William McGonagall, allegedly the worst poet ever published in English has long been derided for his ineptitude but looked at from the perspective of post-modern irony does he have more to offer? Well he certainly makes me laugh.

Though William McGonagall of Dundee, allegedly the worst poet to ever write in the English language, had never shown any inclination towards artistic expression of his ideas and feelings until his middle years he claims to have had a Road to Damascus like experience. In his own words.... The most startling incident in my life was the time I discovered myself to be a poet, which was in the year 1877. During the Dundee holiday week, in the bright and balmy month of June, when trees and flowers were in full bloom, while lonely and sad in my room, I sat thinking about the thousands of people who were away by rail or steamboat, perhaps to the land of Burns, or poor ill-treated Tannahill, or to gaze upon the Trossachs in Rob Roy's country, or elsewhere wherever their minds led them. Well, while pondering so, I seemed to feel as it were a strange kind of feeling stealing over me, and remained so for about five minutes. A flame seemed to kindle up my entire frame, along with a strong desire to write poetry; and I felt so happy, so happy, that I was inclined to dance, then I began to pace backwards and forwards in the room, trying to shake off all thought of writing poetry; but the more I tried, the more strong the sensation became. It was so strong, I imagined that a pen was in my right hand, and a voice crying, 'Write! Write!' So I said to myself, ruminating, let me see; what shall I write? then all at once a bright idea struck me to write about my best friend, the late Reverend George Gilfillan; in my opinion I could not have chosen a better subject, therefore I immediately found paper, pen, and ink, and set myself down to immortalise the great preacher, poet, and orator. So McGonagall embarked upon a career as a poet inspired by the belief that God had given him a mission. (Many of us who write feel that our inspiration comes from a source beyond our physical being; The Force, Nature, The Muses, in short God by whatever name we choose. In the case of McGonagall you may feel as you read on that God would deny any involvement.) William McGonagall had no feeling for language or metaphor, no romance in his being and worst of all no sense of rhythm. Almost a century after the Scot penned his first works the Beat poets abandoned formal structure in verse and wrote lines of irregular length in ambient metre. So was McGonagall ahead of his time? In a word, NO, he was just hopeless. Seeming to believe that so long as the lines rhymed the whatever he was producing qualified as poetry he took absolutely incredible liberties with metre, syntax and - well everything really, torturing poetry until it yielded and bent into shapes it was never meant to fit. Fans of vintage British TV comedy will derive additional enjoyment from these verses by imagining them being read by the curmudgeonly Private Fraser from "Dad's Army" Some of McGonagall's shorter works are reproduced below. What he lacked in talent was more than made up for in verbosity, consequently the word "shorter" is relative. Read a couple of extracts of McGonagall's work below and consider, if this is what he achieved with Divine inspiration what havoc might he have wrought on the English language had he sold his soul to Satan. The answer may well be that he would have become a rapper and eclipsed Eminem. This first piece, actually the first poem McGonagall ever wrote is a tribute to his friend the Rev. Gilfillin. Unfortunately Gilfillin died soon afterwards so we cannot know whether the friendship would have survived further poems or indeed whether this piece contributed to the Reverend gentleman's demise. Rev George Gilfillan of Dundee, There is none you can excel; You have boldly rejected the Confession of Faith, And defended your cause right well. The first time I heard him speak, 'Twas in the Kinnaird Hall, Lecturing on the Garibaldi movement, As loud as he could bawl. He is a liberal gentleman To the poor while in distress, And for his kindness unto them The Lord will surely bless. My blessing on his noble form, And on his lofty head, May all good angels guard him while living, And hereafter when he's dead. Now from this short verse you will gain some appreciation of McGonagall's lack of poetic qualities and the fact that meter, scansion and simply the feel of verse. Be thankful then that no metaphor is included here because it is in the creation of mundane and utterly meaningless imagery that McGonagall excels. Much of the poet's work concerned railway disasters, events pertaining to Dundee, his home town and commentaries on Scottish life. In Saving A Train, McGonagall turns his attention to a railway disaster in Germany and the efforts of one young man "Brave Carl" to avert the catastrophe. Here are the first ten verses. After five you will not care what happens to the hero and by ten (and bear in mind this is only halfway through the entire work) you will be cheering each time the bridge gets closer to collapse. Saving a Train 'Twas in the year of 1869, and on the 19th of November, Which the people in Southern Germany will long remember, The great rain-storm which for twenty hours did pour down, That the rivers were overflowed and petty streams all around. The rain fell in such torrents as had never been seen before, That it seemed like a second deluge, the mighty torrents' roar, At nine o'clock at night the storm did rage and moan When Carl Springel set out on his crutches all alone -- From the handsome little hut in which he dwelt, With some food to his father, for whom he greatly felt, Who was watching at the railway bridge, Which was built upon a perpendicular rocky ridge. The bridge was composed of iron and wooden blocks, And crossed o'er the Devil's Gulch, an immense cleft of rocks, Two hundred feet wide and one hundred and fifty feet deep, And enough to make one's flesh to creep. Far beneath the bridge a mountain-stream did boil and rumble, And on that night did madly toss and tumble; Oh! it must have been an awful sight To see the great cataract falling from such a height. It was the duty of Carl's father to watch the bridge on stormy nights, And warn the on-coming trains of danger with the red lights; So, on this stormy night, the boy Carl hobbled along Slowly and fearlessly upon his crutches, because he wasn't strong. He struggled on manfully with all his might Through the fearful darkness of the night, And half-blinded by the heavy rain, But still resolved the bridge to gain. But when within one hundred yards of the bridge, it gave way with an awful crash, And fell into the roaring flood below, and made a fearful splash, Which rose high above the din of the storm, The like brave Carl never heard since he was born. Then; 'Father! father!' cried Carl in his loudest tone, 'Father! father!' he shouted again in very pitiful moans; But no answering voice did reply, Which caused him to heave a deep-fetched sigh. And now to brave Carl the truth was clear That he had lost his father dear, And he cried, 'My poor father's lost, and cannot be found, He's gone down with the bridge, and has been drowned.' Don't you love the way a complete verse is taken to tell us that the bridge is constructed of iron and wood. Such attention to detail is admirable although it is unlikely that anybody reading the poem would not have already had a pretty good idea of construction techniques. That is assuming of course any of McGonagall's contemporaries who read his works without the benefit of a 21st century perspective would have had a pulse by the time they got that far. Next we move on to the Tay Bridge, one of the engineering wonders of Nineteenth century Britain. McGonagall was a great admirer of the river which he habitually referred to as the "Silver'y Tay" and following this wrote an paen on the Tay Bridge Disaster. Whether the greater disaster is the accident or the poem you must decide for yourselves. The Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay! With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array, And your central girders, which seem to the eye To be almost towering to the sky. The greatest wonder of the day, And a great beautification to the River Tay, Most beautiful to be seen, Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green. Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay! That has caused the Emperor of Brazil to leave His home far away, incognito in his dress, And view thee ere he passed along en route to Inverness Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay! The longest of the present day That has ever crossed o'er a tidal river stream, Most gigantic to be seen, Near by Dundee and the Magdalen Green. Again there is so much more that I have not space to include here. GOVERNMENT HEALTH WARNING. McGonagall's poems should be read in small doses. Excessive laughter can damage stomach muscles, cause choking attacks and in extreme cases lead to heart attacks. My own McGonagall page is linked below but as that site is under reconstruction at the moment a web search on "William McGonagall" may yield better results. You may also like to check out my tribute to the style and substance of the man's work by looking at "Ode to Porridge" on my poetry list. Ian Thorpe, July 2002.