I am aware that many members will already have responded to the various appeals that have been recently launched to help those affected by the disastrous war in Ukraine. Nevertheless, it is felt that as a Church we need to show our concern and pain in some way. As I announced in the church a couple of weeks ago, on Pentecost Sunday, 5 June, we will hold a special service at which a collection for Ukraine will be taken. As always donations will be gratefully received at any time from those unable to attend on 5 June.
Christmas Carol in Lockerbie Lots of singing
A visit of children from primary 3 Lockerbie Primary School, was a great success. They spent some time adding prayers to the Christmas tree.
Netta Leigh was the pen name of Hannah Whittemore who mainly wrote poetry and novels aimed at young children which were published in a children’s magazine edited by her brother the Revd William Meynell Whittemore. The monthly magazines ran from around 1862 into the 1900s. The poem may not be brilliant writing but conveys well the thoughts of a sixty year old writer comparing her childhood in the 1830s to that of around 1870. Revd Whittemore was forward thinking in terms of content of the magazine and promoting it, which included a children’s council of readers who gave answers to letters written in asking for advice. His church held a monthly children’s service.
I had a Victorian upbringing! In the text, a velvet (the material in this example) spencer is a long sleeved bolero style short jacket made popular in the early part of the 19th Century, while Battledore evolved into the game of Badminton in the early 1870s.
THE LITTLE GIRL OF SIXTY YEARS AGO.
BY AN OLD LADY.
WHEN I was quite a little girl,
Full sixty years ago,
My hair was brown and used to curl;
Now it is white as snow.
I wore such short and scanty frocks,
Like evening dress made low;
Black sandall’d shoes, and nice white socks,
With sash, tied in a bow.
Then I, for out-of-door attire,
A velvet spencer had;
With cottage straw, made firm with wire,
And trimm’d, perhaps, with plaid.
A cloth pelisse for winter-time,
With braid sewn neatly on it;
While feathers, from a distant clime,
Adorn’d my beaver bonnet.
I was not self-assured and free,
As maidens are to-day;
Unless our guests first spoke to me,
I but few words might say;
While in the room I must not stir,
Nor laugh nor seem at ease:
I answer’d modestly, “No, Sir,”
Or, “Yes, Ma’am, if you please!”
And yet I was a happy child,
All full of mirth and fun;
I romp’d about as one half wild,
When stated tasks were done.
With shuttlecock and battledore,
With hoop, and blind man’s buff,
With hunt the slipper-and some more,-
Of games we had enough.
And when we to a party went,
A children’s one, I mean;
In such like play our time was spent,-
Each happy as a Queen!
We never dreamt of dance or ball,
Like grown-up people, then;
Pure, simple pastimes pleased us all,
And we were home by ten.
In clear sweet voice I often sang,
And made a merry noise;
But never talk d the vulgar slang
Girls use as well as boys.
When in the streets I did not stare
At every passer-by,
But walk’d along with quiet air,
Sedate, and rather shy.
I had not half as many books
As modern children share;
And antiquated were their looks,-
But, oh, how prized they were!
I read them through and through: and when
You would have deemed them old,
I read them twenty times again,
And thought their worth untold.
I love to muse upon the past,
And yet I sometimes sigh
As memory’s pensive glance is cast
Upon the days gone by.
Young Ladies often shake my hand,
Or nod, with careless bow,
But LITTLE GIRLS, I understand,
Are rarely met with now!
John Gillespie Magee, Jr. wrote High Flight just before his death in a mid-air collision over Lincolnshire during World War II, serving in the Royal Canadian Air Force. He was nineteen.
Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Off sunsplit clouds – and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of; wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hovering there
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air;
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark nor even eagle flew;
And while, with silent lifting wind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out me hand and touched the face of God.
A Favourite Poem of Margaret Buchanan
Blythswood Shoe Box Appeal 2019
In 2018 The Shoe Box Appeal, enabling Blythswood to gather and distribute 107,073 shoeboxes.
The shoeboxes received last year were distributed in Albania, Bulgaria, Hungary, Kosovo, Moldova, Romania, Serbia and Ukraine.
Please take the time to watch the short video below.
Leaflets are at the back of the church. Or click on the link below for a list.
Boxes need to be at All Saints for 6th October ready for collection.