Dear friends, once more my rusty pen
I dip into the ink,
And try to write a verse or two
If words will only “clink.”
The awful war still wages on
Which is not a fair fight,
Ah, no, the cruel German hordes
Could never do it right.
“Prayer moves the hand that moves the world,”
Why, then, don’t we all pray?
God fights for those who fight for Him,
Then we shall win the day.
As for our own “exempted” isle,
Which we all love with zest,
That “harps” away both night and day,
But finds no “home-made” rest.
But from the title of this piece
We must not turn aside,
So now into our town belov’d
With gracefulness we’ll glide.
‘Tis Saturday, and mind you me,
An hour soon goes by,
When old acquaintances fall in,
Let them be “wet” or “dry.”
I’m glad that Johnnie Barleycorn
Is dead, or nearly so,
Though dearly lov’d by not a few
We’d gladly lay him low.
But what affected me the most
As stroll’d I round the square,
Was at each corner there was what
Is call’d “an open air.”
I patronised each “ring” in turn,
Like many others there
And listen’d as they sang or spoke,
Or led in fervent prayer.
The “Army” fights a noble fight,
And seems to never tire,
Another “Mission” works by “Faith,”
The other “band” loves “Fire.”
I felt these people told the truth,
Without favour or fear,
But wonder’s if this sort of thing
Was needed now and here.
Where there are churches large and small,
Suppos’d to meet the need
Of each adherent in and out,
No matter what his creed.
But some, alas! do not attend,
Who are like some who do,
Careless about eternal things,
I trust that is not you.
I thought that night as I look’d on,
Of Jeremiah’s cry,
“Is it really nothing to you,
All ye that do pass by?”
Some stopp’d a moment on their way,
Perhaps they had no time;
Some stood and gossip’d loud and rough,
Regardless of the crime.
I saw many who sympathised
They knew the work was right,
And asked the Lord to strengthen those
Brave heroes in the fight.
So that the words of truth might find
A lodgement is each heart,
And never have the least of cause
For ever to depart.
Dear reader, as my final word,
And may it loudly ring,
Oh, have a care! O, have a Care!
Lack not the needful thing.
Adam Lynn, Cullybackey, 1st September 1917