Andrew Carnegie

In Caledonia, stern and wild,

Whence scholars, statesmen, bards have sprung,

Where ev'ry little barefoot child

Correctly lisps his mother-tongue,

And lingual solecisms betoken

That Scotch is drunk, as well as spoken,

There dwells a man of iron nerve,

A millionaire without a peer,

Possessing that supreme reserve

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere,

And marks him out to human ken

As one of Nature's noblemen.

Like other self-made persons, he

Is surely much to be excused,

Since they have had no choice, you see,

Of the material to be used;

But when his noiseless fabric grew,

He builded better than he knew.

A democrat, whose views are frank,

To him Success alone is vital;

He deems the wealthy cabman's “rank”

As good as any other title;

To him the post of postman betters

The trade of other Men of Letters.

The relative who seeks to wed

Some nice but indigent patrician,

He urges to select instead

A coachman of assured position,

Since safety-matches, you'll agree,

Strike only on the box, says he.

At Skibo Castle, by the sea,

A splendid palace he has built,

Equipped with all the luxury

Of plush, of looking-glass, and gilt;

A style which Ruskin much enjoyed,

And christened “Early German Lloyd.”

With milking-stools and ribbon'd screens

The floor is covered, well I know;

The walls are thick with tambourines,

Hand-painted many years ago;

Ah, how much taste our forbears had!

And nearly all of it was bad.

Each flow'r-embroidered boudoir suite,

Each “cosy corner” set apart,

Was modelled in the Regent Street

Emporium of suburban art.

“O Liberty!” ( I quote with shame )

“The crimes committed in thy name!”

But tho’ his mansion now contains

A swimming-bath, a barrel-organ,

Electric light, and even drains,

As good as those of Mr. Morgan,

There was a time when Andrew C.

Was not obsessed by l. s. d.

Across the seas he made his pile,

In Pittsburg, where, I've understood,

You have to exercise some guile

To do the very slightest good;

But he kept doing good by stealth,

And doubtless blushed to find it wealth.

And now his private hobby‘ tis

To meet a starving people's need

By making gifts of libraries

To those who never learnt to read;

Rich mental banquets he provides

For folks with famishing insides.

In Education's hallowed name

He pours his opulent libations;

His vast deserted Halls of Fame

Increase the gaiety of nations.

But still the slums are plague-infested,

The hospitals remain congested.

Carnegie, should your kindly eye

This foolish book of verses meet,

Please order an immense supply,

To make your libraries complete,

And register its author's name

Within your princely Halls of Fame!