Two Poems

Family Poem

Written by Ellen (Garland) Birch, and addressed to Rica Birch, her grand-daughter. A later poem “recollections of a Grandma” overlaps the subject matter.

Tell you about my history?

Tell you about my past?

But history’s often mystery -

Its memories will not last.

Yet, sitting by my fireside

The visions come and go

Of faces once forgotten

Seen by me long ago.

Of childhood’s home and faces

Familiar in the past;

Of many loved faces

In the long, distant past.

Well! I was born in Penn, dear,

Charles was my father’s name;

My mother’s name was Shrimpton,

Born in the town of Thame.

No! She was born in Penn, too,

How silly now of me,

But memory’s full of tricks, dear,

When one is old, you see.

But Aunt Rovena passed away,

Later — an angel came

To bless dear Uncle James’ home,

And Sarah[1] was her name.

About my mother, dearie,

She died in fifty-nine,

I took your Uncle Ernest down

(A baby at the time.)

But, Oh, he was a little scamp,

You should have heard him scream;

I had to bring him home again

For Mrs. Webb to wean.

Then I went back again to her,

And then she passed away;

We laid her in the dear Church yard

The day was Good Friday.

And is that all? Why, bless you, no,

There’s heaps more I could say,

But I must stop; I’ll tell the rest

Perhaps - some other day.

One evening after Chapel

We stayed to practise late;

When I came in she met me

In such an upset state.

Where have you been to Ellen?

What do you mean by this?

Grandma[2] was apt to scold, dear,

More often than to kiss.

You’ve been so long at chapel,

You stayed to practise late;

A little later, Ellen,

And I’d have locked the gate.

Oh, never mind the singing,

What was me text tonight?

“One thing is needful, Grandma,”

I’d got the text alright.

“One thing is needful, truly,

And there it is,” she said.

She pointed to my supper,

“Eat that, and go to bed.”

But though Grandma was hasty,

She meant me good - not harm,

And I have pleasant memories

Of dear old Vicarage Farm.

But I must tell you more, dear,

About my earliest years;

Some memories are delightful,

Some fill my eyes with tears.

My Father[3] was a builder

He worked for old Lord Howe;

He died before dear Mother,

But I can see him now.

Can see him starting early,

With bag and tools to work;

He was a busy man, dear,

No duties would he shirk.

Not only busy weekdays,

But busy Sundays, too;

If we were late for Chapel,

There was a “How-d’ye-do!”

No breakfasting in bed, dear,

Rise early with the sun;

A six o’clock prayer meeting

Meant a Sabbath well begun.

And he was always there, dear,

And always at his class,

And in his place at Chapel,

Ah! Right up to the last.

And we were always there, too,

We joined in every hymn;

There were no organs then, dear,

But every one would sing.

At that time in the churches

They played all sorts of things:

Cornet and harp and hautboy[4]

And instruments with strings.

The young men played the fiddles,

The old men drew the bow

Across the big bass viol,

And made the music flow.

I love a glorious organ

To lead us in our song,

To raise our thoughts to Heaven

And waft our souls along.

I love the united voices

As all combine to raise

Their inmost thoughts to Heaven

In a great song of Praise.

But I loved the good old times, dear,

When organs had not come;

When all the village talent

Combined to play as one[5].

When one would play the bass viol

And one the deep bassoon,

And the sweet toned cello

Would blend with every tune.

No, not the tambourine, dear,

They had not yet come in,

But flutes and, best of all, dear,

The sweet toned violin.

It made one’s thoughts run backwards

To ages past and gone,

When Miriam took her timbrel

And danced for joy at morn.

Or when the music sounded

O’er Babylon’s great plain;

They had grand music then, dear,

Whatever king might reign.

‘Twas flute and harps and sackbut

That cheered the mighty crowd,

And psaltery and dulcimer,

Now soft - now sweet - now loud.

But there are sadder memories

Dear Rica, as I said,

So many of my loved ones

Are numbered with the dead.

Perhaps I have used the wrong word,

I should not call them dead;

They simply slipped from earth’s life

And entered Heaven instead.

The first was little Charles[6], dear,

It was the Sabbath day;

He chanced too near the fire

While happy at his play.

A scream - then to the Chapel

Where Mother was, you know.

The place was near - so Mary

Had not so far to go.

Our little burned Brother

Lingered from day to day,

But he at last passed from us,

He had not long to stay.

My eldest sister, Mary,

Lingered in a decline,

And passed away to Heaven

Ere she was twenty-nine.

The best of sisters, Mary,

This book’s about her - see?

She left one thing behind her -

A blessed memory.

It was the bleak December,

Just before Christmas Day,

She heard when Hunt, the Butcher,

Said, “What will you have to-day?”

“Ordering the Christmas dinner

Mary,” her sister said.

“But not for me,” she answered,

“I’ll dine in Heaven instead.”

And so passed on our Mary,

December twenty-four;

Perhaps she met our Mother

Later at the door.

Later passed on our Elizabeth

When bloomed the Lilly & Rose,

In the midst of glorious summer;

Mary passed mid the snows.

When Mary died, my brother

Had gone to Parsonage Farm

To fetch custards from Grandma

With basket on his arm.

Charles walked back through the Church-yard

The second Charles[7] I mean

(To have one boy bear Father’s name,

Mother was always keen.)

He heard the Church bell tolling,

He thought - who now is dead?

And into the quiet Church he strolled

And to the Sexton said,

“Why is the Church bell tolling?”

Old Arten shook his head.

“My poor dear boy,” he stammered forth,

“Your sister, Mary’s dead.”

Elizabeth, when dying,

Called us beside her bed,

And while we stood with tear dimmed eyes,

In earnest tones she said,

“Mary is gone - and soon to me

The Master’s call will come.

I want to meet you bye and bye

In Heaven — every one!

Now do not weep, but once again

I’d love to hear you sing;

And “Vital Spark of Heavenly Flame,”

We sang - her favourite hymn.

Time is too short to tell you all,

‘Twould be so very long.

My brother, Phillip, he has gone,

And my dear brother, John.

Then there was sister Sarah[8],

The one we all loved so.

Your will remember her, dear child,

Dear Auntie Lissolo.

She was the youngest of us all,

How little dreamed we then

That ‘neath Italian skies she’d live

Instead of quiet Penn.

And William, Charles and Thomas,

And good dear brother, James;

I can see them at their lessons;

I can see them at their games.

The second Charles was clever.

My! Couldn’t he recite?

Study, not play, my darling,

Was his supreme delight.

He’d read in Greek or Latin,

Write verses splendidly,

The Bible, chapter, verses, books,

He’d tell you readily.

And then how he could mimic;

He’d take the leaders off;

You’d recognize their words, their tones,

Their actions, e’en their cough.

But he, and all are gone, dear,

Save Uncle Tom and me.

Twelve of us[9], yes, you well may say,

A good round family.

About your Uncle Tom[10], dear,

He learned his trade in Thame,

And won what’s more important -

A character and name.

How proud we were to see him

When home to Penn he came,

For all loved Uncle Tom, dear,

He sprang quite into fame.

When he preached at the Chapel,

The people filled the place,

And as the message touched their hearts,

Found it a means of Grace.

Then later he would talk, dear,

About the sailor men;

Spin yams of ships, and sailors’ ways,

You should have heard him then.

Of Jack aloft, and Jack ashore,

He’d tell you tales galore,

Sometimes strong men would be dim-eyed

Sometimes with laughter roar.

He lived a useful life, dear,

And now his sons - grown men,

Serve his great Master, Jesus Christ,

With life and word and pen.

Then Uncle James, dear Rica,

No man could better be,

So kind, so tender-hearted,

So truly brotherly.

I loved to hear him pray, dear,

“Indulgent Father[11], hear

Your humble child who longs for Thee.”

To James the Lord seemed near.

Now I must tell you something

About our special name.

‘Twas Sarah this, and Sarah that,

Then Sarah once again.

Our Mother’s name was Sarah,

And then - well, one by one

The boys - they married Sarahs;

‘Twas quite a bit of fun.

‘Twas Aunty Sarah Lissolo,

And Aunty Sarah John;

James’ wife was name Rovena,

But ‘twas Aunty Sarah Tom[12].

You say Shrimpton sounds funny,

Reminds you of the sea,

Of going down to Hayling[13],

And having shrimps for tea?

You are a funny girlie,

You are so very sharp,

Well, let me tell of Grandma -

My Grandma’s name was Clark.

She lived down at the Farm, dear,

Vicarage Farm, I mean;

You went right through the Church-yard,

Not down towards Penn Green.

And many happy days, dear.

And nights I spent with her.

‘Twas long ago but distance

Youth’s memories cannot blur.

Grandma was very strict. Dear,

Very abrupt, you know.

She used to rate me soundly

If I was not “just so.”

[1] Sarah Whiteman - Uncle James’ second wife - Australia

[3] Charles Garland – see “What one Sermon did”

[5] It is interesting that the idea of a church “music group” is not as new as we think! NB: Rica was herself a very accomplished musician.

[7] To distinguish him from “First Charles”

[8] Sarah Shrimpton Garland married Rev. Benditto Lissolo - Italy

[9] Were there 11 or 12 in the family? One reference indicated 11, and there are only 11 names on our lists.

[10] Thomas Charles Garland - Pioneer of Wesleyan Mission to the London Seamen

[11] A note at the bottom of the poem says, “Uncle James nearly always began his prayer with the words, ‘Gracious and most indulgent Father...’“

[13] Hayling Island is a seaside resort, near Portsmouth