Information (Prose)

Divine Service was held in the Temperance Hall, when the celebrated Dr. Foaming Drinkwater preached from the text Exodus 16 ch. 33 v., "And Moses said unto Aaron, take a pot," and in an eloquent sermon of 1h. 55m. the Revd. lecturer clearly showed that a pot of beer was not alluded to in the text. Collections were made at the close of the service.

John Hartley

John Hartley was an English poet who wrote in the Yorkshire dialect. Born on January 1, 1839, in Halifax, West Yorkshire, he was known for his humorous and dialectical poetry, which vividly captured the spirit and culture of Yorkshire. Hartley's works were extremely popular in the 19th century, and he remains a significant figure in regional English literature. He passed away on March 10, 1915.

John Hartley

Aw Can't Tell.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

A Sad Mishap.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

On the Banks of the Calder.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

What they say.

John Hartley, Simple Poetry

English

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Plagues (Prose)

A lecture on this subject was delivered on Tuesday evening, to the members of the Ladies' Needle and Thimble Association, by the Rev. James Sleek, curate of St. Enock's-in-the-Mist. After adverting to the plagues of Egypt, the learned lecturer dwelt at length upon the plagues of the present day, which he classed under the following heads: - Servants, poor relations, borrowers, teetotallars, tobacco-smokers, and children in arms. To counteract these evils were such associations as the one he had the honor to address, select tea meetings, fancy bazaars, and perambulators. The lecture gave great satisfaction.

John Hartley

Shiver the Goblet.

Shiver the goblet and scatter the wine!
Tempt me no more with the sight!
I care not though brightly as ruby it shine,
Like a serpent I know it will bite.
Give me the clustering fruit of the vine, -
Heap up my dish if you will, -
But banish the poison that lurks in the wine,
That dulls reason and fetters the will.

Oft has it lured me to deeds I detest, -
Filled me with passions debased;
Robbed me of all that was dearest and best,
And left scars that can ne'er be effaced.
Oh! that the generous rich would but think,
As they scatter their wealth far and wide,
Of the evil that lives in the ocean of drink,
Of the thousands that sink in its tide.

They give of their substance to help the poor wretch,
The victim of custom and laws;
But never attem...

John Hartley

On John Dove, Innkeeper, Mauchline.

    Here lies Johnny Pidgeon;
    What was his religion?
        Wha e'er desires to ken,
    To some other warl'
    Maun follow the carl,
        For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

    Strong ale was ablution,
    Small beer, persecution,
        A dram was memento mori;
    But a full flowing bowl
    Was the saving his soul,
        And port was celestial glory.

Robert Burns

Deacon Taylor

    I belonged to the church,
    And to the party of prohibition;
    And the villagers thought I died of eating watermelon.
    In truth I had cirrhosis of the liver,
    For every noon for thirty years,
    I slipped behind the prescription partition
    In Trainor's drug store
    And poured a generous drink
    From the bottle marked "Spiritus frumenti."

Edgar Lee Masters

Two Sermons.

Between the rail of woven brass,
That hides the "Strangers' Pew,"
I hear the gray-haired vicar pass
From Section One to Two.

And somewhere on my left I see--
Whene'er I chance to look--
A soft-eyed, girl St. Cecily,
Who notes them--in a book.

Ah, worthy GOODMAN,--sound divine!
Shall I your wrath incur,
If I admit these thoughts of mine
Will sometimes stray--to her?

I know your theme, and I revere;
I hear your precepts tried;
Must I confess I also hear
A sermon at my side?

Or how explain this need I feel,--
This impulse prompting me
Within my secret self to kneel
To Faith,--to Purity!

Henry Austin Dobson

Spoken Of Several Philosophers

I pray you, all ye men who put your trust
In moulds and systems and well-tackled gear,
Holding that Nature lives from year to year
In one continual round because she must--
Set me not down, I pray you, in the dust
Of all these centuries, like a pot of beer--
A pewter-pot disconsolately clear,
Which holds a potful, as is right and just!
I will grow clamorous--by the rood, I will,
If thus ye use me like a pewter pot!
Good friend, thou art a toper and a sot--
will not be the lead to hold thy swill,
Nor any lead: I will arise and spill
Thy silly beverage--spill it piping hot!

George MacDonald