Alexander Anderson (April 30, 1845 – July 11, 1909) was a Scottish poet.
Born in Kirkconnel, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland, the sixth and youngest son of James Anderson a quarrier. When the boy was three, the household moved to Crocketford in Kirkcudbrightshire. He attended the local school where the teacher found him to be of average ability. The area around Croketford was renowned for martyrdom and Anderson seems to have taken inspiration from his walks in the hills in his later poetry. At sixteen he was back in his native village working in a quarry; some two years later (1862), he became a surfaceman or platelayer on the Glasgow and South-western railway, and generally wrote... more »
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Alexander Anderson Poems
A Legend of St. Patrick
I heard this old legend a few days ago— A legend so quaint Of Ireland's saint, That to lighten my time I have put it in rhyme, Just to see how it looks with the lines all a-row.
Song Of The Engine
In the shake and rush of the engine, In the full, deep breath of his chest, In the swift, clear clank of the gleaming crank, In his soul that is never at rest;
Hurrah! for the mighty engine, As he bounds along his track: Hurrah, for the life that is in him, And his breath so thick and black.
The Cricket's Song
He will not sing his loudest song, This poet full of love and mirth, Until the shadows which belong To night are deep upon the hearth.
On the Engine By Night
On the engine in the night-time, with the darkness all around, And below the iron pulses beating on with mighty sound. And I stand as one in wonder, till within a flush of pride
The Lily O' The Banks O' Cree
Saft fa's the sun on Anwoth Hills When simmer smiles an' a' is fair; But what is licht to them or me, When she I lo'e is bidin' there?
The Cricket's Silence
Last year I sat within my room, And heard the cricket in the gloom Chirp out his palpitating lay, As if he were on holiday.
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' muckle faucht an' din— 'O, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your faither's comin' in'—
A Night Vision In The Colosseum At Rome
I sit upon a shattered shaft, as if Time, worn and blind, Had smote himself in sudden rage and left one limb behind.
A Castle Old And Grey
I never see a castle That is gaunt and grey and grim, But my thoughts at once go backward To the past so misty and dim.
Blood On The Wheel
Bless her dear little heart!' said my mate, and he pointed out to me, Fifty yards to the right, in the darkness, a light burning steady and clear. 'That's her signal in answer to me, when I whistle, to let me see She is at her place by the window the time I am passing here.'
The Spirit Of Love
The Spirit of Love came down upon the earth, He came full-breath'd and strong, And ever as he went a glorious birth Grew forth in flowers and song.
Never through all the years to be Can there be such a night as that night we know, When we two stood by a hawthorn tree, High up on a hill where the night winds blow.
I walked for an hour in Selkirk, In the folds of a noonday dream; And through it there ran for music The murmur of Yarrow stream.
Comments about Alexander Anderson
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
A Legend of St. Patrick
I heard this old legend a few days ago—
A legend so quaint
Of Ireland's saint,
That to lighten my time
I have put it in rhyme,
Just to see how it looks with the lines all a-row.
When St Patrick, that worthy dear man, came to see
How the reptiles polluted his darling 'conthree,'
He determined to stamp them, so set out with glee
To hunt them with curses until they should flee
To less favour'd nations over the sea,
Where they might rest their feet,
Safe in some snug retreat,
And have leisure to cool themselves down from their heat,
And make ...