Here it is, what critics claim is one of the worst poems of all time from the year 1880.
>Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
>Alas! I am very sorry to say
>That ninety lives have been taken away
>On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
>Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
>‘Twas about seven o’clock at night,
>And the wind it blew with all its might,
>And the rain came pouring down,
>And the dark clouds seem’d to frown,
>And the Demon of the air seem’d to say-
>“I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay.”
>When the train left Edinburgh
>The passengers’ hearts were light and felt no sorrow,
>But Boreas blew a terrific gale,
>Which made their hearts for to quail,
>And many of the passengers with fear did say-
>“I hope God will send us safe across the Bridge of Tay.”
>But when the train came near to Wormit Bay,
>Boreas he did loud and angry bray,
>And shook the central girders of the Bridge of Tay
>On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
>Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
>So the train sped on with all its might,
>And Bonnie Dundee soon hove in sight,
>And the passengers’ hearts felt light,
>Thinking they would enjoy themselves on the New Year,
>With their friends at home they lov’d most dear,
>And wish them all a happy New Year.
>So the train mov’d slowly along the Bridge of Tay,
>Until it was about midway,
>Then the central girders with a crash gave way,
>And down went the train and passengers into the Tay!
>The Storm Fiend did loudly bray,
>Because ninety lives had been taken away,
>On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
>Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
>As soon as the catastrophe came to be known
>The alarm from mouth to mouth was blown,
>And the cry rang out all o’er the town,
>Good Heavens! the Tay Bridge is blown down,
>And a passenger train from Edinburgh,
>Which fill’d all the peoples hearts with sorrow,
>And made them for to turn pale,
>Because none of the passengers were sav’d to tell the tale
>How the disaster happen’d on the last Sabbath day of 1879,
>Which will be remember’d for a very long time.
>It must have been an awful sight,
>To witness in the dusky moonlight,
>While the Storm Fiend did laugh, and angry did bray,
>Along the Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
>Oh! ill-fated Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay,
>I must now conclude my lay
>By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
>That your central girders would not have given way,
>At least many sensible men do say,
>Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
>At least many sensible men confesses,
>For the stronger we our houses do build,
>The less chance we have of being killed.
So what do we think? Better or worse than poetry now?
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There's no doubt that if you put this poetry in classes or school and compare to others that the teacher asked them to do it,it would be better than them.
>In July 1878, he walked from Dundee to Balmoral, a distance of about 60 miles (97 km) over mountainous terrain and through a violent thunderstorm to perform for Queen Victoria. When he arrived, he announced himself as "The Queen's Poet". The guards informed him "You're not the Queen's poet! Tennyson is the Queen's poet!" (Alfred, Lord Tennyson was the Poet Laureate.) McGonagall presented the letter but was refused entry and had to return home.[5]
This homie entitled his first, self-published collection of work "Poetic Gems" lololo
>presented the letter
So he had an invitation and they denied him? c**ts.
>he had an invitation
He wrote to the Queen asking if she would be his patron. The Palace wrote back politely, saying something like "Thank you for your letter, but no, sorry, Queen Victoria doesn't want to be your patron."
This was "the letter" he then decided constituted an invitation.
Why would you assume he had actually received an invitation? Don't tell me. Let me guess.
LMFAO
I feel like this anecdote alone fully disproves manifestation psychobabble.
kek
>McGonagall realised if he were to succeed as a poet, he required a patron and wrote to Queen Victoria. He received a letter of rejection, written by a royal functionary, thanking him for his interest. McGonagall took this as praise for his work. During a trip to Dunfermline in 1879, he was mocked by the Chief Templar at the International Organisation of Good Templars, of which McGonagall was a member, who told him his poetry was very bad. McGonagall told the man that "it was so very bad that Her Majesty had thanked McGonagall for what the Chief Templar had condemned."
>The letter gave McGonagall confidence in his "poetic abilities", and he felt his reputation could be enhanced further if he were to give a live performance before the Queen.
>gets rejected
>only becomes stronger and more impressed with himself
I need this power.
Oh no he didn't!
>This homie entitled his first, self-published collection of work "Poetic Gems" lololo
And followed it up with "More Poetic Gems" and "Last Poetic Gems".
amazing
Apparently the full list is
>Poetic Gems
>More Poetic Gems
>Still More Poetic Gems
>Yet More Poetic Gems
>Further Poetic Gems
>Yet Further Poetic Gems
>Last Poetic Gems
Followed by "Poetic Gems" (1890), a soft reboot of the cinem... poetic universe.
>mfw fending off the opps
>>That your central girders would not have given way,
>>At least many sensible men do say,
>>Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
>>At least many sensible men confesses,
>>For the stronger we our houses do build,
>>The less chance we have of being killed.
>modern slop is so bad it's not even considered poetry
Rupi BTFO
I've read worse. It's just very simple and at times the rhythm is a bit off. I guess the worse thing about it, even though he's talking about something which should be riveting or moving or scary or something, he manages to make it boring.
>Before he showed an interest in poetry, he displayed a keenness for acting, though Mr Giles' Theatre, where he performed, let him play the title role in Macbeth only if he paid for the privilege. The theatre was filled with his friends and fellow workers, anxious to see what they expected to be an amusing disaster. The play should have ended with Macbeth's death, but McGonagall believed the actor playing Macduff was trying to upstage him, and refused to die.
Holy shit, this guy is a goldmine
Lol, am I the only one getting Don Quixote vibes from this guy?
the definition of a based moron
>Throughout his life McGonagall seemed oblivious to the general opinion of his poems, even when his audience were pelting him with eggs and vegetables. Author Norman Watson speculates in his biography of McGonagall that he may have been on the "autism-Asperger's spectrum". Christopher Hart, writing in The Sunday Times, says that this seems "likely".
>Soon after, he received a letter purporting to be from representatives of King Thibaw Min of Burma. In it, he was informed that the King had knighted him as Topaz McGonagall, Grand Knight of the Holy Order of the White Elephant Burmah.Despite the fact that this was a fairly transparent hoax, McGonagall would refer to himself as "Sir William Topaz McGonagall, Knight of the White Elephant, Burmah" in his advertising for the rest of his life.
Good god, a 19th century lolcow
Hahahahaha, holy frick
>he may have been on the "autism-Asperger's spectrum"
The first thing that came to mind when the poem makes an abrupt turn from description of tragedy to specific engineering advice was
>this guy is 100% autistic
Really? For me I figured it out by reading the second word of the story.
My English teacher in grade 9 had us study this during our poetry unit as an example of bad poetry. The last stanza in particular always makes me kek
Looks about right, doesn't it?
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits, in midsummer morning
On a lurgid bee,
That mordiously hath blurted out,
Its earted jurtles, grumbling
Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer
Now the jurpling slayjid agrocrustles,
Are slurping hagrilly up the axlegrurts,
And living glupules frart and stipulate,
Like jowling meated liverslime,
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,
And hooptiously drangle me,
With crinkly bindlewurdles,mashurbitries.
Or else I shall rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon,
See if I don't!
I don't get what's bad about this
Is that your final answer?
This flaming ball of autism still managed to wife a woman and have seven kids with her. Also was autistic enough to successfully compete with industrialization.
frick, life was on easy mode back then
More of a chad than anyone mocking his poetic genius in this thread. Common McGonagall W
He's 100% a based moron
The man that gets drunk is little else than a fool,
And is in the habit, no doubt, of advocating for Home Rule;
But the best Home Rule for him, as far as I can understand,
Is the abolition of strong drink from the land.
>BEAUTIFUL Loch Leven, near by Kinross
>For a good day’s fishing the angler is seldom at a loss,
>For the Loch it abounds with pike and trout,
>Which can be had for the catching without any doubt;
>And the scenery around it is most beautiful to be seen,
>Especially the Castle, wherein was imprisoned Scotland’s ill-starred Queen.
>Then there’s the lofty Lomond Hills on the Eastern side,
>And the loch is long, very deep, and wide;
>Then on the Southern side there’s Benarty’s rugged hills,
>And from the tops can be seen the village of Kinross with its spinning mills.
>The big house of Kinross is very handsome to be seen,
>With its beautiful grounds around it, and the lime trees so green
>And ’tis a magnificent sight to see, on a fine summer afternoon,
>The bees extracting honey from the leaves when in full bloom.
>There the tourist can enjoy himself and while away the hours,
>Underneath the lime trees shady bowers,
>And listen to the humming of the busy bees,
>While they are busy gathering honey from the lime trees.
>Then there’s the old burying ground near by Kinross,
>And the dead that lie there turned into dusty dross,
>And the gravestones are all in a state of decay,
>And the old wall around it is mouldering away.
>Mr. SMIGGS was a gentleman,
>And he lived in London town;
>His wife she was a good kind soul,
>And seldom known to frown.
>’Twas on Christmas eve,
>And Smiggs and his wife lay cosy in bed,
>When the thought of buying a goose
>Came into his head.
>So the next morning,
>Just as the sun rose,
>He jump’d out of bed,
>And he donn’d his clothes,
>Saying, “Peggy, my dear.
>You need not frown,
>For I’ll buy you the best goose
>In all London town.”
>So away to the poultry shop he goes,
>And bought the goose, as he did propose,
>And for it he paid one crown,
>The finest, he thought, in London town.
>When Smiggs bought the goose
>He suspected no harm,
>But a naughty boy stole it
>From under his arm.
>Then Smiggs he cried, “Stop, thief!
>Come back with my goose!”
>But the naughty boy laugh’d at him,
>And gave him much abuse.
>But a policeman captur’d the naughty boy,
>And gave the goose to Smiggs,
>And said he was greatly bother’d
>By a set of juvenile prigs.
>So the naughty boy was put in prison
>For stealing the goose.,
>And got ten days’ confinement
>Before he got loose.
>So Smiggs ran home to his dear Peggy,
>Saying, “Hurry, and get this fat goose ready,
>That I have bought for one crown;
>So, my darling, you need not frown.”
>“Dear Mr Smiggs, I will not frown:
>I’m sure ’tis cheap for one crown,
>Especially at Christmas time —
>Oh! Mr Smiggs, it’s really fine.”
>“Peggy. it is Christmas time,
>So let us drive dull care away,
>For we have got a Christmas goose,
>So cook it well, I pray.
>“No matter how the poor are clothed,
>Or if they starve at home,
>We’ll drink our wine, and eat our goose,
>Aye, and pick it to the bone.”
>Immortal Robert Burns of Ayr,
>There’s but few poets can with you compare;
>Some of your poems and songs are very fine:
>To “Mary in Heaven” is most sublime;
>And then again in your “Cottar’s Saturday Night,”
>Your genius there does shine most bright,
>As pure as the dewdrops of the night.
>Your “Tam O’Shanter” is very fine,
>Both funny, racy, and divine,
>From John O’Groats to Dumfries
>All critics consider it to be a masterpiece,
>And, also, you have said the same,
>Therefore they are not to blame.
>And in my own opinion both you and they are right,
>For your genius there does sparkle bright,
>Which I most solemnly declare
>To thee, Immortal Bard of Ayr!
>Your “Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon”
>Is sweet and melodious in its tune,
>And the poetry is moral and sublime,
>And in my opinion nothing can be more fine.
>Your “Scots wha hae wi’ Wallace bled”
>Is most beautiful to hear sung or read;
>For your genius there does shine as bright,
>Like unto the stars of night
>Immortal Bard of Ayr! I must conclude my muse
>To speak in praise of thee does not refuse,
>For you were a mighty poet, few could with you compare,
>And also an honour to Scotland, for your genius it is rare
>Beautiful city of Glasgow, with your streets so neat and clean,
>Your stateley mansions, and beautiful Green!
>Likewise your beautiful bridges across the River Clyde,
>And on your bonnie banks I would like to reside.
>Chorus —
>Then away to the west — to the beautiful west!
>To the fair city of Glasgow that I like the best,
>Where the River Clyde rolls on to the sea,
>And the lark and the blackbird whistle with glee.
>’Tis beautiful to see the ships passing to and fro,
>Laden with goods for the high and the low;
>So let the beautiful city of Glasgow flourish,
>And may the inhabitants always find food their bodies to nourish.
>Chorus
>The statue of the Prince of Orange is very grand,
>Looking terror to the foe, with a truncheon in his hand,
>And well mounted on a noble steed, which stands in the Trongate,
>And holding up its foreleg, I’m sure it looks first-rate.
>Chorus
>Then there’s the Duke of Wellington’s statue in Royal Exchange Square —
>It is a beautiful statue I without fear declare,
>Besides inspiring and most magnificent to view,
>Because he made the French fly at the battle of Waterloo.
>Chorus
>And as for the statue of Sir Walter Scott that stands in George Square,
>It is a handsome statue — few with it can compare,
>And most elegant to be seen,
>And close beside it stands the statue of Her Majesty the Queen.
>Chorus
>And then there’s the statue of Robert Burns in George Square,
>And the treatment he received when living was very unfair;
>Now, when he’s dead, Scotland’s sons for him do mourn,
>But, alas! unto them he can never return.
>Chorus
>Then as for Kelvin Grove, it is most lovely to be seen
>With its beautiful flowers and trees so green,
>And a magnificent water-fountain spouting up very high,
>Where the people can quench their thirst when they feel dry.
>Chorus
>I have mixed with all kinds of people – of low and high degree,
>But the most unmannerly people are the people of Dundee.
>The fact is they don’t know how to treat a poet;
>But the Glasgow people does, and I do know it.
>Chorus
>Beautiful city of Glasgow, I now conclude my muse,
>And to write in praise of thee my pen does not refuse;
>And, without fear of contradiction, I will venture to say
>You are the second grandest city in Scotland at the present day!
>Chorus
Why are these poems so bad? I don't know much about poetry, but reading these is tough and boring, so they must be bad, I just can't explain why exactly. Seems like all he does is rhyme words at the end.
It's kind of like they try too hard but don't try at all at the same time
imo its a combination of their lack of a proper macrostructure/form with the banality of mcgonagall's ideas & statements; every goddamn one of his poems is like 30+ lines of trite infantile observations (ie, "the people died, it was quite sad", "the houses are so grand & beautiful" etc)
Apparently Professor Minerva Mcgonagall from HP was named after this goofball
>>I must now conclude my lay
>>By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
>>That your central girders would not have given way,
>>At least many sensible men do say,
>>Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
>>At least many sensible men confesses,
>>For the stronger we our houses do build,
>>The less chance we have of being killed.
If you are genuinely asking it is better than anything nowadays even free verse or anything of the like. The meter is very childish doggerrell which if used is always done for intentional comedic effect because AABB AABB just has a silly air to it. The fact the theme of his poem is a disaster which killed hundreds of people only makes his use of that meter more facepalm worthy
I wouldn't even go that far, he's Amanda Gorman-tier, but somehow she has more consistent syllabic lines than he does, where his sprawl over each other for no good reason.