United Colleges - Vox Yearbook (Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada)

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VI. In Exile. Chorus: Lucy, Lucy of Rancho Grande, I bought a pound of cyanide, Here is a letter from your Old auntie, I baked a cake today, “Leave the saloon and give up likker, Ah, lonely will my life be now, And you’ll get to heaven and daddy much That Lucy’s gone away, quicker.” VII. Shipwreck. O Lucy on the burning deck, Forget you not your duty, Climb up upon the flaming boards, And shout your rooty-tooty. Oh, harden not your tender heart, Get women and children off, Cheer up the sailors’ hearts, my dear, And do not stop to cough. What if the boat is burning bright, Its decks are sinking lower, It is a warming death, my dear, And drowning is much slower. VIII. To the Lost Lucy. I took the train to Lyonesse, My Lucy for to woo, But oh, alas, she was not there, Nor was her suitcase, too. I went to see my Lucy sweet, I had a rose to give her, Alas, ah me, she was not there, They sold her down the river. IX. In Memoriam. Lucy is dead and I am sad, For she was my daughter and I her dad, But her mother is rather glad. X. Ring Out Ring Out (A Sbng). Ring, ring, ye bells, Lucy is dead, Because she ate Some hot, fresh bread. Ring out, wild bells, And toll our doom! Lucy is dead. We can rent her room! XI. Requiescat (To the Unknown Lover) They’ve showered her with roses, But never a word from you, I don’t know you from Moses, Ah, would that she did too. They’ve feted her in dozens And everyone was there, Her friends, her foes, her cousins, But from you, not one stare. Strew on her roses, roses, But never a spray of yew, In peace your heart reposes, Ah, would that mine did too. XII. Lament. The green grass is growing o’er the grave where Lucy lies, Oh, nevermore my love I’ll see, her gold hair and her eyes, I never knew what sorrow was, till Lucy’s soul had fled, And now my heart is squeezing out sad tears of deepest red. Oh woe is me, oh misery, oh dearest heart laid down Amid the dank and chilly sods, what profit in the ground? The little birds are singing o’er the spot where Lucy is laid, In all the earth will ne’er be found a purer, sweeter maid. Her goodness shone from out her eyes, her soul was there to see, How long, how long have I to wait, till I am there with thee? My bitter sobs, my soul-rack’t sighs, alas, to no avail, For she has gone ahead of me down that long, awesome trail. Page Twenty

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Furtfaer Research Concermin W. Wordsworth HTHIS is a collection of Wordsworth’s lesser known Lucy poems, following his affair with a French girl, from the very beginning when they met in London after her marriage to an Englishman whose name is never revealed, to the tragic, somewhat sordid ending of Lucy’s life, poisoned by the man who loved her. Wordsworth was much older than Lucy and liked to call himself her “daddy.” Once in an attempt to break off with Lucy, he sent her to Texas with his aunt, but Lucy’s tender heart broke, and she took to drink. Wordsworth called her home at once. On the way back she was the heroine of a shipwreck, and with her indomitable spirits kept up the courage of the survivors. Their love affair, perhaps the greatest in Eng¬ lish literature, was a tender, gay time for both Wordsworth and Lucy. A few clouds of jealousy darkened his sky when rumors of Lucy’s little friendship with Hardy reached London, but on the whole Wordsworth and Lucy were very happy. Wordsworth ' tells us that he used to run up to Lyonesse unexpectedly to see Lucy, but she would have heard of his approach and run off to the next county. This giddy hide- and-seek went on for many years until one or both of two events, one probably fictional, took place. Lucy was sent down to prison and Words¬ worth lost his mind. Literary critics feel Wordsworth must have been a little out of his head, but there is controversy over Lucy’s prison record. When she came home, if indeed she ever left, Wordsworth, beset with notions of her immor¬ ality, poisoned her and buried her in the garden under a rose bush. He writes a pleading, bitter, poem to her unknown lover, asking him why he has not attended Lucy’s funeral. As a mat¬ ter of fact, none attended her funeral. The only other person who knew of Lucy’s death was Lucy’s mother. Helen Brekke, Ph.D., Lift. D. I. To Lucy. With Deep Feeling. Lucy, Lucy of Lyonesse, The flower of the state, Lucy is gone to London Town, Her lover for to mate. Lucy, Lucy of London Town, Once more in Lyonesse, With bruises black and darkly brown, Her marriage was a mess. II. Sorrow in Retrospect. In Lyonesse where Hardy lived There stands a little fountain, Or was it Arnold who lived there? Perhaps it was a mountain? At any rate, there Lucy dwelt, She knew old Hardy well. And yet I never dreamed that she Would fall beneath his spell. III. Immorality Will Out. Lucy went to Chinatown, (A suburb of Lyonesse). She bought a costly silken gown, A lacy summer dress. It matters not h ' ow Lucy’s clad Her morals ever will be bad. Ah, Lucy, stay away from me, At least until eternity. IV. The Travelling Salesman. I took a bus to Lyonesse, My Lucy for to see, But Lucy’d gone to Lancashire, She dreaded seeing me. V. What’s Skin Deep? In Lyonesse, in Arthur’s time, My Lucy was a beauty, The years have passed, I love her still, Great is my sense of duty. Page Nineteen

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THEN The snow swirls — Cold and swift and low. And the sting of it on my cheek Is as the sting of long-forgotten tears. Who was I then That I weep now? Once there were arms to reach through the snow And warm me, And teach me to find it beautiful. And they were strong, And safe, And very, very dear. But the snow swirls And I cannot remember their touch. And there was a voice to call through the snow And help me to find the storm gentle. But I cannot remember the words For the snow beats . . . Cold and swift and low, And the land is lonely. The snow swirls, And the sting of it on my cheek Is as the sting of long-forgotten tears. Why can I not remember those tears? Or if there were eyes that watched my fear And loved me for being weak? And the beckoning pulse of the storm shudders across the waste. And I cover my face. For 1 know not how to follow. Once there were cold forests about me. And from their shelter I watched a city burn. And there were arms to reach out of the dark And comfort me. And a voice to still my weeping. But the jealous stars that watched us go Ordained that the tears I had not wept Shoidd fall now. Who was I then? How many centuries have I wept for the insati¬ able stars? And the snow swirls and beats Cold and swift and low, Freezing the half-forgotten tears upon my face. I would I had wept then and gone uncomforted That I might find strong arms and a gentle voice now. Donna O. Munroe. ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND You will know by now that Hugh Is no longer with us. We were so busy doing Everything that we could — His death was like a sudden death. That night he asked me If he would really get well. I shed a few tears, and he patted my head. 1 knew that would be enough For the time being. Friday we held a little Communion service, The minister, two elders, and he and I. Just two brief prayers, And the bread And the wine We shared. They called to me when I had stolen out, To make a little lunch. I put my left hand Over his And my right hand On his forehead. He took a long, last breath. He always wanted to put oil heat in To make it easy for me In case Something should happen. But the spring is here And the summer coming, It is a more cheerful time Of the year Than autumn or winter Would have been. James H. Dow COMPLIMENTS OF . . . CRESCENT CREAMERY COMPANY LTD. Dealers in Quality Guarded Dairy Products for over 45 years. MILK - CREAM - BUTTER - ICE CREAM Phone 37 101 Page Twenty-one