A Coincidence

Every critic in the town
Runs the minor poet down;
Every critic--don't you know it?
Is himself a minor poet.

Robert Fuller Murray

Robert Fuller Murray was a Scottish poet known for his lyrical and expressive poetry. Born on December 26, 1863, in Roxbury, Massachusetts, he moved to Scotland at a young age. Despite a short life, ending on April 15, 1894, Murray left a significant mark with his works, which often reflected themes of nature and human emotion. His poetry is characterized by its elegance and depth of feeling. Murray's influence remained through posthumous publications and collections of his poetry.

Robert Fuller Murray

The True Liberal

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Come Back To St. Andrews

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Midnight

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

Love Recalled In Sleep

Robert Fuller Murray, Simple Poetry

English

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A Criticism Of Critics

How often have the critics, trained
    To look upon the sky
Through telescopes securely chained,
    Forgot the naked eye.

Within the compass of their glass
    Each smallest star they knew,
And not a meteor could pass
    But they were looking through.

When a new planet shed its rays
    Beyond their field of vision,
And simple folk ran out to gaze,
    They laughed in high derision.

They railed upon the senseless throng
    Who cheered the brave new light.
And yet the learned men were wrong,
    The simple folk were right.

Robert Fuller Murray

The Poet's Hat

The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
    He passed through the doorway into the street,
A strong wind lifted his hat from his head,
    And he uttered some words that were far from sweet.
And then he started to follow the chase,
    And put on a spurt that was wild and fleet,
It made the people pause in a crowd,
    And lay odds as to which would beat.

The street cad scoffed as he hunted the hat,
    The errand-boy shouted hooray!
The scavenger stood with his broom in his hand,
    And smiled in a very rude way;
And the clergyman thought, 'I have heard many words,
    But never, until to-day,
Did I hear any words that were quite so bad
    As I heard that young man say.'

Robert Fuller Murray

Adventure Of A Poet

As I was walking down the street
    A week ago,
Near Henderson's I chanced to meet
    A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell,
    His home, Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
    As he knows me.

He gave my hand a hearty shake,
    Discussed the weather,
And then proposed that we should take
    A stroll together.

Down College Street we took our way,
    And there we met
The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,
    That arch coquette,
Who stole last spring my heart away
    And has it yet.

That smile with which my bow she greets,
    Would it were fonder!
Or else less fond--since she its sweets
    On all must squander.
Thus, when I meet her in the streets,
    I sadly ponder,
And after her, as she r...

Robert Fuller Murray

To The Reader Of 'University Notes'

Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
    As your eye glances over these Notes:
'What asses are these that are braying
    With flat and unmusical throats?
Who writes such unspeakable patter?
    Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?'
And you think there is 'something the matter.'
    Well, we think so too.

We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,
    As the hours dragged heavily on,
Till the midnight has merged into morrow,
    And the darkness is going or gone.
We are Editors.    Give us the credit
    Of meaning to do what we could;
But, since there is nothing to edit,
    It isn't much good.

Once we shared the delightful delusion
    That to edit was racy and rare,
But we suffered a sad disillusion,
    And we found that our castles wer...

Robert Fuller Murray

An Orator's Complaint

How many the troubles that wait
    On mortals!--especially those
    Who endeavour in eloquent prose
To expound their views, and orate.

Did you ever attempt to speak
    When you hadn't a word to say?
    Did you find that it wouldn't pay,
And subside, feeling dreadfully weak?

Did you ever, when going ahead
    In a fervid defence of the Stage,
    Get checked in your noble rage
By somehow losing your thread?

Did you ever rise to reply
    To a toast (say 'The Volunteers'),
    And evoke loud laughter and cheers,
When you didn't exactly know why?

Did you ever wax witty, and when
    You had smashed an opponent quite small,
    Did he seem not to mind it at all,
But get up and smash you again?

If any or all of ...

Robert Fuller Murray

The Poet And The Critics.

If those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly--Quis custodiet?


A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;--
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,--in fine,
A neat and "classical" Design.
But the in-Side?--Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,--more Imitation;--
Some Accidents of Inspiration;--
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;--
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.

In the less-crowded Age of ANNE,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked h...

Henry Austin Dobson