The Work of a Gifted Jamaican

A little over a year ago, I discovered an infant prodigy who created quite a sensation. The boy is still looked upon as a marvel, and large audiences are drawn to hear him in the country.

On this occasion, I lay no claim to discovering the genius who forms the subject of this sketch; but I am pleased to be able to bring before the public a promising young Jamaican of whom more is certain to be heard in the field of literature.

I got to hear of McKay through one who had taken a great interest in the lad; and learning that he was a member of the Constabulary Force, and stationed at Half-Way Tree, I took occasion to meet him and have a talk with him.

Modest to a degree, McKay was not inclined to say much about himself.

“I hear you are bringing out a book of poems?” I ventured.

“Yes,” he replied; “through the kindness of Mr. Jekyll some of my work is being printed and will shortly be published.”

“I should like to hear something about yourself, how you came to join the Police Force—something of your early career?”

The young man smiled. “What can I tell you?” he asked.

“Well, to begin, how old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” he said.

“What parish are you from?”

“From Clarendon,” was his monosyllabic reply.

“Tell me about your schooldays; I am sure you were a bright, clever little chap?”

“I first went to a school kept by Mr. James Hill, and then I went to Mr. Watts, and to my brother, U. Theo. McKay.”

“Is Mr. McKay your brother, then?”

“Yes, and all I know I learnt from him, “ he said.

“Can you recall your first success?”

“I won a trade scholarship in 1906, and I came to Kingston in January, 1907—the Friday before the earthquake—to take it up. As a result of the earthquake I had to return home, and I was apprenticed to Mr. Campbell of Brown’s Town to learn the trade of wheel-wright. I next served under Mr. Saunders of Chapeltown, but on account of illness the indenture was cancelled.”

“When did you join the Police Force?”

“I enlisted last June—on the 7th of June,” he said.

McKay was very reticent as to why he joined the force. It is said that the underlying cause is a pitiable love story. I hear he has poured out poem after poem on this subject, but he would not discuss the matter. “I cannot touch the public with my heart,” he said, “it would be of no interest to them.”

I changed the subject and asked him something about his work.

“I began writing dialect verses in 1909, my first attempt being a little thing entitled ‘Hard Times’. Messrs Aston W. Gardner is publishing a volume of 50 poems entitled Songs of Jamaica, and I expect the book will be through the press in time for publication in December.

Mr. McKay was as diffident to speak of his works as he was to speak of himself. Those who have seen his poems express themselves in the highest terms about them. There is a charming naivete in the love poems, and humour, and pathos: rollicking fun, too, when he lets himself go. His versatility is wonderful. He treats all sorts of subjects. Here is a specimen:–

Stay your hasty hands, my comrades, I must speak to you again; For you beat de dog 'dout mussy, An' dey are we night-time frien'. Treat dem kindly, treat dem kindly, For dey are God's creatures too; You have no more claim, dear comrades, On de earth dan what dey do.

'Cos you locked him up in barracks T'rough some failin' point o' his, You mus' beatin' him so badly For de little carelessness? Treat dem kindly, treat dem kindly, For dey are God's creatures too; You have no more claim, dear comrades, On de earth dan what dey do.

When de hours are cold an' dreary, An' I'm posted on me beat, An' me tired heavy body Weighs upon me weary feet; Oftentimes dem come aroun'me Wid dem free an' trusting soul, Lying do'n or gambolling near me Wid a tender sort o' gro'l:

An' I snap my fingers at them, While dey wag dem tail at me; Can you wonder dat I love dem, Dem, me night-time company ? Treat dem kindly, etc. Treat dem kindly, treat dem kindly, For dey are God's creatures too; You have no more claim, dear comrades, On de earth dan what dey do.

Sometimes dey're a bit too noisy Wid deir long leave-taking bark; But I tell you what, it cheers me When de nights are extra dark.

So, dear comrades, don't ill-treat him, You won't mek me talk in vain; 'Member, when de hours are dreary, He's de poor dog-driver's frien'. Treat dem kindly, treat dem kindly, For dey are God's creatures too; You have no more claim, dear comrades, On de earth dan what dey do.

In some of the more delicate love songs he is quite his best. For instance

Fancy o' me childish will, Playin' now before me eyes, Sadly I remember still How much your love I prize', As I think o' you again, Agnes o' de village lane.

In de school-room worn an' old Fus' I saw your pretty smile, Heard your footsteps firm an' bold, Loved your face so free o' guile, An' your soul so clear of stain, Agnes, Agnes o' de lane.

Oh, I suffered much for you, For dey t'umped an' beat poor me Tell me skin tu'n black an' blue, Tryin' ef day could part we; But we closer grew we twain, Heartful Agnes o' de lane.

Little love t'oughts o' me breast I wrote by tin lamp's light: P'raps dey were not of de best (Bunny showed me what to write), Yet you never would complain, Easy Agnes o' de lane.

But dere came de partin' day, An' they took me from you, dear, An' de passion died away, But de memory was there: Long you've lingered in me brain, Plump-cheeked Agnes o' de lane.

A'ter many a weary year, Sad, sad news o' you I heard, News dat brought a scaldin' tear At de sound o' every word; An my mind, filled wid disdain, Grieved for Agnes o' de lane.

Agnes o' de lane no more, For you went away, my pet, Agnes once so sweet an' pure, To a miserable deat'; Oh, de 'membrance brings me pain, Fallen Agnes o' de lane!

Young McKay's work has already attracted attention. His Excellency the Governor has seen some of his verses and this is what he says: "I' have seen a selection of Mr. McKay's poems and I appreciate the talent they exhibit. The book "Songs of Jamaica" will be published by Messers Aston W. Gardner. It is being printed in England and will consist of 140 pages. There are 50 poems grave and gay in it, and it will be sold for the moderate sum of 2/- a copy. besides a portrait of the author there is an appendix with six tunes to six of the poems. These tunes are McKay's own composition and the publication will be awaited with interest. Mr. Walter Jekyll who has taken a great deal of interest in the lad and his work, and whom there is no better judge writes:

"A notable addition to the literature of the island is about to appear. The corrected proofs of Songs of Jamaica, a volume of fifty poems by Mr. Claude McKay have just been dispatched to England and we may reasonably expect it to be in the hands of the public by Christmas. "Judging from the interest taken in the poems by all and sundry to whom I have read them, I venture to predict great great popularity for the volume. It contains something for all tastes, for the versatility of the young author is remarkable. The love-songs, ten in number,, are charming in their simplicity: there is no straining after effect, and the result is that the maximum of effect is obtained. By kind permission of Messers Aston W. Gardner and Co., the publishers, I am allowed to give two specimens of Mr. McKay's work. "The first of them goes to a haunting tune in six-eight time, and without the music the rhythm is a little difficult to catch. The first six words made a bar of six quavers. Then follow a crotchet, quaver, crotchet; and the first word of the second line goes to the quaver that makes up the second bar. It may be mentioned in passing, that a feature of the book is the Appendix of tunes, composed by the author, who not infrequently writes music and poem together. "This first poem will appeal mainly to those who appreciate delicate workmanship, while the second will be enjoyed by everybody for its directness, vigour and fun.

Let me go, Joe, for I want go home: Can't stan' wid you, For pa might go come; An' if him only hab him rum, I don't know whatever I'll do.

I must go now, for it's gettin' night I am afraid, An' tis not moonlight: Give me de last hug, an' do it tight; Me pa gwin' go knock off me head.

No, Joe, don't come!--you will keep me late, An' pa might be In him sober state; Him might get vex' an' lock up de gate, Den what will becomin' of me?

Go wid you, Joe? –– you don't lub me den! I shame' o' you–– Gals caan' trust you men! An' I b'en tekin' you fe me frien'; Good-night, Joe, you've proven untrue.

No palm me up, you dutty brute, You' jam mout' mash like ripe bread-fruit; You fas'n now, but wait lee ya, I'll see you grunt under de law.

You t'ink you wise, but we wi' see; You not de fus' one fas' wid me; I'll lib fe see dem tu'n you out, As sure as you got dat mash' mout'.

I born right do'n beneat' de clack (You ugly brute, you tu'n you' back?) Don' t'ink dat I'm a come-aroun', I born right 'way in 'panish Town.

Care how you try, you caan' do mo' Dan many dat was hyah befo'; Yet whe' dey all o' dem te-day? De buccra dem no kick dem 'way?

Ko pon you' jam samplatta nose: 'Cos you wear Mis'r Koshaw clo'es You fink say youts de only man, Yet fus' time ko how you be'n 'tan'. You big an' ugly ole tu'n-foot Be'n neber know fe wear a boot; An' chigger nyam you' tumpa toe, Till nit full i' like herrin' roe.

You come from mountain naked-'kin, An' Lard a mussy! you be'n thin, For all de bread-fruit dem be'n done, Bein' 'poil' up by de tearin' sun:

De coco couldn' bear at all, For, Lard! de groun' was pure white~marl; An' t'rough de rain part o' de year De mango tree dem couldn' bear.

An' when de pinch o' time you feel A 'pur you a you' chigger heel, You lef you' district, big an' coarse, An' come join' buccra Police Force.

An' now you don't wait fe you' glass, But trouble me wid you' jam fas'; But wait, me frien', you' day wi' come, I'll see you go same lak a some.

Say wha'? –– 'res' me? –– you go to hell! You t'ink Judge don't know unno well? You t'ink him gwin' go sentance me Widout a soul fe witness i'?