        Other pastorates he held during his long career in the ministry were Redford, 1894; Elizabethtown, 1895-98; Schuyler Falls and Morrisonville, 1899-1900; Chazy, 1901-05; Warrensburg, 1906-09; Williamstown, Mass., 1909-11; Melrose, 1912-13; Mayfield, 1914-18 and Waterford, 1919-21.

        Mr. Booth was born in Guiseley, Yorkshire County, England. He came to this country as a young man. He is survived by his wife, the former Sarah A. Ambrose, and one sister, Mrs. John Locke, Middlesex, England. While stationed in Elizabethtown he became a life member of Adirondack Lodge, No. 602, F. and A. M.

        While he lived in this area, Mr. Booth became known for the poetry which he wrote and contributed for both the old Troy Times and the Troy Record.

        The funeral services will be conducted from his home on Avenue A, Melrose, and from the Melrose Methodist Church at a time to be announced.

"Rev. J.C. Booth, Retired Minister, Dies at Melrose; Former Pastor at Levings Methodist Church Had Been in Ill Health for Long Time." Times Record [Troy, NY]. March 2, 1942: 11 col 7.

        BOOTH—At Melrose, N.Y., March 2, 1942, Rev. Joseph C. Booth, husband of Sarah A. Ambrose and brother of Mrs. John Locke of Middlesex, England. Funeral Wednesday afternoon at 1:30 o'clock from the residence and 2 o'clock from the Melrose Methodist Church. Friends are invited and may also call at the residence Tuesday evening."

"Died." Times Record [Troy, NY]. March 3, 1942: 11 col 1.

        Word has been received here of the death recently of Rev. Joseph C. Booth, Methodist minister, who held a number of pastorates in Clinton county before his retirement in 1927.

        Rev. Mr. Booth died in Melrose, N.Y., where he had made his home since his retirement.

        Among his pastorates in this area were those at Redford, Schuyler Falls, Morrisonville, Chazy and Elizabethtown in Essex county.

        The only survivor of his immediate family in this country is his wife, but he has numerous relatives in England.

"Rev. Joseph C. Booth Dies at Melrose, N.Y." Plattsburgh Daily Times. March 10, 1942: 5 col 3.

        The funeral of Rev. Joseph C. Booth was held yesterday afternoon from the residence in Melrose and later from the Melrose Methodist Church, where Rev. Clyde R. Sumner, pastor, officiated.

        Mr. Sumner was assisted by Rev. Luther A. Brown, pastor of the Methodist Church of Ballston Spa; Rev. Ernest F. Tripp, pastor of St. Mark's Methodist Church of Troy; Rev. Allan E. Bradley, pastor of the Pittstown Methodist Church; Rev. Dorrance W. Kellar, pastor of the Lutheran Church of Melrose; Rev. Edward Bowers of Schaghticoke, retired.

        The choir sang "There Is A Land of Pure Delight." Mrs. William Plats was at the organ. All the minister sang together, "Where Is A Land That Is Fairer Than Day." The bearers were Emles Sherman, William Diefendorf, Frederick Overocker and Albert Stuart. The body was placed in the vault in Elmwood Cemetery.

"Funeral Service Held at Melrose for Rev. J.C. Booth." Times Record. March 5, 1942: 4 cols 7-8.

Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1864-1942)

Elmwood Cemetery, 82 Stillwater Bridge Rd, Schaghticoke, NY

"The Mitten [from Mollie]" by A. W. Bellaw (1886)

Ogdensburg Journal. November 22, 1886: 2 col 2.

Wade's Fibre and Fabric 4(104). February 26, 1887.

Thursday, November 28, 2013

"Autocrat Writing Paper" by A. W. Bellaw (1908)

        Following are some verses on White and Wycoff Mfg. Co.'s Autocrat paper written by A. W. Bellaw of De Graff, Ohio:


It's the smooth goods and simon pure,

The basis of best literature,

The cream of reams Good Taste begat-

Well, try your pen on "Autocrat!"

The writing paper worth your while,

Society's vogue, and free from guile,

You always know just where you're at

If you will write on "Autocrat."

The Paper of the Present Tense

Made with true art and common sense;

Between good friends it's purely frat,—

Good Friendship chooses "Autocrat."

My lady loves this Paper so,

The pride of her portfolio,

Each word's a treasure writ on that,

Fair as her thought is "Autocrat."

The sheet of court and state, and meant

To please the prince and president,

The preference of the diplomat

Is shown to be the "Autocrat."

It is a pleasure to the pen,

A boon to women and to men,

Your thinking powers you get down pat

When writing on the "Autocrat."

It is the paper without peer,

To which no others come quite near,

And all good writers tip the hat

In courtesy to the "Autocrat."

American Stationer 64(22). November 28, 1908. 24.

"An Encomium of the Drop-Knife" by A.W. Bellaw (1917)

An Encomium of the Drop-Knife.

No knife is so slick,

It is quick on its trick

And a joy that will last you for life.

There is none 'neath the sun

Just like it, not one,

It's the Schrade Safety Push-Button Knife.

If the button is pressed

The blade does the rest,

Opens out like a thing all alive;

You break no thumb nail

In your efforts—that fail—

If you're owning this Push-Button Knife.

It's the handiest yet,

It is everyone's pet,

And with all good knife merits its rife.

Its blades are rare steel,

And really ideal

Is this notable Push Button Knife.

It's the very quick pick

Of club, class, and clique,

Its equal they cannot contrive;

It's a true treasure-trove,

And a thing you will love

Is this wonderful Push-Button Knife.

                    A. W. BELLAW, DeGroff, O.

American Cutler. July 1917. 6.

The poem might have first appeared prior to 1917, or A. W. Bellaw was writing up to the very end. Either way, 1917 would make it a posthumous publication as he died in 1916.

"Biographica Poetica" by A. W. Bellaw (1888)


A Book Which, When Published, Will Create Profound Sensation.

        We are about getting out a book to contain biographies of all the occidental and accidental poets of the hemisphere. Applicants will, please, write out the answer to the following questions:

        What is your full name?

        Your name when you are not full?

        The name you maintain in the community?

        When you were born, and why?

        Male or female? (Don't give an nasty answer.)

        Where were your grandparents born, in this county or any other?

        What asylum do you reside in?

        Were you born in the city or in the woods?

        Did you early lisp in great numbers?

        Is yours a very bad attack?

        Are you educated or not?

        What colleges didn't you attend?

        What is the color of your red hair?

        The estimated length of your feet?

        Did you ever have a poem printed?

        Did you ever have any other kind of fits?

        What do you think your station is among the great bards?

        How often does the spasm come on?

        Are you saddest when you write?

        Have you ever consulted a physician?

        If male, how old? (We know the poetic age of all female writers.)

        Do you effect the present style of trousers?

        How often do you change your style of stockings?

        How were you brought up and what editors brought you down?

        Are you married, and how often?

        Do you consider divorce a failure?

        What do you think of onions as soul-food?

        Do your poems come in a kind of spontaneous combustion, as it were?

        What is your height—when you see your name in your village weekly paper?

        How many poems, in the course of a year, do you turn and have returned?

        What is the extent of your poetical works, and what trade do you follow for pastime?

        What publications have your effusions disappeared in?

        Were any of your ancestors ever burned for writing poetry?

        What other renowned poet do you think you resemble?

        What soap do you use, if any?

        Do you ever have to rewrite any of your poems?

        Can you compose poetry and the baby at the same time?

        Do you consider one or all of your poems the best?

        What is the size of hat required after you finish a poem?

        Write answers to the best of your ability and don't sign your name with a cross. Send photograph of yourself or your next best friend and five dollars, not for publication, but as a guarantee of good faith.—A.W. Bellaw, in Time.

Sandy Creek News. October 10, 1889: 10 col 6.

"The Thanksgiving Turkey" by H.C. Dodge (1888)


To praise the turkey we SA

        With X T C sublime:

In D D makes Thanksgiving Day

        X L all other times.

His drumsticks R N joyed by tots:

        All A D’s like his breast,                 (1*)

And none B 4 they’ve E 10 lots

        Will C K chance to rest.

His Turk’s cap makes F L O deem            (2*)

        His N M E is right;

His wish bone makes M A den dream

        Of fortune & D light.

So good to E T is that we

        X Q’s our hungry haste

And shout for “more” with N R G

        Till stuffed about the waist.

The carver has no E Z time;

        It is H R B hates,                            (3*)

With per C V rance most sublime

        He fills the M T plates.

In K C doesn’t rightly carve

        And helps us to X S,

At dinner’s N D has to starve

        And P K bone, we guess.

But if he’s Y Z will retain

        The P C likes to get;

We don’t C Y he should refrain

        For N E etiquette.

The turkey is a Noble bird;

        Thanks for him I B stow,

And if this U lo G he heard

        He’d rise, though dead, & crow.

                                        H. C. DODGE

                X-PLAIN-A-TIONS NES-S-A-RY.

(1*) "All ladies like his breast."

(2*) "Makes a fellow deem."

(3*) "It is a job he hates."

                                        New York World.

Columbia Spectator 23(4). November 28, 1888. 52.

Wednesday, November 27, 2013

"The Thankful Kitten" (1911)

The Thankful Kitten.

"I've nothing to be thankful for!"

        Cried little Tommy Cat,

"Tut, tut, my child," his mother said,

        "You never must say that."

"You have a fine fur overcoat,

        Fur boots and mittens, too.

Just think how chilly little boys

        And girls must envy you."

Thanksgiving Day, upon the fence,

        Our Tommy sat and smiled,

Thankful to be a fur-lined cat,

        And not a chilly child.

Troy Times. November 29, 1911: 11 col 3.

Monday, November 25, 2013

"The Fresh Aid Fund" by Lucy H. Batt (1919)

The Fresh Air Fund.


A miser sat in his armchair, his wealth before him lay,

Had you been within hearing distance, you might have heard him say

"'T is easy enough to be happy while your wealth you recount o'er,"

But somehow the clink of the metal sounded stranger than ever before.

The gold had lost its glimmer, the silver seemed turned to lead,

And the heart of the hardened miser like a soul that was empty and dead;

Still he counted, and piled, and chuckled, rubbing his hands with glee,

Then stopped awhile to question—Can it be they are speaking to me?

Deep down in the coffers he forced them, crowding and shaking them 'round,

And even as he choked them, kept hearing the strangest sound.

Then drawing his purse-strings tighter, he wound them and tied them about,

While a faint voice seemed to be crying "Let us out! Let us out! Let us out!"

All the night through it kept crying, all the next day: "Let us out!"

And at evening the cry grew more lusty, demanding the right with a shout;

The miser grew anxious and fearful, then loosed all the silver and gold,

As it fell from the well-filled coffers a tale began to unfold.

The Dollars were fathers and mothers, who grieved for their children in woe;

The Dimes were the tiny babies, who needed the sunshine to grow;

The Quarters were little children, too young to run about

Without the care of others, and they all cried "Keep us out!"

The Halves were the little mothers, bent 'neath their burden of care,

Who craved for the heavenly sunshine, and pure, free, open air.

From the lustreless gold rose a Presence, throwing radiance over all,

And pointed with index finger to the handwriting on the wall,

"Know yet not in My bountiful goodness I have given richly and free;

What you do for the least of My little ones you return tenfold to me."

the light from the gold grew brighter; it played a miraculous part,

For a tiny spark was reflected deep down in the miser's heart.

He awoke from his dreams of avarice, and another sat in his place,

While the light from the gold and silver transfigured the hardened face;

A smile lighted up with new meaning, and through the half-open door

Poured sunshine, and air, and fragrance, making sacred the message they bore.

Then out through the lanes and the alleys a stranger wended his way,

And scattered the rays of lost sunshine, that were hidden for many a day.

To you, to whom much hath been given, and the sands of time nearly run,

You can ease the burdened shoulder of a life that has only begun.

You will lay down your burden more lightly, and enjoy a rapture wild,

Could you be the means of saving the life of some little child.

Or you who have unemployed dollars, some whose hearts with grief have been stunned,

Can you find an object more worthy than The Troy Times Fresh Air Fund?

        June 17, 1919.

Troy Times. June 19, 1919: 19 col 3.

I like the term “unemployed dollars” for hoarded wealth. Indeed, one would think that the more unemployed dollars there are in misers' hoards, the higher unemployment (or wage slavery) might also be?

The Troy Times Fresh Air Fund, I'm supposing, was a version of the famous Fresh Air Fund for New York City children but instead aimed at helping the children of low-income families of Troy.

"A Hasty Love Maker" by A. W. Bellaw (1889)


Ah, dear Annette, you are my pet,

        The sweetheart that I choose;

Lightly you sip life's duteous booze—

        I mean, life's beauteous dews.

And were you mine, my love divine,

        I'd praise in verse and prose,

And keep you e'er from wanting hose—

        That is, from haunting woes,

As I'm alive, I'd surely strive

        To crown your days with peace,

And I would never eat your cheese—

        What was it? Cheat your ease.

The warm ripe South made sweet your mouth,

        Its kiss who could refuse?

I love to mark its harming chews—

        Great smoke! Its charming hues.

When I descry you going by

        My daily clerking place,

I love to mark your gritty pace—

        I mean, your pretty grace.

Love softly lies in both your eyes,

        And do not deem me rash,

If I should love each lying flash—

        I mean each flying lash.

Were I a bard of high regard,

        I'd time my raptured lays,

And loudly sing your ponderous ways—

        That is, your wonderous praise.

But should you frown and cast me down

        In disappointment drear,

You'd put me on my burly ear—

        I mean my early bier.

                                A. W. BELLAW, in Time.

Livingston Democrat [Geneseo, NY]. April 24, 1889: 2 col 1.

"To My Lady, or, The Building of the Poem" by A. W. Bellaw (1888)

To My Lady,


Sweetheart, your tender eyes

Are heaven's realities;


What hope within them lies!

Love grew in their love light

As stars grow on the night,


And all my life grew bright.

To you my spirit leans,

I know what worship means,


What cheers these earthly scenes.

When on my ear first broke

Your voice, an angel spoke.


Then fell on me the yoke.

I would that you were near

My beating heart to hear,


And know my love sincere.

                        —A. W. Bellaw, in Time.

Buffalo Courier. September 9, 1888: 12 col 5.

Sunday, November 24, 2013

"Mansfield's Beer" (1838)

        ☞ Rules and regulations to be attended to with MANSFIELD'S BEER. It will generally be ripe in 12 hours after it is corked in warm weather, and will require to let the steam off once in 12 hours till it is used up. If it is neglected too long, the corks will fly out and disgorge a part of the contents of the bottle, and get enraged so high as to spit in your face; keep it as cool as possible, and if kept in ice, it will improve in quality with age. This super excellent beverage has proved beneficial to the health of thousands, especially to delicate females and nursing mothers, and, of course, the nurslings, affording nutriment and strength to both:

'I am doctor of doctors' wise folks have the notion,

My beverage prevents intestine commotion.

                                "The Old Doctor."

There is many wise folks that used to drink toddy,

Now drink Mansfield's Beer, for health of the body.

        N. B. My amiable horse is at leisure almost every afternoon, and may be used on the outside of him, or with a light carriage. ☞ No dandy shall use him.

Troy Daily Whig. May 30, 1838: 2 col 5.

"Mansfield's Beer" (1844)

A few hundred pounds of Cod tongues and sounds

May be found at "old Doctor Mansfield's";

For his superior Beer, you had better call here,

And have all your mortal cans fill'd.

'T is a positive fact, now what do you think?

There's nothing more wholesome than nourishing drink.

Then drink Manfield's Beer, if you'd cherish long life—

Let your children drink freely, with yourself and your wife:

For summer disorders a safeguard and sure,

For intestine commotion an infallible cure.

        I have been asked the meaning of the word Medicamentum. Answer—Medica, medicine; Menium, mental—which helps the body and mind, as there is a sympathy between both.

        Caution.—There is a kind of Beer disposed of redundantly in this city, an illegitimate article, called Mansfield's Medicamentum Beer. I never instructed Ezra Defreest, or any other person, in the "art and mystery" of my compound. Now, there is no Mansfield in his Beer operations; yet in order to deceive, he has taken my name in vain in three places, on his sign boards and wagon.—Isn't he cunning? Is not this simulation? And has he not been washed in the river Hudson?

                        "OLD DOCTOR MANSFIELD."

        N. B. I have a cool Recess and large refrigerator, which keeps my Beer in fine order, at

                                55 Congress st.

Troy Daily Whig. June 28, 1844: 2 col 6.

"Sacred to the Memory of Daniel A. Kellogg" (1851)


To the Memory of Daniel A. Kellogg,


'TWAS the evening hour of the holy day

        When forth on the spirit's wings,

The soul of a mortal hasted hence,

        To dwell with the "King of Kings."

Not as earth's warrior yields up his breath,

        'Mid the pomp and glitter and show

Of a battle-field—or with conqueror's shout,

        Did this "Christian Warrior" go.

No! calmly and sweetly as childhood lays

        Its head on its mother's breast,

Did this hero child lay his armor down,

        And enter in to his rest.

Away! far away! to its home in the skies,

        Sped the spirit set free from its clod;

Rejoicing to enter the pearl-studden gates,

        And to dwell in the presence of God.

No torturing pain, "and night shall be there,"

        Nor watching—nor sighing—nor tears:

The bliss of the glorified knoweth no end;

        Nor are angel-lives measured by years.

Oh, why should we weep when the spirit escapes,

        The cares, the temptations, the sins,

The besetments of earth—and enters the realm

        Where glory immortal begins.

For the desolate hearth-stone and grief-smitten hearts

        It is noble!—'tis human to weep;

But, oh, for the glorified! Faith bids us hope

        That they "only have fallen asleep!"

Asleep! yes, in Jesus! and soon, oh, how soon!

        To our loving will be given,

The dear ones departed—"not lost—gone before,"

        Who are waiting to greet us in heaven.

TROY, April, 1851.

Troy Daily Budget. April 29, 1851: 2 col 5.

"The Red Cross is the Slogan Now" by Rev. T. L. Drury (1917)

The Red Cross is the Slogan Now.


The Red Cross is the slogan now,

And in it see most clearly how

We can most patriotic be

As people who are loyal, free!

The service is a helping hand

We timely give our native land,

The hope of those who make the fight

For liberty and human right.

This service puts the flag above

The love of pelf, will ever prove

That country first is in our mind,

That we are not to duty blind.

Our willingness to issue meet

Will make this service kind complete,

Will help to give a stunning blow

By men who fight a ruthless foe.

Then as we can so let us give,

That our Democracy may live,

And leaven all the nations through,

The sin of greed and war subdue.

The men who go across the sea

To freedom save and Europe free,

We owe to them this service kind

As loyal friends they leave behind.

The slogan hear, the slogan heed,

Then freely meet the country's need,

Thus tell our friends across the sea

That we are true as we are free.

Yea, ev'ry woman, child and man,

[?] we are strong American,

Let's forward come in Freedom's name,

As volunteers make good the claim.

Troy Times. June 21, 1917: 13 col 1.

"The Red Cross Fund" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1917)

The Red Cross Fund.


One hundred million dollars—what a sum!

With which to mend the wreckages of war;

The fractured bones and lacerated scar;

The shattered nerves, the mouths of men made dumb;

Blindness and severed limbs, or bodies numb

By long exposure. These the products are

Of modern savage warfare, none can bar—

The fruitage of the world's delirium!

But lo! amidst the serpent-bitten men,

Grander than Moses's brazen cure, we see

The Red Cross rise, with healing, hope and love!

The dollars of each faithful citizen

Enhance the spirit of humanity,

Displayed by God's Red Cross—His peaceful dove!

Troy Times. June 27, 1917

"Red Cross Supplies" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1918)

Red Cross Supplies.


Boom the Red Cross! Girls, hurry with the socks,

The sweaters and the handkerchiefs galore;

When neatly finished, pack them in the box,

Dispatch them quickly, then apply for more!

The helmets hasten, rush the comfort bags;

The wash cloths, wristlets, mufflers push along,

And pillows made of soft and spotless rags;

The Red Cross rooms let all the ladies throng!

The soldier-boys are fighting, in our stead,

For freedom, challenged by the haughty Hun,

And need "Red Cross Supplies" to win the war!

Then ply the needle to the wool and threat;

"Your Bit" continue till the war is won

And o'er the world ariseth Freedom's Star!

Troy Times. April 4, 1918: 6 col 2.

"The Red Cross" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1917)

The Red Cross.

Dedicated to the American Red Cross Society.


"Red Cross!" How grand the name! how grand the cause!

The wounded sailor's never-failing friend;

The dying soldier's comfort to the end.

Lo! nurses enter war's huge battle-jaws,

Amidst the barking demons, human laws

Ignore, and to the fallen soldiers lend

Their speedy aid, their strength and skill expend:

While heaven, approving, shakes with loud applause!

The blood-red cross is God's benignant star;

Symbol of mercy in a world of strife;

Its mission to relieve distress and pain.

It knows no hostile foe, or racial bar;

No rank, or dignity, but human life—

The only thing in warfare that's humane!

The Troy Times. June 20, 1917

"The Red-Robed Angel" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1918)

The Red-Robed Angel

(A Sonnet written in behalf of the Red Cross Fund)

Again the Red Cross sounds its loud appeal:

"One Hundred Million Dollars," to provide

Equipment for our Country's Crimson-Bride!

The Red-Robed Angel goeth forth to heal

The shell-torn wounds; to break the precious seal

Of alabaster, by the soldier's side,

His pain to soothe, to convalescence guide—

Exemplifying Christian love and zeal!

The Red-Robed Angel wings the battle trail,

In search of wounded men, with eagle eyes,

And Mercy's arms outstretched to rescue them,

As did the tender Florence Nightingale,

Responsive to the call, let all arise—

Make, make the Cross the Nation's Diadem! !

                —REV. JOSEPH C. BOOTH,


Morning Herald [Gloversville, NY]. May 21, 1918: 8 cols 2-3.

"In Memory of William H. Frear" by Iva May Terry (1917)

In Memory of William H. Frear.


A merchant beloved and respected,

        As all who have known him can say,

Has gained through untiring effort

        Success in a wonderful way.

For though he has finished his life work

        And entered that Haven of Rest,

His kindness will long be remembered,

        For many a life he has blessed.

He heeded a fond mother's teachings

        And made it his business to try

In dealing with friends and employees

        To do as he would be done by,

Industrious, faithful and honest,

        A patriot, loyal and true,

With love for his home and his country

        Inspiring all whom he knew.

To-day his employees are mourning

        The loss of their kind, loving friend,

On whom through those long years of service

        They felt they could always depend.

A citizen true and devoted,

        His memory long will remain

In the hearts of the Trojans who loved him

        Until reunited again.

        Green Island.

Troy Times. February 15, 1917: 6 col 2.

"The Submarine Menace" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1917)

The Submarine Menace.


The greatest problem of to-day

        In naval warfare, clearly seen,

Is how to find the surest way

        To blast the German submarine.

The devil-imps the ocean swarm,

        Like hornets, filled with deadly spleen,

Broadcasting terror and alarm—

        The mission of the submarine.

The merchantmen of every clime

        Fall victims to that hell-machine,

Whose name's the symbol of crime:

        Inferno-prince—the submarine.

The neutral ships, the neutral flag,

        Without a law to intervene,

Are halted by the Teuton's brag:

        "This is the law"—the submarine!

The world is bound, her freedom's wrecked;

        To-day our future is foreseen;

Unless the menace-Hun is checked

        Our law will be the submarine.

Hear me, ye me who cry for peace,

        There is no peace, but war obscene!

Nor shall we ever find release

        Till we have crushed the submarine.

Let British lions sweep the main,

        Defended by the Eagle-Queen,

Until the imperiled sea's domain

        Is freed from every submarine.

Then shall the highway of the sea

        Leap in her liberty and sheen;

While nations shake with ecstasy,

        Unmenaced by the submarine!

Troy Times. May 12, 1917

"The Lost Atlantis" by T.V.T. (1892)

The Lost Atlantis.

BY T. V. T.

The ancients tell us centuries ago

        Out in the ocean stood an island fair,

Where lovely flowers waved ever to and fro,

        Filling with fragrance all the balmy air.

Never a land like this was ever known;

        All that the heart could wish abounded there;

Hither they came, from every land and zone,

        And found than all their dreams this land more fair.

But ah! a fearful storm arose one night,

        And when it raging ceased at morning's smile,

Gone, with its art, its wealth, its beauty bright—

        Vanished forever was that magic isle.

Still rolled the ocean on, just as before,

        Still shone the sun, as if it nothing missed;

Still danced the waves, nor ever sought the shore

        Of that fair island they so oft had kissed.

When sailors sometimes passing near the place

        Heard chiming bells that seemed far, far away,

They crossed themselves and said "By God's good grace

        We'll find that happy island yet some day."

So, when life's storm has swept off all that's dear,

        When hope is lost, the heartless world too gay,

Then memory's bells at times shall chime of cheer,

        "Thou'll find that happy life again some day!"

        Cohoes, N. Y.

Troy Daily Times. August 11, 1892: 8 col 1.

Saturday, November 23, 2013

"Battledogs Hunting Submarine Foxes" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1917)

Battledogs Hunting Submarine Foxes.


Our battledogs have gone

        To hunt the submarines;

They're helping cousin John

        To catch the fox-machines.

Their speed is known afar,

        Their scent is keen and strong;

Those dreadful dogs of war

        To Uncle Sam belong:

When on the track the fox they mark

The world will hear their awful bark!

The U-boats, shrewd and sly,

        Are tricky to the core;

When helpless ships go by,

        They glut themselves with gore!

When battledogs appear

        The foxy submarine

Darts in his hole, for fear;

        No periscope is seen:

But soon our grey-hounds of the sea

Will bag the fox and set us free!

the writing's on the wall:

        "Autocracy is doomed:"

The lords of war shall fall

        With all their pride entombed!

Democracy will then

        The world for God command;

Then men will live like men

        Each other understand:

Their highest aim—their fellows' good—

A universal Brotherhood!

Troy Times. July 16, 1917

"Consolation" by A.E.W. (1893)


BY A. E. W.

What tho', at noon, the sun should cease from shining—

        'Tis but a cloud that hides it from the view;

So cease from troubling and from vain repining,

        Clouds must pass away and sunshine come to you.

What tho' the night be dark, and long, and dreary,

        Think not that it forever shall remain;

So falter not nor let thy faith grow weary;

        Night must pass away and daylight come again.

Troy Daily Times. May 6, 1893: 6 col 1.

"Old and New" by Benjamin F. Leggett (1877)

Old and New


The temple arches of the midnight glow

With diamond splendors o'er the hills of snow.

A bended form with wrinkled visage waits

Before the threshold of the temple gates.

With snowy beard and frosty staff he stands,

And backward looks across the dusky lands.

The old light glows and kindles in his eyes

While past his gaze the visions sweep and rise.

The shadowed faces of the nation's turn

To him for blessing, while they wait and yearn.

While Afric's land emerging from eclipse

Sits dumb no more with silence on her lips.

And Asia looks across a hemisphere

Expectant, for the morning to appear—

While Europe's discord holds its vengeful sway

And breaks the world's broad charm of peace to-day,

Columbia, crowned with clustered stars appears

With all the glory of her hundred years!—

Above all lands which war's red passion mars

The Old year's faith stands higher than the stars.

And while he waits, the soft and mellow chime

Of jangled sweetness from the bells of time

Breaks into song,—the gates of midnight swing,

And he is gone—the young New Year is king!

Troy Daily Times. January 6, 1877

"The Plunkville Symphony Concert" by Victor W. Smith (1908)

The Plunkville Symphony Concert.


The first violins they scraped their strings,

        Their tones were weak and thin,

The first flute played crescendo trills

        As he gayly butted in.

First clarinet blew a long, whole note,

        With tone so rich and clear

The viola bows made tremelos

        That fairly quaked with fear.

First oboe (a one-keyed musette)

        Breathed out a plaintive plaint,

The first horn tried to answer,

        But was too full of red paint.

The second violins played quarter notes,

        Pizzicato on each beat;

The basses were unsteady,

        They could hardly keep their feet.

The second, third and fourth French-horns

        Were there, at least in looks,

They were old E flat alto horns

        Not fitted with "F" crooks.

The English-horn was from New York,

        His tongue was full of blisters;

The second oboe (old C clarinet)

        Played by a guy with whiskers.

The kettle-drums played tum, tum, tum,

        And also tome, tome, tome,

The second clarinet lost his place

        And wished he had stayed home.

The hero was deftly fingered

        By a girl who made it twang;

The bass drum and cymbals

        Got together with a bang!

The tuba had one note to play,

        His instrument was tall;

Bewildered, in a forest of rests,

        He left it out; that's all.

The piccolo laughed aloud with glee,

        Just like a brazen huzzy.

The first and second old trombones

        Were very thick and fuzzy.

The trumpets blew a piercing blast,

        With shrill, ear-splitting tone,

"I'll hand you one: ta-ra-ra-ra! ! ! !"

        Says the big bass slide trombone.

"Oh, listen to my tale of woe,"

        Sobbed the artistic 'cello.

First bassoon blamed his wrong notes

        Upon the second fellow.

The castinets, they clicked

        With a suggestive Spanish measure.

The audience thought to cut it out

        Indeed would be a pleasure.

The concert-master, at his post,

        Was crazy as a loon,

He broke his wire "E" string,

        And went sky-high to the moon.

The conductor cried, "You're rotten, all,

        You've put me on the bum."

He tried to beat his board bill

        While the drummer beat the drum.

Troy Times. September 5, 1908.

"The Fate of Lusitania" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1915)

The Fate of Lusitania.


Fair Lusitania, Empress of the sea!

My heart is sick, my mind distressed, as I

Remember thee and know the reason why

My friends and I no more can sail on thee;

No more be thrilled by thy velocity.

Sad victim of infernal sprite, so sly,

Just retribution calls from earth and sky—

From every clime, what'er the nation be.

Appalled and staggered by the "hellish" shock,

The thinking world is gasping yet for breath,

And men walk to and fro as in a dream,

Such wholesale murder doth Jehovah mock;

While neutral nations writhe in boiling wrath

O'er wanton waste of life naught can redeem!

Troy Times. May 22, 1915: 7 col 1.

"The Cloud" by William Struthers (1885)

The Cloud.


Up in the glorious sapphire reaches nesting,

        A dazzling cloud lies white and still.

See how the airy, winged arms are resting

        Above this valley and its either hill!

"Who knows what spirits of Love's highest heaven

        Hide in these vapors?" speaks the cloud.

"Who hears what sweetest song of Love may leaven

        With joy the loneness of my seeming shroud?

"I smile my snow-pure smile upon your valley,

        Waiting a kind, westering gale;

I catch, meanwhile, strange whispering that sally,

        By you unheard from woodland haunt and trail.

"Ah! when ye see my crystal rain-drops falling,

        That chilly veil all yon blue height,

How know ye if behind them, softly calling,

        Laugh not the cherubs of the Light of light."

Troy Daily Times. June 5, 1885: 1 col 2.

"Ourselves and the Freedmen" (1885)

Ourselves and the Freedman.

We said they should be free,

        We read the written line,

When flamed the word is living light,

        As if it were divine.

No race nor hue, no toil,

        Though unrequited long,

Should be again an argument

        To bolster up a wrong.

And gladly we decreed—

        We thought it wisdom then—

That they who worked and fought and bled

        Should also vote like men.

Decree that salt sea waves

        Shall stir no more the sand;

Think to subdue the winds to rest

        Within your hollowed hand.

But think not that decrees,

        Unless sustained by might,

Will rule o'er those who hold a wrong

        To be their sacred right.

We are not free ourselves,

        Only as we uphold

The trembling and the weak against

        The blustering and the bold.

The freedmen own their rights,

        Their wrongs the nation bears;

When we proclaimed their liberties

        We braided ours with theirs.

If we have coolly seen

        Their new-born rights betrayed,

Can we complain if we ourselves

        In the same coin are paid?

Full many a wrong seems light

        When borne by other men;

The weight transferred unto ourselves

        Is estimated then.

But wrongs at length shall end,

        Though storms again prevail;

He hates the wrong who rules the storm,

        His counsel cannot fail.

Troy Daily Times. January 12, 1885: 1 col 2.

"The First Snow" by Sister Ruth (1894)

The First Snow.


Gently falls the snow

On the earth below;

Flakes, like flowerets, blow

        To and fro.

Every flake a flower

From an angel's bower—

Like a pearly shower,

        For an hour.

Shines the truant Sun,

Thro' the storm begun;

Now the deed is done—

        Cruel Sun!

Flowerets disappear,

All the earth is clear,

While we voices hear,

        Far and near.

"No more fun to-day!

Put the sleds away—

Children cannot play,

        Alack a day!"

Troy Daily Times. November 17, 1894.

"No Drugs For Me!" Wolcott's Pain Paint (1868)


Let those who cling to drugs

        The poison swallow down,

Blisters with Spanish bugs,

        Bleed, purge, and vomit round.

Dumb beasts disgusted turn

        Their noses high in air;

Brute instinct makes them spurn,

        Refuse it everywhere.

Shall man be lower still,

        Coax, force the nostrums down

Between the teeth, and kill

        A child in every town?

A mother holds the nose,

        And prises the jaws apart;

Her child, compelled by blows,

        Will drink to save more smart.

The day drawing near,

        God brings you to account;

Such sins breed horrid fear,

        A long and black amount.

I teach a better plan,

        Just read and you will see,

In Chatham Square you can,

        One hundred seventy.

A Cloth all Dripping Wet with Paint,

        Drives inflammation out,

Brings back the smile to laughing eyes,

        And scatters every doubt.

Pain Paint is trumps, we bet our pile,

        For all who look can see

That false reliefs are sinking fast,

        Soon dead as dead can be.

The poor or rich can buy Pain Paint,

        'Tis sold at every store;

Twenty-five cents, and fifty, too,

        Dollar bottles holding more.

Five dollar bottles take the run,

        You save three dollars sure,

They hold a point, worth more than gold,


All pills and physic out of style,

        I hear the people cry,

But give us Pain Paint's cooling touch,

        When fever rages high.

All rheumatism leaves, my boys,

        Pain Paint is tested free,

In Chatham-Square, New York, my lads,

        One hundred seventy.

        I sell more of WOLCOTT's PAIN PAINT than all the other patent medicines combined, and I keep a full supply of all that have any demand.

                        VALENTINE HAMMANN,

                Druggist, 11 Seventh Avenue, N. Y.

        C.N. CRITTENTON, No. 38, Sixth Avenue, one of the largest and most respectable wholesale druggist in New York, says: "Since the introduction of WOLCOTT'S PAIN PAINT, soothing syrups have fallen off in demand at my house at the rate of five gross per month. I sell less pills, not half the amount of bitters, only half the amount of R. Reliefs, that I formerly sold. I sell more of WOLCOTT'S PAIN PAINT than any other patent medicine, and I deal only in patent medicines."

        THEO. D.C. MILLER, M.D., 1335 Third Avenue, N.Y., says, "DR. WOLCOTT'S PAIN PAINTS is the cheapest and best pain curer under heaven, and is the greatest blessing to mankind for the relief from pain ever known." Dr. Miller is a graduate of bellevue Hospital Medical College, N.Y.

        D. VAN WART, M.D., Albany, N.Y., says: "I take pleasure in recommending WOLCOTT'S PAIN PAINT to all who suffer, and would suggest the propriety of the medical profession adopting it in their practice."

        DAVID H. SHAFFER, Esq., geologist and naturalist of Cincinnati, Ohio says: "I, as an individual, without fear of successful contradiction, pronounce WOLCOTT'S PAIN PAINT one of the most wonderful wonders of the age for relieving those who suffer pain."

        For sale by Druggists.

Schenectady Daily Evening Star and Times. April 20, 1868: 4 col 4.

"Fifty Years Ago" (2) by Ayer's Cathartic Pills (1896)

Fifty Years Ago.

President Polk in the White House chair,

While in Lowell was Doctor Ayer;

        Both were busy for human weal

        One to govern and one to heal.

And, as a president's power of will

Sometimes depends on a liver-pill,

        Mr. Polk took Ayer's Pills I trow

        For his liver, 50 years ago.

Ayer's Cathartic Pills

were designed to supply a model purgative to people who had so long injured themselves with griping medicines. Being carefully prepared and their ingredients adjusted to the exact necessities of the bowels and liver, their popularity was instantaneous. That this popularity has been maintained is well marked in the medal awarded these pills at the World's Fair 1893.

50 Years of Cures.

Daily Leader [Gloversville, NY]. October 1, 1896: 3 col 4.

"Fifty Years Ago" by Ayer's Cathartic Pills (1896)

Fifty Years Ago.

Who could imagine that this should be

The place where, in eighteen ninety-three

That white world-wonder of arch and dome

Should shadow the nations, polychrome...

Here at the Fair was the prize conferred

On Ayer's Pills, by the world preferred.

Chicago-like, they a record show,

Since they started—50 years ago.

Ayer's Cathartic Pills

have, from the time of their preparation, been a continuous success with the public. And that means that Ayer's Pills accomplish what is promised for them; they cure where others fail. It was fitting, therefore, that the world-wide popularity of these pills should be recognized by the World's Fair medal of 1898—a fact which emphasizes the record:

50 Years of Cures.

Daily Leader [Gloversville, NY]. November 9, 1896: 3 col 6.

"The Fighting Engineers" by Frances V. Hubbard (1917)

The Fighting Engineers.


Just back from the British line at the front,

        At work in their wonted spheres,

Restoring the railway behind the men,

        Were American engineers.

They paid no heed to the thundering guns,

        Nor the screech of the shells far away,

Intent on the labor of building the road,

        The task which before them lay.

But, sudden, the Germans a quick turn made

        And, unarmed, midst the fire and the flame,

The engineers in the British ranks

        Within the fighting line came.

They paused not a moment, the rifles they seized

        From Germans who fell by the way,

Side by side with the Tommies, like tigers they fought,

        These men from the U. S. A.

And when brave deeds shall be told and sung

        In the far off and future years,

This tale shall be told, how they saved the day,

        The brave, fighting engineers.

Troy Times. December 14, 1917: 6 col 2.

"The Fire Brigade" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1915)

The Fire Brigade.


'T was midnight and the village was asleep,

But, lo! a smoldering fire in flame broke out

And soon in fury blazed; I heard a shout:

"Fire! fire!" Half-dazed I, out of bed, did leap.

The mournful fire-bells rang, loudly and deep;

The fire brigade, heroic and devout,

Rushed to the scene, some hopeful, some in doubt,

To stay the flames of death's destructive sweep.

For hours, in doubt, the battled raged and then

I heard the Captain say: "The fire's in check;"

The crowd then cheered the brave, unselfish men,

Who saved the village from destruction's wreck.

Undying praise to them be ever made;

All honor to the noble fire brigade.

Troy Times. January 22, 1915: 12 col 1.

"In the Dill Woods, Petersburgh" by Melancthon Fairchild (1919)

In the Dill Woods, Petersburgh.


One sultry, slumb'rous summer day

I walked from village streets away,

Into the damp, dark forest's shade,

Where sunlight dappled in a glade.

A dragon fly, poised in the air,

Hung like a jewel flashing there.

In insect's chirp and song of bird

The pipes of Pan I thought I heard.

As fauns and dryads danced with glee

In pagan days of Arcady,

'Mid rustling leaves of aspen trees

And drowsy hum of honeybees.

The cicada's shrill monotone,

The turtle dove's low, plaintive moan,

As sweet and poignant seemed to me

As o'er they were in Arcady.

Troy Times. August 14, 1919: 11 col 4.

"Prize Poetry" by Herrick's Pills (1861)


Let Chieftains boast of deeds in war,

And Minstrels tune their sweet guitar,

A nobler theme my heart it fills—

In praise of HERRICK's matchless Pills.

Their cures are found in every land—

Amid Russia's snows and Afric's sand;

Their wondrous works the papers fill—

Produced by HERRICK's matchless Pills.

Does disease afflict you? do not doubt

This charming compound will search it out,

And health again your system fill,

If you fly at once to HERRICK's Pills.

They're safe for all, both old and young—

Their praises are on every tongue;

Disease disarmed, no longer kills,

Since we are blessed with HERRICK's Pills.

        ☞ Put up with English, Spanish, German and French directions. Price 25 cents per box. Sugar Coated. See advertisement on 3d page.

Madison Observer [Madison, NY]. June 27, 1861: 3 col 2.

"Good Advice and Poetry" by William Renne & Sons (1872)

Good Advice and Poetry

TUNE, "anything that Fits."

                        Magic Oil is "death on Fits."

Magic Oil is delicious, thank Renne for this!

All Pain it cures quickly for mother or miss,

Goes right to the trouble, rubbed in with the palm,

As sure as you're faithful, "It works like a charm."

The directions please follow, but use your own skill,

In Sprains and Neuralgia, but bathe with a will.

Used outward and inward it never does harm,

In Headache or Colic "It works like a charm."

Sore Throat from Catarrh, or from Cold in the Head,

Or Chills from a Cold that would keep you in bed,

Magic Oil performs wonders, and acts like a balm,

For Gargle, or Swathing, "It works like a charm."

It cures you so nicely, it makes you feel brave,

So that ordinary pain is a luxury to have.

Magic Oil in Dyspepsia gives a feeling so calm,

The stomach in glee says "It works like charm."

The "toot horn of fame" most usually lies!

So the Magic Oil cures took the folks by surprise!

The claims that it made caused wondrous alarm,

The trial now shows that "It works like a charm."

        WM. RENNE & SONS, solo manufacturers, Pittsfield, Mass.

        Reader, call for it where you usually trade, by the full name. Sold by all druggists.

Troy Daily Whig. July 2, 1872.

"At Gettysburg" by Benjamin F. Leggett (1913)

At Gettysburg.


This is the field of the sacred dead;

This is the field where valor led;

Here they wrestled, brave foe with foe,

Half of a hundred years ago.

To-day on valley and slope and hill

The voice of battle is hushed and still,

And tenderly on the earth's green breast

The brave are pillowed in dreamless rest.

Afar o'er the vision of slope and wold

Look how the tide of battle rolled;

From Round Top down to the Green Ridge spread,

Where sleep in peace the hamlet's dead.

From the hidden clefts of Devil's Den,

Where death reached out for the lives of men,

Over wood and field where shell and ball

Chipped and shattered the old stone wall.

By orchard and wheatfield, creek and run

By Culp's Hill white in the noonday sun,

Till fierce and wild in the battery's breath

The last red charge in the Valley of Death.

Then cloud and mist and night came down

Over the wasted field and town,

And the pitying rain on upturned faces

Tenderly cleansed war's crimson traces.

Through cloud and mist as a fleeing ghost,

The wild retreat of a shattered host,

While storm and mirk from the patient stars

Folded the vision of death and scars.

But the days to come the ages through

Will keep their memory—Gray and Blue;

And here on the field of the fateful years

We honor the brace with love and tears.

        Ward, Pa.

Troy Times. November 12, 1913: 12 col 1.

"Abraham Lincoln (Can We Forget?)" by Rev. Algernon S. Clark (1926)

Abraham Lincoln.

(Can We Forget?)


The Writer Heard Lincoln Speak on His Way to Washington.

Can we forget that tall and manly form?

        That noble brow, that firm yet kindly face?

Those eyes that ever told of heartbeats warm

        For all, whate'er their color or their race?

Can we forget that latest farewell word

        As forth he went a nation's life to save?

From malice free, yet hearts of freemen stirred

        In Truth and Right, like forbears to be brave?

Can we forget that gracious Father's hand

        Unseen by mortal man, but ever there?

That guidance gave and strength to nobly stand

        When hope so oft was clouded with despair?

Can we forget his simple trust in God?

        His virtues and his steadfast love of right?

Let us then march where forbears grand have trod

        O'er each ennobling and victorious fight.

        New York and Round Lake.

Troy Times. February 12, 1926: 20 col 2.

It seems unlikely we'll ever have such a President again. May it not be so!

"Admonition" by John C. Blair (1876)



He who a truth seeks to impart,

        Must feel it first within the heart,

Then send it forth in beauty wrought,

        A pure, resplendent gem of thought.

Let not the errors of the day,

        O'er mind and heart hold evil sway;

Accept the truth, the right maintain,

        Life's noblest ends seek to attain.

The sinful path of pleasure shun,

        Be not allured by siren tongue,

Life's prizes are but few and rare,

        But transient bubbles on the air.

Let charity the motto be,

        Another's faults be slow to see,

And try and win by gentle word,

        The hearts of those who may have erred.

Then peace around thy hearth will cling,

        Remorse of conscience never sting,

While from the soul a purer light,

        Will pierce through error's darkest night.

And soothing thoughts of sweet content,

        Will yield a bliss far more intent,

Than wealth can give, or fashion power,

        The fleeting pleasures of an hour.

Troy Daily Times. April 15, 1876: 1 col 2.

"The Abandoned Quarry" by Tudor Williams (1900)

The Abandoned Quarry.


Tree-hidden, rain-filled, deserted and still,

The old slate quarry yawns wide on the hill,

With now ne'er a sound echo's trumpet to fill—

No thudding of hammer, nor clinking the drill,

Nor creaking of derrick, nor booming of blast,

Nor clashing of trimming-knife, once whirling fast,

Nor clatter of rubbish adown the dump thrown,

Nor rumble of wagons with big loads agroan,

Nor the cries of the toilers, nor the chat, nor the song,

Which livened their labors and made time leap along.

Long ago went the mast and the boom and the guys,

Which once, like strength's skeleton, slender did rise;

No more by the drum, with the nag circling round,

The pulleyed wire-rope is wound and unwound;

No longer the box poises filled in the air;

The train-car has ceased its heaped burdens to bear;

Borne afar are the slate duly numbered and piled,

Meagre bounty of Fortune when, fickle, she smiled;

The shanty is shattered, the bank is weed-grown,

And the briers cluster thick mid the fragments of stone.

'Mid the silence unbroken that reigns o'er the scene,

Throng memories saddening and bitterly keen.

Here hushed evermore was the music of toil,

When baffled were they who would Nature despoil.

All bravely they dared with her hardness to cope,

But to find, deeply dug, a grave for their hope.

This wound in her bosom Old Earth shall yet mend,

Till ravage's marks with her beauty shall blend;

But when from remembrance's page shall be crost

The tale of foiled aims, bootless striving and cost?

Troy Daily Times. August 16, 1900: 6 col 2.

"The Book-Selling Man" by Himself (1883)

The Book-Selling Man.



Oh, the book-selling man was young and was fair,

Had a dewy blue eye and bright yellow hair.

He was straight and was strong, as fat as possum,

And his nose was as red as a peony in blossom.

His forehead of marble rose straight from his nose;

He wore a straw hat and his best Sunday clothes;

His cheek, it was dimpled; his conceit was not small,

As he went valiantly forth to make his first call.


"Oh, wise literati, most learned of thy village:—

Of the great poet Wordsworth thy face is the image:—

A most valuable work I now offer to thee;

'T is highly commended by the LL.D.

Our professors have examined this book with great care,

And pronounce it a work of excellence rare;

Of Athens and Rome and of buried Pompeii

Of Babylon's gardens and palace of brass,

Of Karnac's great temple, of Thermopylae pass;

Of all that the ancients e'er thought or conceived,

This work gives account that may be believed.

On one of your wisdom and learning and taste

It is quite unnecessary more time to waste

In showing the value of a work such as this.

Pray put your name there, at the head of my list,

For a name such as yours, well-known and respected,

To have first on my list I most wisely elected,

For when the less-knowing see your name at the head

Proud, by one of your wisdom to be wisely led,

They'll all follow on, will quickly subscribe,

And to you my success I will largely ascribe,

There, put your name down, right here if you please,

And the rest of my task I'll accomplish with ease."

But the man of such wisdom, learning and taste,

Looked silently at him, stared full in his face,

Then towering aloft, he fiercely began;

"Get out of my house—you book-selling man!"


"Oh, farmer so wealthy, the lord of the meadow—

This horse, what a strong-built, fine-looking fellow—

I've a book which to show, I've been often advised,

Is one that you would most surely be prized.

What a fine house you have, sir, what wonderful crops;

What a thrift young orchard; what excellent hops.

I've sene no such farm in the country about;

You have an A one place, of that there's no doubt.

But—this book that I have, examine it pray,

Your neighbors by it are quite carried away.

It tells of the ancients and their curious ways,

How they lived, loved and died in those far-away days.

It tells how they farmed it long ages ago,

How they reaped and, most curious, how they did sow;

They scattered the seed on the on soft, mellow ground,

Then turned in the swine to trample it down;

Just read it—'t will increase your crops forty fold

To know how they tilled it and farmed it of old."

But the farmer scarce "list" while he finished his lingo

Till he swore a great oath, by the great living jingo,

He was poor as Job's turkeys, his crops didn't pan,

"'Sides, he never took stock in no book-selling man."


"Oh, ancient maiden, whose charms fade so fast,

I bring thee relief from all trouble at last;

A book that tells of that ancient cosmetic,

'T is avouched by the scholars, what I say is authentic,

By which ancient old maids kept their beauty from fading,

And envious age their charms from invading.

Why—'t is wonderful, and yet very true,

How much these old fossils actually knew,

Such skill had they in the art of preserving

'T is hard to believe it—without some reserving—

And blushed when uncovered, cast its eyes on the ground,

Simpered and smiled, half-pouted her lips,

And blew a sweet kiss from her dark finger tips.

And the wonderful secret of this strange preservation,

This marvelous book tells without reservation;

So, if you'd be happy, be gay and admired,

By all the young gallants be madly desired,

Just purchase my book, where the secret is told,

How to be always young and ne'er grow old."

But this ancient maiden with wild-flowing curls

At the poor helpless agent scorn and anger fast hurl;

She hit him, she cuffed him, felled him flat with her fan,

"You insulting young booby, you book-selling man."


"Oh, maiden sweet, where trip 'st thou so merrily,

Singing so happily, laughing so cheerily,

Oh, sprite of the unknown, fair nymph of the woodland!

Thy bright blushed cheeks by soft zephyrs fanned,—

Thy long, waving lashes, half hide from our view,

Thy eyes dark and tender, so deep and so true.

Thy forehead is snow-white, thy soft golden hair

Floats gracefully out on the wings of the air.

Thou art Helen and Venus, Diana in one,

The greatest and fairest that lives under the sun,

Or, a beautiful fairy, whose splendor and grace

Proclaim thee the queen of that thrice-happy race,

The soft tapering fingers—deep-veined and so white—

Are the envy of women, thy lover's delight.

And I am thy lover and from those lips for one kiss

I could give thee a world—I will give thee this,

A book—"

But he never got further.

The sprite, (she was, Irish) cried out "Bloody murther!"

She screeched and she howled, said the man was a liar,

She had many a lover, but her name was Marlar.

She howled and she screeched as a girl only can.

She had niver a kiss for no book-selling man!"


The book-selling man is weary and worn,

And life of all beauty is suddenly shorn.

Gone's the blue from the sky and the gold from the sunset,

And the bright silver crowd that the moon gives the wavelet;

His dewy blue eye is a cold chilly grey,

And his bright yellow hair is in sad negligee.

His nose that was red is redder than ever,

And his forehead is brown, from all sorts of weather.

You may call his hat straw, if you're not too conscientious,

But his best Sunday clothes are quite filamentous.

'Tis his conceit now is dimpled and his cheek that's not small,

For he's seen much of life since he made that first call.

He has seen much of life, of its cuffs and its kicks,

Believes the "objective real'ty" of bull-dogs and bricks.

He had learned to be meek and to lie like the Trojans,

And to judge of some men by the size of their brogans.

He has found the world hollow, been oft hollow himself,

And now, like his books, he's laid on the shelf.

"The Book-Selling Man." Troy Daily Times. January 20, 1883: 1 col 1.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

"The Devil and His War-Machines" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1915)

The Devil and His War-Machines.


The devil hath appeared, in ages past,

In various forms; an angel, clothed in light;

A roaring lion, terrible in fight.

In modern days he heath the old outclassed,

In submarines he hath appeared, at last,

Belching infernal death. His airy flight

He takes, drops chunks of hell, called bombs, at night,

And strews the seas with deadly mines aghast!

In Europe, Paradise is turned to hell!

On land and sea and air the devil reigns;

The thundering cannon and the bursting shell,

In every shot the blood of manhood drains.

Great Armageddon to the world hath come,

And nations writhe in Pandemonium!

Troy Times. March 13, 1915: 3 col 1.

Rev. Booth appears to have been one of the Troy Times most prolific contributors. Other war poems of his include "The Fate of Lusitania," "The Submarine Menace," "Battledogs Hunting Submarine Foxes," "The War's Issue," "The Red Cross Fund," "Red Cross Supplies," "American Freedom Challenged—Autocracy vs. Democracy" - so many others besides.

"The Freedom of the Press" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1919)

The Freedom of the Press.


The freedom of the press is man's demand,

        In this progressive, democratic age;

        The people's mouthpiece is the printed page;

The forum of a great unfettered land!

With freedom righteous principles expand,

        As eagle's wings, that fetters disengage:

        A nation rises to her heritage,

As men each other better understand.

Yield not the press to any foreign power;

        To gag-law, boycott, favored set or clan;

Our Constitution let no hand deflower,

        Through selfish motives—un-American!

May freedom of the press, forever, be

        The glory of our grand democracy!

        Waterford, N. Y.

Troy Times. December 11, 1919: 13 col 1.

"Robbie Burns" by Pearl W. Barton (1919)

Robbie Burns


O Robbie Burns, dear Robbie Burns,

        You dee'd sae lang ago!

But still your name is bright wi' fame,

        Immortal in its glow.

Men can't forget the truths you set

        Adrift in magic rhyme;

The sangs you wrote are still afloat

        Upon the Stream o' Time.

Your Tam-o'-Shanter's still alive,

        Astride his gray mare Mag,

Who flew before the witches sour,

        A fleet, immortal nag.

Your cotter's children still come hame

        Each Saturday at eve,

For converse there, and then a prayer

        Before they take their leave.

Your sang still rings around the warl',

        Wi' manhood in the van,

A voice supreme, a noble dream

        O' men, "A Man's a Man!"

"Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?"

        Nae, nae! they're here tae stay

'Till Robbie Burns' birthday returns,

        Ten thousand years away.

Troy Times. January 25, 1919: 13 col 1.

"Bobby Burns" by Rev. Joseph C. Booth (1914)

Bobby Burns.


True bard of nature, pride of bonny Ayr;

Loved literary idol of the far-

Famed North, fair Caledonia; thy star

'Midst Gaelic constellations none compare,

The fires of Wallace, Bruce and Knox did e'er

Within thy bosom blaze; love did unbar

Thy soul, thy heart set singing songs of war,

Peace, sadness, joy and mirth—thou debonair!

Thou wouldst have rivaled Shakespeare, Milton, Gray;

White, Chatterton and Keats surpassed, but fate

Forbade and checked thy muse-lit tongue of flame.

Poor Bobby Burns, hard was his lot, though gay—

In life, cold poverty, the bard's estate;

In death, the glory of immortal fame.

        Melrose, N.Y.

Troy Times. January 26, 1914: 7 col 1.

"The Troy Burns Club" by J. Bertram Eveline (1920)

The Troy Burns Club.


Oh, well I ken from written word

        That Rab Burns loved a song;

And well I ken from olden tales

        That he never loved o'er long.

But we do meet and sing his songs,

        And shake leal friendship's hand,

And love each other true and well,

        A stalwart Scottish band.

And tell old tales of Scotland dear,

        And new tales now and then,

And some hae gifts o' music dear,

        And some a ready pen,

And some a rousing, cheery air,

        Guld comrades these, and men,

Not every one a native Scot,

        But brothers all, ye'll ken.

So here's to the far flung glory

        Of the grand old Scottish hills,

And the beat of the pibroch's sounding,

        And the music of her rills,

And here's to the comrades loyal,

        Who know neither guile nor hate;

May we meet on the great To-morrow,

        With Rab Burns at the Outer Gate.

Troy Times. April 22, 1920: 16 col 1.

"W'en Nort' Win' She's Com' Back" by A.W. Loudon (1925)

W'en Nort' Win' She's Com' Back


W'en nort' win', she's comin' back,

        Dat's col, col, winter day;

De tam, my fren', wat I'm no lak

        For meet eet on de way.

De bess close wat you got, ma fren',

        She's go right tru lak seeve;

An' make some tear com on de en'

        Your nose, you bess believe.

I'm got coon coat, de bess I can,

        An' cap from fur de same,

Wit mit was make for hunter man,

        I'm freeze me, just de same.

Dat win' sapree's, stay on de sout

        Till she ees comin' wet;

Den eet com back for freeze us out;

        Ba gosh, she's col, you bet!

But never min', de spring ees near

        Wen' day ees comin' warm;

De snow an' ice ees disappear,

        We're happy on de farm.

De clover ees begin for grow,

        I'm see dat every day,

An' timoty ees com also

        For make de crop of hay.

De leetle lam' ees skeep an' play,

        An' jomp lak hee is crack;

Den, alt de worl ees feel dat way,

        Wen nort' win', she's com' back.

Troy Times. March 21, 1925: 3 col 1.

Aside from all the poetry that used to be published in the several Troy newspapers, there’d been at least one Troy club with a poetry focus, the Robert Burns Club. One wonders when it died out and where its papers might have wound up (probably the dump, but one hopes not).

Poems written in dialect, varying from accurate to outright racist, used to be fairly popular. That "W'en Nort' Win' She's Com' Back" is a pseudo-Scots/Robert Burns poem I'm largely guessing on the basis of the many apostrophes, a punctuation mark Burns greatly favored, and Loudon's other Burnsian work.

“The Robert Burns Club last night celebrated the one hundred and sixty-fourth anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns with a reception and dance at Masonic Hall. American and Scotch flags, with pictures of Burns, were used to decorate the walls. mr. and Mrs. Edwin Coutts led the grand march which formally opened the dance and the music was provided by Mrs. F.K. Hawthorne, Miss Helen, Holton and Mr. Riley. The bagpipes for the Scotch dancing were played by William Clark, Rev. Dr. C.E. McGuinness gave an address on the life of Burns and vocal selections were given by Mrs. Robert Dewar. Dancing was enjoyed until 1 o’clock and the entertainment closed with the singing of ‘Auld Lang Syne.’ More than 200 members and friends were in attendance.”

“Birth of Robert Burns.” Troy Times. January 25, 1923: 6 col 4.

There’s quite a few poems in Troy papers dedicated to Burns or written in imitation. See e.g. “Hogmanay" by A.W. Loudon (1922)

"St. Patrick" by Rev. T.L. Drury (1917)

St. Patrick.


To him who loved his fellowman

        And noble service gave,

Of leaders true was in the van

        And good as he was brave,

We sing our song of praise!

The faithful souls are only great,

        Because they live to serve;

Behind the church, behind the state,

        Are still their thought and nerve,

Their love sincere and pure!

We honor such by speech and song

        In church or banquet hall;

There catch their spirit that is strong,

        Which spurs us one and all

To live to thrive and serve!

And great was he, our valiant saint,

        Whose noble sentiment,

Whose life and love without complaint

        Were all divinely spent

To help his fellowman!

No laurels won by soldiers brave

        In all the fields of war

Can e'er compare with deeds that save

        The souls of men; they are

The monuments of God!

The great achievements men attain,

        In earthly grandeur seen

Compared to character are vain;

        Compared to life serene

They are an empty show!

And this is why we render praise

        To those whose service good,

Thro' ages long, thro' mist and maze,

        Have fought for brotherhood,

Hence rich their legacy!

To honor him who raised aloft

        A race through Christian love,

Can loyal souls not meet too oft

        To ever, ever prove

In them his spirit lives!

Troy Times. March 17, 1917

"A Soldier's Thought on Patrick's Day" by Melvin E. Tolman (1915)

A Soldier's Thought on Patrick's Day


Comrades, how I long to be

        At home on Patrick's Day!

Brighter the sky there for you and me,

Greener the grass by the River Lee,

Kinder the faces than elsewhere I see,

        At home on Patrick's Day.

Comrades, days of joy we've seen

        At home on Patrick's Day.

Now we sleep where the battle has been;

Bear the rifle with bayonet keen,

But in our hearts we're wearing the green,

        At home on Patrick's Day.

Comrades, some may miss our face

        At home on Patrick's Day.

Let them boast we have brought no disgrace

To the land or emblem of our race,

And ever welcome will be our place

        At home on Patrick's Day!

        Bennington, Vt.

Troy Times. March 17, 1915