Monday, April 30, 2007


Out o'er the stormy deep
When seas roll high,
Wild waves in fury leap,
And sea gulls cry;

But 'neath the raging main
On the ocean's floor,
There peace and stillness reign


This life is like an ocean voyage
We're sailing every day,
And stormy seas and pleasant breeze
We encounter on the way.

At times our barque seems small and frail
When buffetted about
Amid each reef of unbelief,
Uncertainty and doubt.

Some due to sad misfortune
Lies shipwrecked on life's shore;
And some so fair just disappear,
Their span of life half o'er.

While others they are wafted on
Towards their port afar,
And at the sunset of their lives
They cross the harbour bar.

There's many dangers to be met
Before we reach that shore,
But safe at last with perils past
We'll sail life's seas no more.

Photo: This wheel house, from the schooner EMA FRAMPTON, was removed from the vessel after she went ashore on the Labrador. It is located in Cartwright, Newfoundland.

Monday, April 23, 2007


When the herald of morn
Pipes a new day just born,
And the curtain of night fades away;
When Old Sol in his might
So majestic and bright
From the east sends his first cheering ray,
As the dawn breaks before us
Earth joins in the chorus
To welcome another new day.

When the curtain of night
Shrouds this earth from our sight,
And the stars from their canopies peep;
With the sun sank to rest
And each bird in it's nest,
As wild beasts through the deep forest creep;
While all nature's reclining,
And evening star shining,
Creation it's vigil will keep.

When the midnight moon beams,
And we're deep in our dreams,
While the earth speeds us on to'ards the sun;
As the morning star rise
In the far eastern skies,
Proclaiming the night's course has run,
As the dawn breaks before us
Earth joins in the chorus
To welcome the new day begun.

March, 1951


Was there ever finer music,
Have you heard a sweeter note
Then the melodious outpouring
From a little songbird's throat?

Midst the willows, in a tree top,
Or a bough close by it's nest,
It pours forth it's paean of gladness
From it's little feathered breast.

It it needs no teacher's tuition,
Nor the pitch in music's scale,
As it chants it's song at vespers
In the twilight of the vale.

Flying south when winter threatens
It returns with vernal spring,
Think how many folk will listen
To that little songbird sing.

Giving freely of it's talent,
It performs a singer's role,
Comforting the sad and lonely,
Warming hearts that have grown cold.

February, 1949


If we could live just for today,
And let tomorrows cares go free;
To carry on our daily task
Just four and twenty hours there'd be.

By using one day at a time
As we our daily course pursue,
It leaves less time to fret and whine,
And life takes on a brighter hue.

The days that's gone beyond recall
Will never more return our way,
So while the present we enjoy
Let's put it to good use today.

The hours of yesterday are gone,
Tomorrow seems a long long way,
And while we fret, let's not forget
We're wasting useful hours today.

Just for today; and when each hour
Is spent in helpful things we do,
It fills us with content to know
It was well spent when day is through.

The moments fly, the hours speed on,
And soon another day is here;
By using one day at a time
There'll be none wasted through the year.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007


Thank God for sleep, the greatest gift to man
When mind and body eased from stress and care
In deep oblivion rests new strength to gain,
To face whate'er tomorrow have to share.

How sweet is sleep a boon to weary souls,
When brain and limbs repose in peaceful rest,
Some from their daily grind and honest toil,
And some from anxious care and daily stress.

How sweet to lie relaxed in quiet rest
Until the weary eyelids gently steep,
Then drift away to dream in slumber land,
'Til wakened once again from restful sleep.

How sweet the slumber of a little child,
So cherubic and radiant she beams;
Their gentle breathing like wee zehyrs flow
And nothing to disturb their little dreams.

How sweet to rest when all around is still,
And moonbeams through the curtains gently sweep,
Then fall asleep, knowing that all is well,
And God above will guard us while we sleep.

May, 1951

Sunday, April 15, 2007


Lift up thine eyes and view on high
The firmament a winter's night,
The panorama of the sky
With myriad stars all shining bright.

When I survey the moon and stars
That shoot across the milky way,
I think "How vain and small is man
Compared with all this vast display."

Some unseen hand by night and day
Directs and keeps them all in place,
The sun, the moon and all the stars
While earth keeps rolling on in space.

The rainbow in the summer sky
With tinted arch and colors rare,
Displays it's brilliant hues and casts
A halo o'er our earthly sphere.

And we who tread this earth below
As we pursue our daily task,
"O what is man compared with all
God's handiwork" we sometimes ask.


A frail old man with faltering steps and cane
Amid a jostling crowd just off a train.

A blind news vendor by his dailies stand,
A lone prospector sifts the river sand.

An angler dozing by a purling stream,
A puffing tug boat belching clouds of steam.

Young lovers strolling down through lover's lane,
A white clad nurse easing a brow in pain.

A proud father watching his son at bat,
A sewing circle where they stitch and chat.

A peanut vendor trudging 'long the street,
And farther on, a policeman on his beat.

A toddler climbing up a dangerous stair,
A jilted maiden sobbing in despair.

Two old cronies playing a game of chess,
An old lady waiting her call to rest.

Saint, sinner, parson, people, man and wife,
They all make up this world, we call it LIFE.


Often in the summer time
When sultry heat oppress,
As we see dark clouds sublime
Rising in the west;
The cattle grazing in the glade
Seeks shelter 'neath the leafy shade.

Soon the driving raindrops splash,
And the storm clouds lower,
Then the vivid lightning flash
As the thunders roar;
All the elements on high
Seems to meet twixt earth and sky.

Soon the storm it passes on
Out towards the sea,
And the raindrops glisten bright
On each flower and tree;
Little children as before
Play around their cottage door.

And when twilight shadows creeps
O'er the evening sky,
Then the stars begin to peep,
And the night hawks fly;
When the light of day grows dim,
Song birds chant their vesper hymn.

Friday, April 13, 2007


No more is seen the lofty ships
That were in days gone by,
As in port they rode with topsails stowed,
And yard arms swinging high.

With costly cargoes stowed below
Each ship would proudly bear
To foreign lands and far off strands,
Beyond our hemisphere.

Drest out in billowing canvas white,
And colours flying free,
With topsails set and scuppers wet,
Their's was a sight to see.

Each ship was manned by seamen bold,
Lighthearted, free and brave,
Where e'er they roamed it was their home
Upon the ocean wave.

No more is seen as days gone by
A full rigged brigantine,
Slip from her quay and sail away,
A roving ocean queen.

March, 1949


Above a roaring cataract
In an overhanding tree,
A robin built a cosy nest
To raise her family.
And there amid the torrent's din,
Above that rushing flood,
She felt at peace with all the world,
And reared her little brood.

And when the elements were at war,
When thunders roared on high,
Or when the lightning's vivid flash
Lit up the earth and sky;
And when the tree it swayed and shook
That robin's fragile nest,
The little fledgelings lay secure,
And warm beneath her breast.

This little mother reared her brood,
And kept them free from harm
She heeded not the torrent and
Found peace amid the storm.
So may we too if we are called
To face some anxious care,
And like our little feathered friend
Have peace instead of fear.

June, 1947


Said a seagull to a penguin
As he was passing by,
"Ye penguins are peculiar birds,
You cannot even fly."

"You are so slow and awkward,
And just waddles 'round each day;
And where you find enough to eat
Is more than I can say."

"A seagull is a nobler bird
I know you will agree;
With wings unfurled I span the world
To lands you'll never see."

"Said the penguin to the seagull,
You may be right my friend,
But there never was a penguin yet
Who on a seagull did depend."

"We may be clumsy, slow of wit,
We may look cross or glum,
But if we thrive where you would starve,
That proves we're not so dumb."

"Some seagulls has a lot to learn,
And brag and boast each day;
But penguins mind their business, and
Just live their simple way."



"Come unto me I'll give you rest,"
These bidding words were spoken by
The Master, who while on this earth
Felt weariness as you and I.

"Come ye aside and rest awhile,"
His gracious message is to all,
And at the sunset of their lives
May find repose as shadows fall.

He trod the hills of Galilee,
And often were fatigued, depressed,
And sometimes for a quiet hour
Would steal away for strength and rest.

So may we too when we're depressed,
Or wearied by the noonday heat;
Just shut our closet doors awhile,
And there commune in quiet retreat.


Our diary of life are past memories
That will follow us through to the end,
Every day we may meet new adventure,
As each day a new page we begin.

And as we turn backward it's pages
And scan every item thereon,
It brings to our mind many faces
Of friends that are vanished and gone.

Some pages bring back pleasant memories
That have followed us on through the years,
While others were penned in deep sorrow,
And blotted and blurred with our tears.

Some pages were written in sunshine
With our heyday of life at it's best,
While others were penned with misgivings
When we were perturbed by unrest.

Some events we will always remember,
They're indelible, hard to erase,
Maybe happy days in our childhood
That the future will never efface.

Each night as we close up our diary,
We know not what tomorrow may bring,
May there be no tear drops on it's pages,
But instead, happy memories that cling.

March, 1947

Photo: Front - L to R - Daughters, Betty & Nina; son, Eric; Wife, Ethel; Daughter-in-law, Eleanor. Back - L to R - George Frampton; son, Roy.


The Old Year's gone beyond recall,
A New Year takes it's place;
How quickly time and seasons fly
As earth rolls on in space.

On wings of flight the days rush by,
The fleeting months roll on,
And soon out o'er the crest of time
Another year is gone.

Time marches on, and in it's train
Lies shattered hopes and fears,
Both joy and sorrow, war and peace
Are mingled with the years.

Let's cross the threshold of each year
With firm and eager tread,
Firmly resolved with buoyant hope,
To face what lies ahead.

The New Year bids us carry on,
And leave the Old behind,
And through the days that is to come,
Let's take one at a time.

New Year, 1949


As seasons come, and seasons go,
With summer's rain and winter's snow,
The best time in the year I know
Is blossom time.

What other beauty can compete
With orchard trees all dressed so neat,
And springtime air so fresh and sweet
At blossom time?

What other scenery is so rare
As apple blossoms, peach and pear,
And countless other trees so fair
At blossom time?

Old Mother Nature sure is grand
Whene'er she waves her magic wand
To spread such beauty o'er the land
At blossom time.

The ripening fruit we soon shall see
And ripe red cherries on the tree,
But first there always has to be
A blossom time.

How blind to nature must we be
If, when th blossom's on the tree
We cannot some real beauty see
At blossom time.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007


When the postman ventures out
On his early morning route,
With mailbag filled with all the latest mail;
In the winter's snow or sleet,
Or mid summer's scorching heat,
Every packet he'll deliver without fail.

He carries papers, magazines,
Catalogues and various things,
And letters stacked so neatly by the score;
He's as punctual as a clock,
And there is no need to knock
As he quickly slips a letter through the door.

Many blocks he has to walk,
And he hasn't time to talk,
As he mounts the many steps along the street;
Every letter must go through
Be they many or just few,
When the bag is empty, then his job's complete.

What at last he homeward trot
With the last letter through the slot,
He has a cheerio for every one,
And at home when off his beat
As he rests his tired feet,
He's content to know his days work was well done.


Often in the stilly night
When in our sleep we're dreaming,
The moonbeams from the moon so bright
Through window shades comes streaming.

The moon and clouds play hide and seek
As stars so brightly glitter,
And o'er the moat and by the creek
The eerie shadows flitter.

The night hawk on it's nightly quest
So fleet of wing goes flying,
And snug beneath the robin's breast,
Her little brood is lying.

Wild creatures through the forest trail
With stealthy steps are wending,
And in the night a plaintive cry
Denotes some tragic ending.

The elves and fairies skip and prance
Through all the silent hours,
And moonlight shadows flit and dance
Amongst the leafy bowers.

And sometimes in a stilly night
The hours seem long and weary,
It's then we yearn for the sunlight
To end a night that's dreary.

June, 1950


We'll only pass this way but once,
And while we're passing through,
Let's try and help the folks we meet
Who may be feeling blue.

If some wayfarer is cast down,
And weary with his load,
Give him a lift and set his feet
Once more upon life's road.

Some we will meet are old and frail,
And some are young and strong,
While others need a cheery word
To help them carry on.

If we can say a kindly word,
Or lend a helping had,
We'll do a favour to ourselves
As to our fellow man.

The little helpful things we do
To either foe or friend,
Will be rewarded when at last
We reach our journey's end.

November, 1948

Tuesday, April 10, 2007


It's just a prayer so simple,
And it's in my memory stored
Since we were growing youngsters
Around the family board.

Around the family table
We all would take our place,
Then bow our heads in silence
While mother cited grace.

At morning, noon or evening,
Whene'er her brood were fed,
We all would wait with patience
Until the grace was said.

These memories ever linger
As now my thoughts retrace,
And live again these moments
With mother saying grace.

These days are gone forever,
And time has changed the scene
My mother now is resting
Beneath the plot so green.

But still it is a memory
That time will ne'er efface,
When we were all together
With mother saying grace.

Where ever we may wander,
What ever time or place,
May each of us remember
Our mothers saying grace.

March, 1947


There are furrowed fields of kindness
'Neath the sunlight of God's smile,
And good seed so widely scattered,
Germinates in richest soil.

Little deeds of mercy rendered,
Little words of hope and cheer,
Are the seed that's thriving daily
In love's garden bright and fair.

Little gifts so freely given,
By some friend who knows our need,
Often sheds a ray of sunshine,
They're the sowers of good seed.

Willing hands and hearts that cherish,
With a love that ne'er grows cold,
Scatter seeds of human kindness
Bearing fruit a hundredfold.

Nourished by the warmth of friendship,
Tended by each willing hand,
Springing up in paths of duty,
Spreading beauty o'er the land.

May there be a bounteous harvest
Free from every growth of sin,
When the Reaper whets His sickle,
And the sheaves are gathered in.

January, 1948


Often in the silent watches
When around me all is still,
It is then my thoughts go drifting,
Far away o'er vale and hill.

Mem'ries that will ever linger
Often shares my company,
Midst the old familiar places
Where I once was young and free.

Friends long vanished, high hopes shattered
Both on land and ocean deep,
Love and laughter mixed with sadness
I encounter ere I sleep.

By the silvery moonlit water
Where is heard the lone loon's cry,
There in fancy long I linger
'Til another day draws nigh.

What at last my journey's ended,
And through weariness I sleep,
Then again in dreams I wander,
And another tryst keep.

May, 1948


Beside the deep still waters
The tall bulrushes grow,
And the placid breast and river's crest
Reflects the sunset glow;
A peaceful scene at eventide
When the sun is sinking low.

From amongst the bending willows
By the stream where fishes swim,
O'er the air there floats the cheery notes
Of a songbird's vesper hymn;
The gentle west wind sinks to rest
As the light of day grows dim.

And when the moon resplendent
Peeps o'er yon hilltop high,
The old grey owl on it's nightly prowl
Sits in a tree nearby,
A fox bays at the pale full moon
As the night hawk circles nigh.

And when the sun arises
The morning stars are gone,
The silent stream in the sunlit gleam
Glides gently on and on,
Through the hills and winding valleys
To'ards the sea, and the great beyond.

March, 1948


One fine spring's day my wife did say
As in my chair I sat,
There's one thing I must try to learn,
And that is, how to tat.

With her instructor soon she had
A bit of this and that,
And it was not so very long
Until she learned to tat.

And when one day she sat so quiet
I asked "What are you at?"
"Why dear" said she "I thought you knew
That I have learned to tat."

Soon she could ply her shuttle fast
Without an eyelid batting,
But oh the house it was so quiet
While she were at her tatting.

I thought she knew most everything,
As quilting, knitting, matting,
But I found out, it was not so
When my wife started tatting.

Monday, April 9, 2007


"My master, I am just an old plough horse,
I toils each day and tries to do my best
To pay you for my upkeep and my food,
And for my stall where every night I rest."

"Although I am so dumb and cannot speak,
Yet I am quick to learn and understand,
It cheers me up to hear a kindly word,
Or feel the pat of a kind and friendly hand."

"Make sure my harness fit and will not chafe,
And that I am well shod and groomed each day,
Encourage me with kindly words, and I
Will do my best each day my debt to pay."

"When day is done and safely in my stall
I chew my evening meal of oats or hay,
It's then I'm filled with sweet content to know
I did my duty well again today."

"Then through the silent night I doze and sleep,
And in my dreams I see green pastures fair,
A kingdom for dumb creatures such as me
Where old plough horses graze throughout the year."

"My master when I am too old to work,
Or laid aside and gone to my last rest,
You'll think of me sometimes, a faithful friend
Who toiled for you and tried to do his best."


The robin is a welcome guest
When spring replaces winter's snow,
As o'er the morning air is heard
This little harbinger's "Cheerio."

Arriving from the sunny south
Where he has spent vacation's term,
We'll see him on some grassy plot
Eager to catch the early worm.

Soon with his mate at nesting time
He'll be as busy as a bee,
With fixing up a cosy nest
To raise a family, two or three.

Until we see that little bird
It doesn't seem like spring at all,
We listen in the early morn
To hear a robin redbreast call.

When nature wakes from winter's sleep
We love to feel the south winds blow,
But spring is not complete until
We hear a robin's "Cheerio."

May, 1948


I rambled through the wildwood
At a early morning hour,
When the dew it lay profusely
On each blossomed tree and flower.

And as my footsteps wandered
Through the valley in the dell,
I thought of the Creator
Who created all things well.

And as I stopped to listen
To the whisper of the breeze,
His presence seemed to greet me
In the beauty of the trees.

I was filled with silent wonder
As I seemed to hear Him call,
And His voice re-echoed plainly
From a nearby waterfall.

I thought I heard His footsteps
Midst the rustling of the grass,
And in fancy I beheld Him
Tinting daisies as He passed.

Lying 'neath the leafy bowers
As a bird sang near it's nest,
I thought "Surely this is Eden
With all nature at it's best."

If you wish this experience
Take my advice my friend,
Visit nature some fair morning
In the woodland or the glen.

Sunday, April 8, 2007


I stood one day on a headland bold
When the storm was at it's height,
The angry waves they seethed and fought
Like demons arrayed in fight;
And as the seas came rolling in
To dash against the shore,
They filled the caves of the headlands
With a loud and thunderous roar.

Again I stood on that headland
When the ocean lay at rest,
The seagulls swam so gracefully
Upon it's placid breast;
And as I gazed out o'er the main
Where the sky and ocean meet,
I thought of the giant that lay so still
And peaceful beneath my feet.

Our life is like the changing sea,
Oftimes we are opprest,
When worries and perplexities
Disturb our human breast.
May we each one be wafted on
Toward our port afar,
"Til at the sunset of our lives
We cross the harbor bar.


The autumn winds are sighing,
They're sighing in the trees,
The Autumn leaves are falling,
And scattering in the breeze;
The Summer days are over,
And wilted are the flowers;
The frost lies on the pumpkin
In the early morning hours.

The Autumn days are waning
With songbirds flying high,
Out o'er the blue horizon,
Towards the southern sky;
The oak trees and the maple
Are dressed in tints of gold;
No more is heard the splash and shout
Down by the swimmin' hole.

Thanksgiving comes with Autumn
When crops are garnered in,
From farmlands and the prairies
Ere Winter storms begin;
The seasons in their order
Bring blessings manifold;
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter
Each has a leading role.

Autumn, 1948

Friday, April 6, 2007


As you stroll along the board walk
At an Easter promenade,
What a mixed conglomeration
You will see in that parade.

All the various shades and colours,
Everything in newest styles,
And the latest fads and fashions
With the quaintest nobby tiles.

Swanky suits and tailored costumes,
New creations bright and loud,
And the nifty Easter bonnets
Worn by fair sex in the crowd.

You will meet some smiling faces,
Others looking sad and long,
It all blends the combination
In this annual Easter throng.

There you'll see the blondes and brunettes
All dressed up from head to toes,
And young swains so brisk and buoyant,
In gay togs and swanky hose.

Aged pedestrians you'll encounter,
Laughing youth with buoyant spring,
Also plump and sedate madams
With wee Fido on a string.

Then you'll ruminate and ponder
As again you homeward jogs,
Easter has a deeper meaning
Than just showing off fine togs.

Easter, 1950


I feel so insignificant,
There's not much I can do
With limbs as if by fetters tied,
Held down as if with glue.
The outside world goes daily by,
And leaves me on the trail,
As driftwood lying on life's strand,
And tossed up by the gale.

Despondency is hard to beat
When weary hours seem slow,
The mystery of this short life
I guess I'll never know.
Some folk enjoy their life in full,
Their cup of nectar drain,
While others sip the bitter dregs
That causes grief and pain.

But there is comfort in the thought
That daily on life's trail,
Thousands enjoy their journey through
'Though others fall and flail.
Life's governed by some higher Source,
And worked out by a plan,
And at some future date maybe
We'll know and understand.

September, 1950


Kind deeds are acts of kindness wrought
By those who chose that better part,
Kind words are like a healing balm
That penetrate and soothes the heart.

How comforting to hear a voice
That speaks kind words of hope and cheer,
It's like a tonic to the soul
That make life's load less hard to bear.

How beautiful the hands of those
Who minister to souls in need,
Their skill and patience with goodwill
Makes them true friends, true friends indeed.

And willing feet with buoyant tread,
Eager to help their fellow man;
Missions of mercy they complete
That leaves a trail upon life's sand.

Kind deeds make earth a better place,
Kind words will help when cares assail,
It is the Brotherhood of man,
And thrives where other sources fail.

March, 1948

Wednesday, April 4, 2007


A man may travel through this world
From one end to the other,
He may be free from every care,
And not have any bother;
He may be some great man of state
Some noble benefactor,
But if he hasn't peace of mind,
He's just a silly actor.

He may have riches laid in store,
And living in a palace,
Have lots of friends and servants too
Who bears no ill or malice;
But if he's lacking peace of mind
He ne'er will find true pleasure,
True peace it is a gift sublime,
The world's most priceless treasure.

He may be some great bard or poet,
Or talented musician,
But if he haven't peace of mind
It will not bear fruition,
He may be wise in wisdom's lore,
With literature and learning,
But if he still lack peace of mind
His heart will still be yearning.

He may be king, have armies too,
And conquer many nations,
May revel in the spoils he won
With joyous jubilations;
But if he haven't peace of mind,
He'll have no peace, no never,
Until one day he'll disappear,
And leave this world forever.


I believe in a Great Deity,
Maker and Finisher is He
Of earth and sea and starry heights,
And slumbers not by day or night.

Vast oceans lie within His hand,
And thunders roar at His command.
Sun, moon and hosts of stars so bright
He governs and directs their flight.

The cattle on a thousand hills
Are His, and all the sparkling rills.
Who hears the famished raven's cry,
And sees the sparrow fall and die.

None is too great or none too small
For Him to answer when they call.
From highest heaven to ocean's floor,
Both east and west, from shore to shore.

On every planet, globe and sphere,
He rules, invisible but near,
Creator of the human race,
And not confined to time or place.

This is my creed; A Deity,
Whose source is love and majesty.

March, 1949


A mother's love, how sweet the name,
What is a mother's love?
It is an inward fervent flame
Enkindled from above;
And like an ever clinging vine,
The family circle it entwine.

A mother's love will ever grow
Until the end of time,
It's height and depth we'll never know,
It is a gift sublime;
Wherever sons and daughters rove,
They'll ne'er outspan a mother's love.

True mother love has stood the test
Through all preceding years,
And often joy, with care and stress
Are mingled with their tears;
In grief or pleasure, joy or pain,
A mother's love will still remain.

May every mother, everywhere
Again on Mother's Day,
Be free from anxious care
That often comes their way,
And may their sons and daughters prove
Worthy to share a mother's love.

May, 1948


"Where are our friends of yesterday,"
He asked in accents low;
"They're gone and vanished from our sight,
Where are they, do you know?"

"Some of them lived their span of years,
Their life's course was well run,
While others seemed to disappear
Leaving their work half done."

"These friends" I answered "That we lament,
Who trod the road we tread,
They awaits for us around the bend
Of the road that lies ahead."

"And all our friends who disappeared
Like passing ships at night,
Are they now watching us each day,
Or, are we hid from sight?"

"And can they see us when we fall
Beside life's rugged road,
And beckons us to 'Carry on'
When weary with our load?"

"I do not know, I cannot tell,
But his I will contend,
Our friends are waiting for us now,
And just around the bend."

"When we have finished our last mile,
And reached our journey's end,
It's then we'll meet the friends that wait
For us around the bend."

April, 1944


Spring cleaning time will soon be here,
On this I'm most emphatic,
Then everything will be disturbed
From cellar to the attic.

Housewives will don their dust caps then,
To start their overhauling,
And busy brushing cobwebs down,
Or from step ladders falling.

The vacuum cleaners soon will hum,
And dust they will be chasing,
All paintwork will be washed so clean,
The doors, the walls and casing.

The pantry shelves will all be cleaned,
The pie plates and the custard,
And everything put back in place
From pepper pots to mustard.

The winter woolies will be stored
With moth balls in the closets,
To keep the pesky little moths
From leaving their deposits.

House cleaning is a lot of work
As I have here presented,
But when the job it is well done
The housewife sleeps contented.

April, 1944


Creator of this earth below
We come to Thee our vows to pay,
May each and every heart o'er flow
With thankfulness this festal day.

Father accept the thanks we give
To Thee for all Thy love and care,
For this fair land in which we live,
And all earth's blessings that we share.

All comes from Thee at Thy command,
The early and the latter rain;
Thy bounteous goodness fills the land
With waving fields of ripening grain.

Lord of the harvest by whose hand
Thy children day by day are fed,
Enrich the poor in every land,
Give them each day their daily bread.

O Thou from whom all goodness flow
Help us to choose that better part,
Grant that in each of us may grow
The gift of love in every heart.

O may this fair Dominion be
Kept free from famine, war and stress,
And may there rise from sea to sea
Glad songs of praise and thankfulness.

This hymn was sung in St. Chad's Church, Harvest Thanksgiving Sunday, October 3, 1943


Judge not any man whose demeanor
Appears to be rugged and gruff,
Beneath his crude style
He may be all the while,
A diamond that's hid in the rough.

Despise not the man whose misfortunes
Have netted him nothing but dross;
To offset his hard luck
He may possess real pluck
That's an asset instead of a loss.

Fret not if today skies are gloomy,
And the forecast warns 'Showers to come',
In the morn you may see
Glistening on flower and tree
Bright rain drops reflecting the sun.

Sometimes you will fret and may worry
When problems of life seem so hard;
Judge not by the way
Life may treat you today,
Tomorrow may bring it's reward.

Monday, April 2, 2007


Spring, gentle spring is earth's rare gem,
And time's vast calendar
Show many days when spring displays
Rare beauty near and far.

How beautiful creation is
When vernal spring is here,
Lilacs in bloom and catkins's plume
Spreads beauty far and near.

The gardener with the hoe and spade
Toils through the sunny hours,
And soon the earth by a rebirth
Repays him with fair flowers.

The farmer with his horse and plow
And harrow tills the sod,
By honest toil he seeds the soil,
and trust it's growth with God.

How wonderful creation is
To those who love the spring,
May all rejoice with heart and voice,
And with the songbirds sing.


When clearing out the bureau drawers
As the busy housewife cleans,
She finds a lot of odds and ends,
Let's listen as she gleans.

"Here is a recipe I had
To make my Christmas cake,
And here's a letter I received
Last year from cousin Jake."

"Here is a ball of mending wool,
A box of carpet tacks;
Some score cards used in playing bridge,
A marble and some jacks."

"An old worn deck of playing cards,
A ball of coloured twine,
My smelling salts I thought was lost;
It all turns up in time."

"How all this stuff accumulates
It's more than I can say,
But bureau drawers is just the place
For hiding things away."


There is a land beyond our sight,
And often we may yearn
To catch a glimpse of that blest shore,
From whence none e'er return;
But when some day we launch away
To sail that rolling tide,
May we be safely wafted on
Across the Great Divide.

At time when evening shadows fall,
In fancy we may hear
Those voices calling from afar
Beyond our earthly sphere;
And as we sit and meditate
Beside life's changing tide,
We know our friends awaits us there
Beyond the Great Divide.

When life's short day draws to an end
Led by an evening star,
We'll launch our barque and sail away
Out o'er the harbour bar;
Our Pilot will be waiting there
To guide us o'er the tide,
And there contented we will dwell
Beyond the Great Divide.

June, 1948


The voice of spring is in the air,
And heard by those who understand,
As year by year they sees unfold
Such beauty by some unseen hand.

When old Dame Nature wakes from sleep,
She gently waves her magic wand,
And soon in budding tree and flower
Spring spreads her charm o'er all the land.

The babbling brook sweet music make'
As songbirds in the wildwood sing,
And catkins bending in the breeze
Curtsies to welcome vernal spring.

A bullfrog croaks down in the creek,
The robin builds a cosy nest,
And far and near o'er dale and hill
Earth soon will don her beauteous dress.

The echo from a waterfall,
A cowbells tinkle o'er the air,
The bleating of a little lamb
All tells us plainly; spring is here.

How wonderful Creation is
To those who sometimes steal away
From busy streets and factory's din,
To dwell with nature for a day.

Spring, 1948


Whatever talent we possess,
Whatever course we may pursue,
Sometimes we fail to meet success
In things we plan, or try to do.

There is within each human breast
Ofttimes a longing to aspire
To greater things and higher press,
And seek new talent we desire.

Some craves the gift of poetic art
To write on pamphlet or on scroll,
And satisfy a yearning heart,
The impulse of a poetic soul.

Each one can only do their best
Whate'er may be their daily role,
Though we at times may be depressed
In failing to achieve our goal.

We may improve as time goes by,
Let's do our best tho' it be frail,
And welcome critics when they try
To show us where we sometimes fail.