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.
One Red Nose
One red rose you took from my hand— O the light was sweet that summer day— One red rose from her queenly band, That was far too sweet to pine away.
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, Wi' muckle faucht an' din— 'O, try and sleep, ye waukrife rogues, Your faither's comin' in'—
The Dead Mother
The feeble infant, but an hour in life, Lay wailing in our arms, while on the bed Slept, like a faded flower, the one year's wife, With all her mother's first sweet feelings, dead.
I heard beneath my feet the clear sharp ring Of grinding rail and wheel, I felt, as on we sped with rush and swing, The carriage sway and reel.
The Landlord's Best
A strappin', sonsie, weel-matched pair Were Jock Macree an' Maggie Blair, An' mony wusses, said an' thinkit, They had that nicht when they were linkit.
The spirit of God fell on him, and he pass'd From out the common bounds wherein we move, And like a mantle round his life he cast The grandeur of his mission from above.
The First Primrose
I stood within a wood, and heard the wind Keep up its music in the solemn trees, But this could soothe me not, for in my mind My thoughts were ill at ease;
A Village Scene- Evening
The merry children are playing In the little village street; The old men sit by the doorway: Their evening rest is sweet.
City And Village
Once again within the city, 'mid its multitudinous din, Stand I, while, as sinks a leaf when left by the uncertain wind, So the daily village quiet, and the calm I had within, Shrinks before the magic contact of the ever-shaping mind.
The Message Of The Bee
The humble bee is hiding In the blossom's golden cells; He, and he only, can tell me Where the queen of the fairies dwells.
Love Is Sweet
Whisper, dear, that love is sweet, Sweeter far than anything; Brighter than the flowers that grow
The Covenanter's Tryst
I am auld an' frail, an' I scarce can gang, Though whiles when I tak' a turn, It's only when the sun blinks oot On the braes by the Vennel Burn.
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.
Comments about Alexander Anderson
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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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 ...