Galt Collegiate Institute and Vocational School - Specula Galtonia Yearbook (Galt, Ontario Canada)

Page 78 text:

7 Svpvrnla Maltnnia M' I C ,' 1 ',. .- g. 1 .6'i,f,4,r -4.1 S, 5, -A-.. , e .f o 1931 i .s 3 if Published aod Edited by the Studenzlomel . Galt Collegiate Institute and Voeational School ,,, L4 . H , y , e

Page 77 text:

f rem'-I S PE ew- A v G f-vf-to N ' A 5 999000990999 gnu - , - , , , A A .,. A or A ...- POETRY E A A MYI A K'm1hiN1h6N1PfA1VM1 0 VKIDKYIVKIMYI A 'A' The poet may jingle and rhyme, ln hopes of a laureate wreathing 5 And when he has wasted his time, He's kindly rewarded wi' naething. -ROBERT BURNS Afterglow By JOHN THOMPSON In the afterglow Of the tinted west Where the sun sinks low To his evening's rest, Where painted skies Throw a flickering light Or fire flies With their lanterns bright, When shadows fall And the stars peep through, I will hear you call In the afterglow. fi! The Ravin' By MAURICE CROMPTON CWith Apologies to E. A. PJ At our lessons we were sitting, as our teachers say is fitting, And our eyebrows we were knitting, knitting o'er the awful bore. As we sat there faintly snoring, suddenly there came a roaring, As of someone loudly storming, storming at us with a roar. 'Tis the teacher, ' we all muttered, storming at us with a roar, Only he, and nothing more. On and onward he kept ravin' and his hands he sure was wavin', Till to us there came a craving, craving to be out the door. All the while that he was roaring, we all, so it seemed, were poring O'er the lines of print so boring, sometimes looking towards the door 'LHOW oft, threatening detention, must I tell you 'PAY ATTENTION? Quoth the raved at, EVermore. 39

Page 79 text:

l .., A . , i f'PHrw,i.A v GA!-tON'A The River By FREDA THOMPSON There's a river winds through an old Scotch town, A river with many a bend, A river of many a lilting splash Of hasty turns and sudden dash, A river of eddies where currents clash, E'er it reaches its j ourney's end. And oft on a. summer's afternoon, You will see a fisher boy, As he casts his line in the quiet flow, Where friendly willows lean so low, Where cat-tails, flags, and rushes grow, And fishing is a joy. Great heaps of stone on its banks so high Are placed with loving care, Fine schools and churches stand serene, Like sentinels at their posts are seen, In winter's white or springtime-'s green, O'er the river valley fair. And home folks round that old Scotch town, In the midst of a fertile land, See the river winding calm and free, By j utting rock and willow tree, And they hear it call to its friend, the sea, And they tell you, That's the Grand I FEE Day Dreams By GEORGE MOSS Nothing I like so well as these, A slash of green through woodland trees. A glimpse of sky between the leaves, A glint of sun on buckwheat sheaves. A muddy field of dappled brown, Sunlit roofs in a smoky town. A limestone shelf at the water's edge, A warbler's nest in an English hedge. The breeze ribbed surface of water still, The que-rulous call of the whip-poor-will. A billowy cloud in a sky serene, A swinging bird in the azure clean. A city street or a country lane, In glory of sun or ripple of rain. Nothing I like so well as these, An earthly heaven, a heavenly frieze. 40