William McGonagall, the World’s Worst Poet?

Ah, William McGonagall. A name spoken with equal parts bewilderment and fond mockery among literary enthusiasts. Best known (and worst known) for his bombastic ode The Tay Bridge Disaster, McGonagall has earned his place in history as perhaps the most famously terrible poet to ever put pen to paper. But is he truly bad – or merely misunderstood?

On a recent sunny day, I found myself recalling one of McGonagall’s more cheerful verses:

Beautiful Sun! With thy golden rays,
To God, the wise Creator, be all praise;
For thou nourisheth all the creation,
Wherever there is found to be animation.

The rhyme is earnest. The sentiment pure. And yet – there’s something unintentionally hilarious in the phrasing. The “Beautiful Sun!” feels more like a medieval troubadour’s greeting than a Victorian poet’s meditation on nature. And “wherever there is found to be animation”? It’s less lyrical than literal. McGonagall doesn’t so much sing to the heavens as politely report to them.

Born in 1825, McGonagall began writing poetry relatively late in life, spurred on (so the legend goes) by a sudden inspiration from his muse. He was so convinced of his divine gift – and completely immune to criticism, rejection, or mockery – that despite his public readings being heckled, various objects thrown at him, and his poems derided – he pressed on, undeterred and unembarrassed, printing pamphlets of his work and offering to perform for anyone who’d listen. In this stubborn dedication, there is something almost admirable.

Of course, it’s The Tay Bridge Disaster that cemented his place in history infamy. A well-meaning tribute to the victims of a real-life tragedy, the poem is laced with lines so clunky they border on the surreal:

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 remember’d for a very long time.

There’s an almost childlike sincerity here. McGonagall doesn’t shy away from rhyme – no matter how forced. Every thought – no matter how grave – is offered with a directness bordering on the absurd. It’s not just the lack of poetic finesse; it’s the astonishing confidence with which he barrels forward.

So, is William McGonagall a truly bad poet? By conventional standards: absolutely. His meter stumbles, his language jars, and his rhymes can provoke laughter at the most inappropriate moments. But there’s also a strange, guileless charm to his work. He reminds us that poetry doesn’t always have to be polished – sometimes, it’s enough to be passionate.

Today, in an era of curated perfection and literary gatekeeping, McGonagall feels like a defiant spirit. He may not have been very good, but he was gloriously, uniquely himself. And isn’t there something poetic in that?