Sunday, June 3, 2007


Bear with me gentle reader
If you're inclined to look,
Or perchance scan these pages
you'll find within this book;

I lack the gift good poets have
That express their thoughts in rhyme,
Or portray mental pictures
That make good poems sublime.

I also lack the talent
That bring good poets success,
But with simple inspiration
I've tried to do my best.

If there's one simple poem
That you'll enjoy and read,
Then I will be rewarded,
And be well paid indeed.


The skilled artisan plys his trade
When making gifts for girls and boys,
The teddy bears and sleeping dolls,
The jumping jack and tinker toys;
And visions of a happy face
He sees when fitting things in place.

At work he often visualize
The noise and clatter Christmas morn,
The scampering feet and whoops of joy,
With din of drums and tooting horn;
With the completion of each toy
He feels a thrill of childlike joy.

Electric trains and spinning tops
Brings joy to many a little lad,
But first he has to wait until
It has been proven by his Dad;
Sprawled on the floor he has real fun
In showing Junior how it's run.

We grown up folks sometimes gives way
To pent-up feeling we retain,
And thinking of our childhood days,
We wish we were a child again
When looking back to days gone by
When we had just some simple toy.

December, 1947


The trees all crystallized they stand,
As if a fairy's magic wand
Transformed them in the silent night,
and left them sprayed in silvery white.

Tall slender saplings once so straight
Bends low beneath the icy weight,
And old king Sol's first morning rays
A dazzling spectacle displays.

White birches stand beside the hill,
they droops beneath the icy chill,
And fallen icicles below
Lies shattered on the crusted snow.

The alders and the willow trees,
Crackle and shimmer in the breeze,
But in the noonday sun's bright glare
Their coats of armour disappear.

Dame Nature with her magic wand
Spreads charm and beauty o'er the land,
But none is more unique and neat
Than trees transformed by frozen sleet.


I always have remembered, tho' it's many years ago
When I would kneel these simple words to pray,
As my Mother morn and evening would recite each
Little prayer,
And I'd try to repeat every word she'd say.

"Now I lay be down to sleep", it was just an evening prayer,
Said in simple language children understand;
And methinks the prayers our mothers taught us
Often helps us through,
When we at times do need a guiding hand.

"Make me good Dear Lord I pray,
Keep and guide me through this day",
Just a daily repetition, nothing new,
Yet it is a recollection, little words I
Ne'er forgot,
Said each morning and quite often hurried through.

Where ever I have wandered, on the land, or o'er the sea
Some childhood scenes have followed all the way;
And the memories I cherish most was by my
Mother's knee,
As she first taught me these little prayers to say.


Have you ever watched a batter,
Poised, and with his bat all set,
Filled with eager expectation,
And in keen anticipation
For that home run he may get?

Have you ever been an angler
Casting with your newest flies?
All the art you knew in fishing
You were trying, hoping, wishing
For a speckled beauty prize.

In the spring you'll see a robin
Gleaning straws to build a nest,
She has no idea of quitting,
And in due time she'll be sitting
With her nestlings 'neath her breast.

Life is filled with expectations
At whatever stage it be,
Youth's ambitions and romances,
Planning, scheming, taking chances
In eager expectancy.

Friday, June 1, 2007


Songbirds from the south are winging,
Children's skipping ropes are swinging,
Gurgling brooks are merrily singing,
Spring is everywhere;
O'er the mill-dam water's flowing,
Hark, the farmland cattle's lowing,
And the night winds softly blowing
Whispers "Spring is here".

Cease my soul thy sad repining,
See how bright the sun is shining,
It's no time for peevish whining,
Vernal Spring is here;
Banish all misgivings, doubtings,
See the tiny buds are sprouting,
Soon there'll be the annual outings
To the country fair.

Spring means life and resurrection,
Spring means flowers in true perfection,
Bursting out in each direction;
Fragrant is the air;
Springtime brings us consolation,
Spreading beauty through the nation,
May we each in our vocation
Its full beauties share.

Spring, 1950


When the early morning sunlight
Sweeps across the towering hills,
And the valleys are resounding
To the waterfalls and rills;
With the fields bedecked with daisies,
And the orchards dressed so rare,
Then we see the Master Workman
Manifested everywhere.

When we see the unique pattern
In a leaf or lily bell,
Or some magic work of nature
In the woodland or the dell;
If our eyes detect real beauty,
It is then we'll understand,
that the Master Workman's art is
Unsurpassed by human hand.

Could we climb the highest mountain,
And survey the landscape o'er,
There we'd see the earth's true pattern
As we never saw before;
Lakes and streams, the hills and valleys,
Rolling plains and mountains high,
A panorama of this earth spread out
Beneath an azure sky.

There's no lack of beauty in a
Rainbow's arch suspended high,
Or the tinted clouds at sunset
Midst a flaming western sky;
From the early morning sunlight,
'till the sun sinks in the west,
Morning, noon and night the Master
Workman's art is manifest.

August, 1950

Photo: Albion Falls, Hamilton. Few people are aware that half way between Toronto and Niagara Falls is "The City of Waterfalls" - namely Hamilton. To date 81 waterfalls and cascades have been found within the city boundaries making it possibly the city with the most number of waterfalls in the world for its size of a half million people. Many of these waterfalls can be reached by hiking the Bruce Trail through Hamilton.


It is peaceful in the country
In the early morning haze,
Where young lambs skip and frolic,
And the lowing cattle graze.
The old farm looks so peaceful
With snake fence running through,
And the early morning sunlight
Reflects the sparkling dew.

It is peaceful in the country
"Neath the midnight stars at night,
Ere the morning star arises
To usher in the light.
There the scarecrow and the fairies
Meet for their rendezvous,
'Til the rooster crowing loudly,
Proclaims the night is through.

There is beauty in the country
When nature waves her wand,
When Spring in all it's splendour
Spreads beauty o're the land.
O're hill and dale and valley,
In woodland and the dell,
Creation joins in chorus,
"God created all things well".

May, 1950


I'm thankful for my many friends,
And rightly so,
For in this life so much depends
On friends we know.

I'm thankful for the friends who dwell
Along each street,
And absent friends who wish me well,
But cannot meet.

I'm glad that this old world can still
Boast countless friends,
They are the sowers of goodwill,
And comprehends.

May I be worthy of each friend,
Both old and new,
And may success their way attend
Their whole life through.

And when at last life's journey ends,
And day is done,
It's then I hope to meet my friends,
And thank each one.

December, 1948


The popcorn vender is a man
Who needs no special art,
But two strong arms and sturdy legs
He needs to push his cart.

He trudges 'long his daily route
With slow determined pace,
And now and then he halts to wipe
His hot perspiring face.

The children playing near their homes
Observes him on the street,
And with a coin clasped in their hand,
They scampers for their treat.

He serves each one a bag of corn
So crispy, moist and sweet,
And with a smile for every child,
He proceeds along his beat.

The children are his customers,
He never robs or cheats,
At every block the youngsters flock
The popcorn man to greet.

And when the sun has sank to rest,
He homeward wends his way,
And there he rests his aching feet
Until another day.

Thursday, May 31, 2007


While hiking through the glen one morn
When spring was at its best,
I paused beneath a leafy bower
To sit awhile and rest.

O'er head the sky was azure blue,
Below, the earth was green;
White fleecy clouds were floating through
The stratosphere between.

I heard the twittering of the birds,
Their's was the only sound;
As quiet as a sanctuary,
It seemed like hallowed ground.

I called aloud, I know not why,
"A lovely day" I cried,
"A lovely day" came the reply
Back from the steep hillside.

'Twas a reflection of my voice,
Echoes are just a sound,
But it's more pleasant to the ear
When cheerful words rebound.

February, 1949


Whene'er the carnival comes to town
Each summer to the camping ground,
then folks each evening far and near,
Strolls forth to patronize the fair.

If you're a man with goodly means
With spare cash jingling in your jeans;
The carnival is quite a show
Where you may spend your surplus "dough".

Perchance you'll win a kewpie doll,
That's better than no prize at all;
Or if your luck's not up to par,
Maybe you'll get a chocolate bar.

Try shooting birdies on the move,
And see how well your aim improve;
The fish pond too I know you'll try,
But what you catch will be small fry.

Then ride upon the ferris wheel,
You'll be surprised how young you'll feel;
Now up, now down, around you go,
It's the best fun of all the show.

You'll mix and mingle midst the din
In hopes a super prize you'll win;
And if you lose, or if you've won,
The carnival is lots of fun.

April, 1950


If you have found a friend you trust,
Who'll share with you his only crust,
And tries to prove your quarrel just;
He really is a friend.

One who'll not hurt by word or deed,
But tries to help in time of need,
And questions not your race or creed;
He really is a friend.

A friend who helps you up life's grade,
Who never cheats whate'er his trade,
And tries to keep the friends he's made,
He really is a friend.

To have such friends is worth much gold,
Their's is a broad untrammeled soul,
And 'though their deeds are never told;
They are true friends indeed.

March, 1947


When each spring returns, then my heart yearns
With an inwardly emotion,
To hear once more the surf on shore,
Down by th' Atlantic ocean.

To hear again the waves refrain
At dusk when day is dying,
Or the seagull's cry when waves roll high,
And o'er head the scud is flying.

Where fishing boats so proudly floats
After their spring's o'er-hauling,
So neat and trim from stern to stem
Ready for the season's calling.

And to watch each smak on a windard tack
Close reefed, and sea spray flying,
As they come about at the harbour's mouth
When the summer's day is dying.

Far from that shore where the breakers roar,
I hear not the sea's commotion,
But the wind and rain oft brings again
Echoes from the briny ocean.

February, 1950


Left to Right: George Frampton, Ed Duffett (Ethel's brother), Kane Frampton, Alex Duffett (Ethel Frampton's brother).

Monday, May 28, 2007


When the days seem long and dreary,
And we murmur and complain;
As we look for hours of sunshine,
But instead we find the rain;

'Though the heavens be o'er-shadowed,
And dark clouds obscure the sky,
There is still a silver lining
For the sun still shines on high.

When we meet with some perplextion,
And our worries press us sore,
As we wonder what tomorrow has
For us in future's store;

Then may we have hope and courage
That will banish inward fear,
For worries that upset us most
Seldom do they appear.

When our cares they weigh so heavy,
And the way of life seems hard,
As temptations gather 'round us
To catch us off our guard;

Then let us all endeavour
To try and do our best,
For the world will still have troubles
After we are laid to rest.


Lilacs blooming in the springtime
Sheds their beauty far and near,
Bursting out in wild profusion,
So fragrant on the morning air.

By the quiet parks and hedges,
And the rural country side,
In the dell and verdant valleys
Lilacs blossom far and wide.

When the Spring expands its beauty
Songbirds warble a melody,
Basking in the golden sunshine,
Nesting in a lilac tree.

Through the winding paths and byways,
And down lovers lane is seen
Lilac plumes waving a welcome,
Blending with the foliage green.

Spring enchants us with its beauty,
Drest in nature's gar so fair,
Tinting earth's fair land with colour,
Spreading bouquets everywhere.

March, 1950

Thursday, May 24, 2007


What would you take for that round curly head,
And ringlets all dangling with pink ribbons tied;
For that bright little face with a smile all lit up,
Or her two sparkling eyes when they open so wide,
What would you take?

What would you take for that little round mouth
When it pouts in displeasure or yell with delight;
As she chatters all day in her own simple way,
Or puckers her lips for a kiss at good night.
What would you take?

What would you take for her fingers so small
As you spy little marks on your paintwork so fair,
Or a dish when it falls to the floor with a crash,
Ad she looks in your eyes with a look of despair.
What would you take?

What would yo take as each day she grows up,
And toddles around on her two little feet;
When she listens at night-fall a footstep to hear
Then runs to the doorway her Daddy to greet,
What would you take?

What would yo take for her when day is done,
And she lies fast asleep in her own little cot,
As you think of her mischief, her chatter and fun,
Then whispers a prayer for your dear little tot;
Say, what would you take?

December, 1943


The white robed clouds drifts slowly on
Beneath heaven's vault of azure blue,
Majestical they sail along
To other worlds beyond our view.

Whene'er the sun is sinking low
Amidst a flaming western sky,
It tints the landscape with its glow and
Headland, spire, and mountains high.

An evening rainbow's brilliant hue,
What other beauty can compare?
A symbol of God's covenant true,
And that tomorrow will be fair.

The borealis in the north,
Mysterious are these northern lights,
With dazzling speed they sallies forth
To meet the challenge of the night.

The stars like lamps hang ot by ight,
And all along the Milky Way
On wintry nights they sparkle bright
Until the dawning of the day.

A flaming sunset, evening star,
White fleecy clouds, a rainbow's hue;
What awe inspiring sights they are,
I think they're wonderful, don't you?


When we are ill, or in distress,
And lying helpless, feeling low,
We're apt to murmur and complain,
And cry "None other has such woe";

Then let us think and ponder well,
And count the many friends we know,
Then we will likely think of one
Who has a harder drill to hoe.

When we are sad or sore perplexed,
When worries seem to haunt us so,
And troubles always cross our path
In every walk of life we go;

Then may we try and do our best
To bear our load 'though steps be slow,
Ad if we stager 'neath its weight,
We're not the first to stumble so.

Then when the clouds are rolled away,
And skies are blue, soft breezes blow,
May we enjoy each day of life
While living on this earth below;

And if the ordeals of the past
Have made us strong to face the foe,
May we gives thanks for renewed strength,
And pray for weaker folks we know.


When you look into your mirror
Every morning when you rise,
Do you see a true reflection,
Or your visage in disguise?

Do you meet a face that's smiling,
And two eyes so bright and clear,
Or a frown upon your features
As if Life was hard to bear?

When you gaze into the mirror
Of your past vocation's role,
May you find true satisfaction
In the things you there behold.

May these past reflections make you
Proud to feel you played the game,
In your daily work or pleasure
That brought credit to your name.

Looking back upon our failures,
Or on chores that were well done,
We are gazing at reflections,
And memories that linger on.

When we gaze on some old photo,
Or memento of the past,
Then again we see reflections
In our mental looking glass.

April, 1950


When winter grips with icy hand,
And Jack Frost roams the forest deep,
Tall stalwart trees like sentinels stand
In silence while Dame Nature sleeps.

At night the silent forest snaps,
The snowshoe rabbit hops around,
And pine tops don their snowy caps
As white show flakes comes whirling down.

A gay woodpecker's loud tattoo
Re-echoes in the early light,
The old horned owl's weird, "Whoo whoo"
Disturbs the silence of the night.

The stars like lamps hang in the sky,
And northern lights dart to and fro,
As clouds obscure the moon on high
Dark shadows flit across the snow.

The slumbering rivers overflow
When spring at last breaks winter's chain,
And on their banks thick willows grow
Where songbirds warble their refrain.

Winter, 1949

Friday, May 18, 2007


Have you watched the foaming white caps
Rolling down an inland bay,
When a howling late nor'wester
Favours nothing in its way?
Have you seen these waters tranquil,
Mirrored 'neath the stars at night?
If you haven't, then believe me,
You have missed a thrilling sight.

When deep sea leviathans flounder,
And engaged in bitter strife;
Have you watched them as they battled,
Fighting for their very life?
Have you seen a towering ice berg
Glistening in the bright sunlight?
If you haven't, then believe me,
You have missed a thrilling sight.

Have you watched the graceful sea gulls
Riding on the ocean's crest,
And the playful mackerels leaping
Like acrobats at their best?
Have you seen a full rigged clipper
Drest out in her canvas white?
If you haven't, then believe me,
You have missed a thrilling sight.

Have you seen an Arctic ice flow
Crash against a bold head land?
Have you watched a loan sand piper
Hunting on some quiet strand?
Have you seen a sea bird's rookery,
And have watched them there in flight?
If you haven't, then believe me
You have missed a thrilling sight.

April 18, 1950


When the dawn of day approaching,
Lightens up the eastern sky,
And the morning star is fading,
Signifying day is nigh;
All creation joins in praise
With the sun's first cheering rays.

When the scorching sun at noon day
From on high is shining down,
Waking every pulse of nature
Wheresoever life abound;
Then creation lifts its eyes
To'ards the source of life's supplies.

When the toils of day is over,
And the sun sinks in the west,
When each flower folds up its petals,
And the birds retire to rest;
Then as light of day grows dim
Song birds chant their vesper hymn.

When the midnight moon is beaming,
And the busy world is still,
And the moonlight shadows playing
Hide and seek o'er dale and hill;
Then creation through the night
Keeps its vigil 'till the light.

October, 1947


The old farm looked quiet and peaceful,
The sun shone so brightly each day,
With butterflies, bees and the crickets
So beautiful, busy and gay.

Amongst them there was a grasshopper
Who felt so discouraged and worn,
He couldn't keep pace with his neighbors,
And wished that he never was born.

Quoth he, "I am weary with working,
And hopping and jumping each day,
I think I'll hop out of this country
And seek fairer fields far away.

He told all his cousins and neighbours,
The bumble bee, beetles and gnats,
They wished him good luck on his venture,
And bade him adieu with regrets.

Said the old gobbler as he was passing,
"You're going away Sir I see",
He opened his mouth as the hopper he jumped,
The first hop he landed in Turkey.

August, 1950

Thursday, May 17, 2007


Spring smiles again upon our land,
And radiates the quickened earth,
Once more again on every hand
Appears new hope, new life, new birth.

The willow trees don plumes of white,
New life appears in flower and tree,
And nature revels in delight
As song birds chant their melody.

As anglers check their tackle o'er
Hope springs eternal in each breast;
With coloured gadgets in galore,
They'll soon be on a fishing quest.

Again spring fever's in the air,
A malady none can't deny,
As young lads sit with dreamy stare,
And maidens with bewitching eye.

We know it's spring by signs we see,
And sounds that fall upon the ear,
We welcome spring, and all agree
It's the best season of the year.

Spring, 1950


Old Bill he always loved the sea,
He was a sailor bold,
Until he had to stay on shore
As he was growing old.

He never had no family cares,
And never wooed a wife;
The sea was his ambition
And it shared his daily life.

He used to stroll down to the quay
Each day and sit around,
To watch the busy harbour tugs,
And ships all outward bound.

He loved the sea, he loved the ships,
And sitting there each day,
He fancied he could feel the splash
Of flying spume and spray.

He crossed the ocean many times,
And sailed the seven seas,
Oftimes at night in dreams he saw
White topsails in the breeze.

The young lads they would gather 'round,
And listen to his tales
Of far off lands where he had been,
And shipwrecks, storms and gales.

One day they found him very still
With head bowed on his chest,
Old Bill had ended his last voyage,
And reached his port of rest.


How changing are the scenes of life,
How variant are each day;
Success and failure, hopes and fears
We meet along life's way.
We know not what our future holds,
Nor would we wish to see
The distant scenes which lies ahead,
And moulds our destiny.

The ever shifting sands of time
Our footprints oft times hide,
And fond ambitions, cherished hopes
Are often swept aside.
Changes and chances through the years
have been since time began,
And in the scheme of things we see
The frailty of man.

On wings of flight the days rush by,
The fleeting months roll on,
And soon out o'er the crest of time
Another year has flown.
Life's changing scenes will ever be
Until life's day decline,
So through the days that lies ahead,
Let's take one at a time.

July, 1949


When e'er I hear the church bells ring
On a quiet Sabbath morn,
My thoughts go drifting back again
To the land where I was born.

Again I see that white frame church
With tombstones standing near,
And every Sabbath day the bell,
Would call the folks to prayer.

Some worshipers they lived close by,
And others far away;
The men folk they would meet and chat,
And then go in to pray.

'Twas there the children small were blest,
And marriage vows were said;
And in that plot with grass so green
We laid away our dead.

Each household had their family pew,
And every day of rest;
All would be seated in their place
Clad in their Sunday's best.

There was no choir in that old church,
But all knew how to sing,
And when they sang these good old hymns
They made the rafters ring.

I loved to go to that old church
To join in prayer and praise;
These memories will forever stay
With me through all my days.

And when the chimes of Sabbath bells
Comes floating through the air,
My thoughts go back to that old church
With tombstones standing near.

Photo: Anglican Church on Gin Cove head


Spring is the season when rebirth
appears, and Nature's unseen hand
Renews with life the quickened earth,
And spreads rare beauty o'er the land.

Then Summer's rain and glowing sun
Matures vast fields of waving grain;
And culminates what Spring begun
As Autumn follows in its train.

At Autumn, harvesting begin
With reaper, and with threshing mill,
And Summer crops are garnered in
As days grow short and nights grow chill.

Then Winter comes with icy breath,
And blankets earth with fallen snow,
Then nature sleeps secure beneath
'Til wakened by the Spring's warm glow.

The seasons all throughout the year,
Each hath their own appointed place,
And each an allotted role to bear,
As earth keeps rolling on in space.

May, 1950


How sweet is mem'ries of the past
When we were young and spry,
When every day seemed just the same,
And worries passed us by.

How sweet the sunlight and the air
After the summer's rain,
Likewise ourselves finds sweet relief
In pleasure after pain.

How sweet is sleep when weary limbs,
And brain relax in rest,
Some from their daily strenuous toil,
And some from care and stress.

How sweet to have a home and hearth
'Though poor our lot may be,
And strength to do our daily task,
Dwelling in harmony.

How sweet to have a stedfast faith
In a better world to come,
And daily press towards the goal
Until our course is run.

How sweet when we are growing old,
'Though our mem'ries not the best,
To have a sane and quiet mind,
And later, peaceful rest.


When eastern skies proclaim the dawn,
And morning stars they fade away,
With curtains of the night withdrawn
To usher in another day;
Then watchmen waiting for the morn
Proclaims "Awake, behold the dawn."

The Old Sol in full majesty
Arises mid a flaming ray,
Transforming land and all the sea
From darkened night to light of day;
Then man resumes his task once more
Where he left off the day before.

June, 1950


When evening comes at close of day,
The curtain of the night comes down,
Then darkness o'er the land holds sway,
And spreads its mantle all around;
Then beasts of jungle and the plain
Sets forth to stalk their prey again.

At night when all the nation sleep,
The moon and stars keep watch above,
And in the darkened forest deep,
Wild creatures through the wild wood rove;
So pass the night and day is here,
Thus flies a week, a month, a year.

June, 1950


The winter's going; let it go,
We're getting tired of frost and snow,
And longs to feel the south winds blow
In summer time.

It will b e a change from snow and sleet
The icy walks and snow blocked street,
To swelter in the sultry heat
In summer time.

And when it's ninety in the shade,
We'll pant, and quaff cold lemonade,
And think of nice cool days we had
In winter time.

We never know from day to day
What tricks the weather man will play,
He keeps us guessing all the way
In every clime.

We discuss the weather quite a lot
When it is cold, or much too hot,
But cannot alter it one jot
At any time.

In winter time we shovel snow,
In summer, weeds and grass we mow;
It really keeps us on the go
Most all the time.

March 8, 1947


Long, long ago at Nazareth
There dwelled a carpenter by trade,
With chisel, saw and plane He wrought,
And due respect to Him was paid.

This Nazarene he had a Son,
And in the Good Old Book we find
Although He was of lowly birth,
Yet He was born of David's line.

And when the time was fully come
His mission He began on earth;
He healed the sick, gave sight to blind,
And raised up invalids since birth.

He taught the poor from day to day,
And children small by Him were blest;
This was His theme, and this His text,
"Come unto Me, I'll give you rest".

In homes and wards of hospitals
Where sick and broken bodies lie,
The great Physician still draws near,
Although unseen by human eye.

May, 1950


God reveals His presence
On a summer's morning,
When the dew is sparkling,
And the flowers adorning;
In a blushing rose so fair
His true handiwork appear.

God reveals His presence
Through the starlight hours,
Or when towering storm clouds
Bursts with drenching showers;
In a rainbow's arch so fair
He reveals His token there.

'Through an earthquake shatters
With the roll of thunder,
And the rushing whirl wind
Causes awe and wonder;
Then that small voice we may hear
Whispering, "Fear not, I am near".


Come with me and let us wander
In Life's Byways new and old,
There we'll meditate and ponder
As each role of life unfold'.

While the facts of life we're gleaning,
And we're learning wisdom's lore,
Life will have a fuller meaning
As it's by ways we explore.

Wednesday, May 16, 2007


Arriving home at eventide,
And feeling quite alright,
My Mom she looks me up and down
And says "Oh you're a fright".

"Where have you been? Go wash yourself,
And hurry on upstairs;
Roll up your sleeves, use lots of soap,
And wash behind your ears".

And so I try to wash my face
And hands to look my best,
But after I have wiped them both
The towel looks a mess.

When I am at the bathing beach
Warm days in summer time,
I wade and splash, and swim and dive,
The water feels just fine.

But when I try to wash at home
It never feels the same,
And if I am not nice and clean
My Mom says I'm to blame.

Now I can do all kinds of stunts,
And exercise by 'heck';
But when I wash I finds it hard
To reach behind my neck.

And I can swing a baseball bat,
Or throw a ball so high,
But when there's chore to do at home
I don't feel half as spry.


In the gloaming as the twilight shadows fall o'er vale and hill,
At summertime when days are long and warm,
The tinkling of a cow bells floats o'er the air so still,
There's peace at eventide around the farm.

The lowing cattle gathers 'neath the trees beside the road,
O'er head the night hawk causes no alarm;
The farmer wends his way towards the place of his abode,
His day of toil is over on the farm.

And when the moon resplendent smiles on the earth below,
The scare crow in the pasture waves an arm;
As crickets chirps merrily, and dancing fire flies glow,
The elves and fairies frolic on the farm.

When another day is dawning as it always did before,
The rooster crows so loudly in the barn,
In the east the sun arises and nature is astir once more,
As another day begins around the farm.

January, 1948

Monday, May 14, 2007


Ships are passing in the night,
While on shore, landlubbers sleep,
Far from land, and far from sight,
Tossing on the restless deep.
Weathering storms or pleasant breeze
With rich cargoes in their hold,
They're the nations life line these
'Twixt the New World and the Old.

Ships are passing in the night,
Homeward bound from o'er the foam;
From the Cape the beacon light
Flash it's message "Welcome home".
Home again, the mariner he
Mingles with his kith and kin,
And in dreams oft times he'll see
Towering white caps roll again.

Ships are passing in the night
As they round the harbour buoy,
And the flashing harbour light
Seems to hail them "Ship Ahoy".
Anchored on a moonlit bay
Where is heard the ocean's rote,
Ships their riding lights display
Like some midget town afloat.

Photo: Schooner DLT FRAMPTON. Built in Gin Cove By Edmund Frampton name after his sons Dan, Lindo & Ted

Saturday, May 12, 2007


Through our hours of toil or leisure,
After anxious cares or pleasure,
May there be in fullest measure
Peace at eventide.

When the morning cares distress us,
Or when noon day heat oppress' us,
May there be at hand to bless us
Peace at eventide.

May we have no cause to borrow
Unknown worries for tomorrow,
May there be instead of sorrow
Peace at eventide.

When the moon on high is beaming,
And the stars so brightly gleaming,
May we have in slumber dreaming
Peace at eventide.

When at last life's day is ending
And through unknown tracts we're wending,
May there be, our souls attending
Peace at eventide.


Sometimes we may feel so despondent,
And our troubles appears quite a few,
The Old World seems all topsy turvy,
And nothing is right in our view.

We may grumble and grouch at the weather
If it's stormy, too cold or too hot;
But vain are our sad lamentations,
There's naught we can alter one jot.

We humans sometimes are an enigma,
(I trust this remark you'll excuse)
One day we are so energetic,
The next may be down in the blues.

It makes matters worse by complaining,
No matter how languid we feel,
We're not all alone in the struggle,
But just one more cog in life's wheel.

But when our depression is over,
And we feel like uniting in song,
May we say with our deepest conviction,
'Twas myself, not the world that was wrong.


If I had wings as an eagle,
O'er unknown seas I'd soar,
Beyond the blue horizon,
To some undiscovered shore.
I'd fold my wings at twilight,
And end my ventured flight,
Where the golden hues of morning
Extends to the blue of night.

This virgin land I would possess,
And call it by some name,
With just the fairies hovering near
To hear me press my claim.
And in that quiet solitude,
In a land that's all unknown,
I'd reign supreme for just a day,
A king, but all alone.

And when my stay would terminate,
Then homeward I'd repair,
To hear again the traffic's din,
And factory whistles blare.
But I would think of that fair land
That once I called my own,
And where I ruled for one short day,
A king without a throne.

Thursday, May 10, 2007


How pleasant are the sound of little feet
When Junior first begins to toddle 'round,
With faltering steps he ventures forth alone,
And not a prouder baby can be found.

His Dad returning home when day is done
Sits up the little toddler on his knee,
Ad listens as his prattle seems to say,
"I'm growing up, and soon a man will be."

It's not so long until the mother spies
Some little finger marks upon the door,
And topsy-turvy is the house at times
With playthings strewn around upon the floor.

Sometimes he has a fall and bumps his head,
He yells aloud and seems in awful pain,
Then Mom she quickly runs and picks him up,
And kiss' the spot, and soon it's well again.

He's growing up, and his first day at school
He tells his parents all the fun he had,
Then Dad says he is smart, and getting big,
But Mom says he is just a tiny lad.

He has grown up, and starting out one day
For his first job at office, store or mill,
His father calls him his big grown up son,
But mother thinks of him as baby still.


The enchanted islands of the blest
Lies in untroubled seas,
A haven where there's no unrest,
And every prospect please.
I know not where these islands lie,
They may be east or west,
But yet in fancy oft I spy
These islands of the blest.

Tall fronded palms wave in the air,
And birds in chorus sing
With babbling brooks and flowers fair,
And every day is spring.
Soft breezes waft o'er hill and vale,
Sweet fragrance fills the breast,
And there no woe or cares assail
These islands of the blest.

The sunlit waters of the sea
Lies rippling by the strand,
And romping children in their glee
Plays on the golden sand.
They know no terrors or alarm,
For there no foes molest
In that fair land of magic charm,
These islands of the blest.

November, 1947

Wednesday, May 9, 2007


This earth with all it's fullness
Stands firm amidst the seas,
Sublime was it's creation,
Profound it's mysteries.
Vast continents and oceans
This global sphere do span,
From Greenland's icy mountains,
To India's coral strand.

The highest vault of heaven
To ocean's deepest bed,
From pole to pole extended
This Universe is spread.
All oceans living creatures,
The earth's vast human race,
And shining hosts of heaven
This Universe embrace.

Seed time, and then the harvest,
Their course the seasons run,
With winter's crystal snow flakes,
And summer's radiant sun.
On lofty white capped mountains
Lies the eternal snows,
Below in fertile valleys
The fragile lily grows.

Sublime as the Creation,
And this wide Universe
Have lasted through the ages,
Which nothing can disperse.


The month of May is passing on,
And far too brief her stay will be;
O'er hill and dale her magic wand
Has beautified each flower and tree.

The earth attires in dress of sheen
In May, the month of vernal spring,
As Zephyrs whisper in the trees,
And song birds in unison sing.

She tiptoes through the tulips fair,
Bestows sweet essence on each flower;
And through the glen and in the dell
We trace her in each leafy bower.

Fair May thou art a welcome guest,
O linger; whey depart so soon?
We'll say adieu as you pass on
To be replaced by sunny June.

And when another spring arrive,
Again you'll be a welcome guest;
You bring new hope, new life, new charm,
And leaves this fair land at it's best.


"I'm going away" the Master said,
His disciples then were sad;
Their hearts would grieve if He should leave,
the best Friend that they had.

"But when I go" He then explained,
"A Comforter I'll send,
Be of good cheer, He will be near,
And prove a worthy Friend."

"I'm going away", these few small words
Oft' causes pangs of grief,
An aching void is felt inside,
And nothing brings relief.

Some partings often makes it hard
For those who have to stay,
And carry on with loved ones gone
Throughout each lonely day.

"I'm going home" the Master said
"To prepare a place for you,
And when ye come I'll be at home,
Then our circle we'll renew."

"I'm going home"; a different phrase
From what was used before;
When safe at home, no more we'll roam
And partings will be o'er.

Thursday, May 3, 2007


O Newfoundland, isle of the sea,
Thou art the gateway to the West;
May all they future destiny
Be free from all that cause unrest.

Around thy rugged sea girt isle,
Lashed by the ocean night and day,
Thy stalwart sons in honest toil
Braves dangers midst the spume and spray.

Thy landlocked harbours, lakes and bays
Lies mirrored 'neath the moonlit sky,
And summer sunsets flaming rays
Gleams on the bold Gafftopsails high.

Thou hast fair towns and paper mills,
With teeming rivers flowing free,
And hamlets nestled 'neath the hills
Where fishing boats puts out to sea.

They headlands bold the storm defies
When towering waves seethes with unrest,
But when at peace the ocean lies,
Seagulls adorn it's placid breast.

Land of the brave, their Island home,
May Providence they future plan,
Where'er they sons and daughters roam,
They'll ne'er forget thee, Newfoundland.

(The Gafftopsails are high mountain peaks)

Photo: Gin Cove, Newfoundland