Laureates of Labor

Maoriland Worker, Volume 2, Issue 31, 6 October 1911, Page 4

Laureates of Labor

By ROBERT HOGG.

No. 2. —James RflacFarlati,

the Pedlar Poet.

What is there in the temperament of tho Celt that, almost invariably, his "present tense" is the militant mood, no matter in what walk of life he finds himself? Why is it that, in every English-speaking country, the great majority of the leaders of the progressive hosts are Celts? How comes it that, even in the realm ot democratic and revolutionary song, though the language and the form be not native, the Celtic fringe holds pride of place? . I do not purpose answering the question myself, having been assured that it is too profound for a mere layman to solve. Profundity is one of the thitigs I eschew —never having had any use for it —I but mention the above -facts so that those who are fond ot mental gymnastics may exercise their skill therewith. I began this series of articles on tho "Laureates of Labor" with an appreciation of the songs of an AustralIrish Celt. To-day I wish to go back to the Old World, and tell you a little of the life story of a Scoto-Irish Celt, who was ono of the first to wake the nvuso to sing the newer hope just wakening to consciousness in tho mind ' of tho workers of Britain during the first half of last century. This was James MacFarlan, author of "The Lords of Labor/ one of the most remarkable and, at tho same time, one of the most pitiable figures in all the sad story of Sorrow and Song. Born in the city of Glasgow at a time when the Chartist agitation was at its zenith, and born the son of a rhyming rebel, whoso muse concerned . itself chiefly in depicting, for the amusement of the multitude, the "weaknesses" of those in high places, one needs not to be told that the young poet grew to man's estate with a strong bias against the oppressors of the weak, and those who,'without: any efforts of their own, lived surrounded with every luxury in the midst, of a weltering mass of the most abject poverty. His father, a north of Ireland Scot, was a weaver, but, while James was still a child, he grew tired of "weavin' that ithars micht wear, threw aside his -"waft," • took to the road, and became, and remained, a pedlar for the rest of his life. Thus the poet, by heredity and environment, was the heir of erratic habits and an ill-balanced, if not an altogether unbalanced mind. Yet his youth was full of high poetic promise, a promise never effectively fulfilled, for most of his all too brief career was passed in purposeless dreaming amid the chill shades of penury and want. The wandering life led by his parents, though precluding any possibility of their child receiving anything in the way of a rogular education, yet made him familiar with scenes of natural beauty; while his poetic instincts were stirred by the ballad singing of his mother (who was of Highland descent), and the rhyming of his father. Very early he taught himself to read, and, in an odd, casual kind of way, obtained an amazing acquaintance with books. When about 20 years of age he published his first volume of poems, and though nearly all of those 20 years he had lived in squalid misery, familiar with vice and profligacy of every form and hue, his little book was remarkable for the music of its verses and the sustained elevation and purity of its thought and feeling. It was as if to him poesj' was a veritable pool of Bethesda, into which he plunged, emerging cleansed, for the time being at least, of all soilu.ro and unchastity. This little volume was favourably reviewed, and shortly after its appearance he joined the staff of the Glasgow "Daily Bulletin," and for a considerable time thereafter his racy paragraphs wero a feature of that paper. By and by, the longing to "go on the road" became too strong to be longer resisted, and so he left his first and only steady job, and took to his old habits of tramping and drinking. He published a second .volume of verse, ■which met with greater praise than his first, and again returning to his native city, he alternated between doing hack work on one or other of the newspapers (for none of them would give him a permanent place on their staffs), and iwpeddling his own books from door to door, his days passed in miserable hardship, and his nights in the false hilarity of the public-house. How in such circumstances and with such surroundings ho managed to write so many really beautiful things is one of the marvels of literature. In the little collection of his verses published many years after his death at the early age of 31, there is hardly a piece that does not possess a singular melody of tone and a purity of thought and expression which one seeks in vain in the musings of many more ambitious, more carefully educated, and more studious poets. He certainly was a remarkable modern instance of the truth of the old adage, "poeta nascitur, 11011 fit." Tho one gleam of sunshine in his melancholy life-story was the hearty welcome, the kind and liberal response the unfortunate poet received from Charles Dickens. As editor of "Household Words," in which most of MacFarlan's best work appeared, Dickens is said to have been more than liberal, and in- the short autobiography he left bcltind him, MacFarlan .expresses his

deep sense of gratitude for the gracious and generous treatment he had received at the hands of one "who had himself known what it was to be poor and ambitious."

Samuel Lover, the genial author oi "The Low-backed Car," "Widow Machree," "Rory O'More," etc., etc., visited Glasgow in January, 1859, : n order to take part in the Burns' centerary celebrations, and while there made the acquaintance of MacFarlan. On his return to London, Lover visited tho Garrick Club, and in the hearing of Thackeray, recited MacFarlan's "Lords of Labor." Scarcely had the last word been uttered, when tho great novelist sprang to his feet, excitedly exclaiming: "By Jove! I don't think even Burns himself could have taken the wind out of that man's sails I The verses which so enthused Thackeray were the following: — THE LORDS OF LABOR. They come, they come, in a glorious march, You can hear their steam-steeds neig-b, As they dash through Skill's triumphal a-roh, Or plunge midst the dancing spray. Their Dale-fires blaze in the mighty forge, Their life-pulse throbs in the mill, Their lightnings shiver the gaping gorge, And their thunders shake the hill. Ho! these are the Titans of Toal and Trade, x The Heroes who wield no sabre; But mightier conquests reapeth the blade That is borne by the Lords of Labor. Bravo hearts like jewels light the sod, Through the mists of Commerce shine, And souls flash out, like stars of God, From the midnight of the mine. No palace is theirs, no castle great, No princely pillared hall, But they well may laugh at the roofs of state, 'Neath the heaven which is over all. Ho! these are the Titans of Toil and Trade, The Heroes who wield no sabre; But mightier conquests reapeth the blade That is borne by the Lords of Labor. Each bares his arm for the ringing-strife That marshals the sons of the soil, And the sweat-drops shed in the battle of life Are gems in the crown of Toil, And beitter their well-won wreath, I trow, Than laurels with life-blood wet; And nobler the arch of a bare, hold brow, Than the clasp of a coronet. Then hurrah for each hero, although his deed, Be unblown by trump or tabor, For holier, happier far is the meed ' That orowneth the Lords of Labor.

During boyhood and early manhood lyrical verse was my Mecca. There was not a poem or song' of note, especially by Irish or Scots writer, I had not added to my collection. From my study of the subject I had formulated the theory that every good song had its inspiration or model in some earlier piece of verse. I could have quoted hundreds of instances to support my theory. MacFarlan's "Lords of Labor" seemed an exception. My mother told mc it had a haunting resemblance to an anonymous poem on "The Navvies," which she had heard in her early girlhood and had all but forgotten. I made a diligent search for this poem, but to no purpose, till some years afterwards I. bought a number of secondhand books, including a copy of MacFarlan's poems, when, lo! pasted on tho back inside cover were the following verses: —