The World’s Worst Poet

 

If you are familiar with the work of William Topaz McGonagall, I apologise for reminding you about it. If not, then read on, and prepare to be amazed by the sheer inability of the man. As a poet he is unequalled. His work is so bad that it has become legendary, and he has achieved a degree of posthumous fame as a result. McGonagall was born in Edinburgh, Scotland. For reasons best known to himself, at times he gave his year of birth as 1825, and on other occasions as 1830. What we do know for certain is that he died on 29th September 1902. Not much he could have done to alter that one after the event!

 

The first 47, or 52, years of his life were unremarkable. Like his father before him, William was a hand loom waver, and he was married with seven children. There was little to suggest that he was destined for immortality, except perhaps for his performance in the title role of an amateur production of Macbeth. Reaching the point in the play where Macbeth was supposed to die, McGonagall had become convinced that the actor playing Macduff was trying to upstage him, and so he refused to succumb! This event is noteworthy, as it hints at a degree of misplaced self confidence, which is a factor that would come to be a trademark of his later life. Other than this example of apparent thespian anarchy, however, nothing remarkable seems to have occurred in the existence of the lowly hand weaver, who was struggling to make a living in the face of increased mechanisation.

 

All that was to change one day in 1877, when William  Topaz McGonagall experienced what can only be described as a ‘Road to Damascus’ moment. He claimed that a strange kind of feeling came over him, instilling in him a strong desire to write poetry. He later wrote “The most startling incident in my life was the time I discovered myself to be a poet, which was in the year 1877.” Oh, how we beg to differ!

 

 

William Topaz McGonagall 1825 or 1830 – 1902

 

His first effort was entitled ‘An Address to the Rev. George Gilfillan’. It went like this:

 

Rev. George Gilfillan of Dundee

There is none can you 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 to 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.

Reverend George Gilfillan 1813-1878. In addition to his ministerial duties, Gilfillan was also a poet in his own right.

 

Truly appalling stuff, I think you’ll agree. The trouble was Reverend Gilfillan seemed to like it, although his comment that “Shakespeare never wrote anything like this”, might have been shaded in irony. McGonagall’s most famous work was without doubt the ‘Tay Bridge Disaster’, It recounted a fatal accident that occurred on the 28th December 1879, when the rail bridge crossing the River Tay collapsed while a train was passing over it. Owing to its length, I have chosen to reproduce just the very worst bits for your delectation:

 

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 remembered for a very long time.

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 confess,

For the stronger we our houses do build,

The less chance we have of being killed. 

Tay Bridge Collapse 1879

 

As you can see, his work does not scan properly, and the rhymes are terrible. The reason McGonagall is remembered today, is because his work is so bad, it takes on a unique and amusing quality. Especially when you consider that he saw himself as a serious poet, and used to complain bitterly at the abuse he and his work received. At public performances he was frequently pelted with eggs, fruit, and vegetables. He once complained that he disliked publicans, as it was a publican who was the first to throw a plate of peas at him. This suggests that plates of peas were, thereafter, often sent flying in his direction! In 1887 he sailed to New York, hoping that American audiences would be more appreciative of his talents. They were not! Here is an excerpt from his poem entitled ‘Jottings of New York:

 

Oh mighty city of New York! you are wonderful to behold,

Your buildings are magnificent, the truth be it told,

They were the only things that seemed to arrest my eye,

Because many of them are thirteen storeys high.

William McGonagall getting ready to duck?

 

Sadly, McGonagall died a poor man, and was buried in an unmarked grave in an Edinburgh cemetery. Sad, because awful though his poetry is, it became popular after his death, although I’m not sure he would have appreciated the reason for its popularity.

Sources:

 http://www.mcgonagall-online.org.uk/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_McGonagall