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The Worst Poet in the World | From Cautionary Tales

Revisionist History

Thu May 07 2026

Summary

Revisionist History — "The Worst Poet in the World" (from Cautionary Tales with Tim Harford)

Air Date: May 7, 2026
Host: Tim Harford
Subject: The life, work, and legacy of William McGonagall, often labeled "the worst poet in the world"

Episode Overview

This special crossover episode from Cautionary Tales explores the tragicomic life and enduring legacy of Scottish poet William McGonagall. Host Tim Harford traces McGonagall’s journey from humble weaver to infamous literary figure, famed for poetry of staggering ineptitude—yet also, perhaps, sly wit. The episode probes whether McGonagall is a figure of ridicule, a misunderstood creative spirit, or even a comic genius, ultimately re-examining notions of creativity, failure, and artistic value.

Key Discussion Points & Insights

1. The Tay Bridge Disaster: A Catastrophe and a Poet’s Muse

Harford opens with a gripping reconstruction of the 1879 Tay Bridge disaster, a tragic railway accident in Scotland.
- [03:14] The drama of the storm, the collapse, and the loss of the train set the stage for McGonagall’s most (in)famous poem.
First recitation from McGonagall’s “The Tay Bridge Disaster” shows its infamous lack of artistry:
- [08:14]
  
  “So the train moved slowly along the Bridge of Tay / until it was about midway. Then the central girders with a crash gave way…”
Harford confesses a morbid fascination with both the disaster and the poem’s ineptitude.
- [09:53] Harford: “It’s awful. I’m obsessed with William McGonagall. I have so many questions. Who was this man? What does he teach us about art? And above all, how does a poem get to be this bad?”

2. William McGonagall: Origins and Aspirations

McGonagall’s early life marked by humble roots, erratic education, and theatrical ambitions.
- [10:30-12:09] Childhood story: traumatized by a teacher’s pet tortoise, leading to school skiving.
- McGonagall idolized Shakespeare, describing himself as having “complete mastery” of tragic roles.
Anecdote of his Macbeth performance is a highlight:
- [13:24] Historical witness: “Instead of dying when run through... he maintained his feet and flourished his weapon... The performance ending in real tragedy seemed possible.”
- McGonagall (retelling): “He tried to spoil me in the combat... I continued the combat until he were fairly exhausted… and an old gentleman cried out, ‘Well done, McGonagall. Walk into him!’” [13:53]
- The audience loved the shambolic spectacle, hinting at McGonagall’s appeal to “the cheap seats.”

3. The Poet Awakens

Losing work as a weaver due to machinery, McGonagall claims to be seized by the "spirit of poetry."
- [16:36] McGonagall: “Dame Fortune has been very kind to me by endowing me with the genius of poetry. I remember how I felt when I received the spirit of poetry.”
- [17:03] “All of a sudden, my body got inflamed… I heard a voice crying in my ears, ‘Write.’”
First poem is published—encouragement followed by escalating mockery and rejection.
- [18:12] McGonagall sent poems to newspapers; after one success, is then “artfully” rejected (“We can only express the fervent hope that he may put into execution this artful threat.”)
Falls for (and perhaps participates in) elaborate pranks, including a fraudulent invitation from the Queen and a fake patronage offer from the Burmese royal court.
- [21:43] Balmoral incident: “They canna be bothered with you.” — Castle constable
- [26:30] Receives a fake knighthood from “the King of Burma” and accepts it with pride.

4. Public Performances and Ridicule

Despite continuous mockery, McGonagall thrives in his notoriety, attracting riotous crowds who heckle him and throw eggs/cabbages.
- [27:00s] He arms himself with a small round shield to parry projectiles.
He dies in poverty, but not before performing widely and being denied official recognition (kept away by police, banned from reciting in Dundee).

5. What Can We Learn From "The Worst Poet"?

Literary critics: cite McGonagall as a cautionary example; point to his “humdrum plainness, vapid statement, dull diction, crappy meter…”
- [29:00] Joseph Salemi: “Can we stop with the humdrum plainness... the tedious length, the triviality…?”
- Scholar Gerard Carruthers: “It’s time for us to close the book on McGonagall once and for all.”
Harford offers a more charitable (and even celebratory) reframing:
- [30:50] “We shouldn’t complain about a man who wrote bad poetry. We should celebrate a man who wrote poetry… most acts of human creativity are fairly incompetent… Who cares? Dance and sing anyway.”
- Raises the possibility of McGonagall as comic genius—not just hapless but self-aware, possibly orchestrating his own public persona (“What if William McGonagall is the most brilliant clown who ever lived?”) [32:54]

6. Re-evaluating McGonagall: Fool, Victim, or Genius?

Harford dwells on the idea of McGonagall as an intentional court jester, using humor and public failure to speak truth to power.
- [37:12] McGonagall’s “prayer” that the Tay Bridge not collapse—two years before it does—painted as eerily prescient, perhaps slyly subversive.
- [38:11] “Idiot or court jester, you be the judge.”
The enduring cultural value of McGonagall’s legacy:
- His name lives on, famously inspiring Professor Minerva McGonagall of Harry Potter fame.
- [40:20] At auction, his poetry sells for more than J.K. Rowling’s signed first editions—a wry twist on literary greatness.

Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

[09:53] Tim Harford: “How does a poem get to be this bad?”
[13:53] McGonagall (on Macbeth fight): “He tried to spoil me in the combat… until there was one old gentleman in the audience cried out, ‘Well done, McGonagall. Walk into him!’”
[16:36] McGonagall: “Dame Fortune has been very kind to me by endowing me with the genius of poetry.”
[21:43] Balmoral gatekeeper: “They canna be bothered with you.”
[30:50] Tim Harford: “Who cares? Dance and sing anyway.”
[32:54] Harford: “What if William McGonagall is the most brilliant clown who ever lived?”
[38:11] Harford: “Idiot or court jester, you be the judge.”
[40:20] Harford, on McGonagall’s auctioned poems: “If commercial success is the mark of a great artist, then J.K. Rowling is one of the best. But she’s no William McGonagall. He will be remembered for a very long time.”

Timestamps for Key Segments

03:14 – The Tay Bridge disaster: narration and poetic recitation
09:53 – Introduction to McGonagall’s backstory and his obsession with poetry
13:24–14:23 – The legendary Macbeth stage fight
16:36–17:35 – McGonagall describes being overtaken by the spirit of poetry
18:26 – Early reception of his poems: “Bonny Dundee”
21:21–22:05 – The failed Balmoral visit and Tennyson’s inconvenient existence
24:49–26:30 – Career humiliations, transatlantic failures, and the fake Burmese knighthood
27:00s – Public performances, heckling, and defensive tactics
29:00–30:50 – Literary criticism and Harford’s celebration of ordinary creativity
32:54–38:11 – Reframing McGonagall: clumsy fool or comic genius?
40:20 – McGonagall’s poems fetch a high price at auction, reflecting on legacy

Conclusion: McGonagall’s Lasting Legacy

Ending on a characteristically wry and generous note, Tim Harford urges listeners to rethink creative “failure” as an act of courage, humor, and perhaps subtle wisdom. Whether McGonagall was a deluded hack or a knowing trickster, Harford insists his poetry endures because, good or bad, it was—above all else—unafraid. For every joke at McGonagall’s expense, listeners are reminded of the pleasure, spectacle, and reflection that both bad poetry and flawed creative attempts can bring.

For full source details, see the show notes at timharford.com.

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Transcript

Tim Harford (0:00)

Foreign.

Narrator/Host Introduction (0:09)

You're about to hear an episode of Cautionary Tales with Tim Harford. Tim's podcast explores mistakes from history and importantly, what we can learn from them. As you can imagine, there's a lot of disasters to choose from, but there's always an interesting angle on what we can take from them. I learn something new every time. You'd be surprised, but a shipwreck from the 60s can teach us something about a mistake we all make when making decisions Today, this episode is about a poet. William McGonagall is remembered today as the worst poet in the world, and Tim is obsessed with his work. I think I am too. Here's a quick example. A pathetic tale of the sea I will unfold enough to make one's blood run cold concerning four fishermen cast adrift in a dory. As I've been told, I'll relate the story. Twas on the 8th April, on the afternoon of that day that the village of Louisburg was thrown into a wild state of disarray. So what can we learn from a disastrous poet? Tim has a few ideas, and in true revisionist history style, he has a feeling we've been understanding McGonagall all wrong. Enjoy the episode. It's one of my favorites. And make sure you subscribe to Cautionary Tales for plenty more disasters and plenty more lessons. This message is a paid partnership with Apple Card there's something interesting about how seamlessly certain tools fit into daily life. Apple Card is one of those things it can be applied for right in the wallet app on iPhone and approval can happen in minutes, so it's ready to use immediately with Apple Pay. I'm so glad the days of finding my wallet, fishing out the credit card, using it, putting it back in my wallet, or oops, maybe I use cash. Where's the atm? Enough. The first time I used Apple Pay on my phone with my Apple Card, I was like, this is the future. There's no going back. With Apple Card, purchases earn daily cash up to 3% with no points to track and no waiting for rewards. It's simply daily cash back that I earn on every purchase. There's even an option to open a high yield savings account through Apple Card. And while I haven't done it yet, if I do, my daily cash can grow automatically over time without any extra effort. Because Apple Card lives in the Wallet app, it's always accessible on iPhone and can be used with Apple Pay at over 85% of merchants in the US and the security of Face ID and Touch ID prevents unauthorized purchases. Whether using iPhone or Apple Watch to exploit yourself. You can apply for Apple Card in the Wallet app on your iPhone, subject to credit approval. Savings is available to Apple Card owners subject to eligibility Savings in Apple Card by Goldman Sachs Bank USA Salt Lake City Branch Bank Member FDIC terms and more@applecart.com.

Tim Harford (3:14)

The wind is fierce, no doubt about it. It's the strongest gale that John Watt can remember, and he's been working for the North British Railway since 1867, a full 12 years. It's a good night to be safe. You sheltered in the railway signal cabin, sharing a mug of tea with a friend, signalman Thomas Barkley. As Watt and Barclay sip their tea and look out of the window into the darkness, it can see the faint line of lamps all along the new railway bridge running almost two miles across the wide River Tay to the city of Dundee. Every now and then the clouds gust apart and the full moon picks out the high girders of the longest bridge in the world. A few minutes after 7 o' clock comes the signal from the south. The northbound train is approaching. Thomas Barclay steps out of the cabin into the wind and waits as the train approaches, the sparks from the wheels visible in the dark. He greets the crew with a smile, handing over the baton that gives permission for a train to cross the bridge. The train is moving at walking pace. He sees a child peer out of the window of a carriage as it passes. Then, as the train passes over the long, high iron span, Thomas goes back to his friend in the shelter of the cabin and sends a message to the signal box over on the other side of the River Tay. The signal bell rings three times in response, and still the wind howls. Thomas turns back to his mug of tea, but John Watt is gazing out of the window at the bridge. There's something wrong with the train, he says. Thomas Barclay thinks he's imagining it, but John knows what he's seen. Three red tail lamps fading into the distance over the bridge. And then a series of flashes, three small and one big. Then darkness. No tail lamps. The train's gone over. Thomas, he says. Thomas Barclay still isn't convinced. Surely the train has just disappeared from view after cresting the highest point of the bridge. Surely they'll see her again soon. But they don't. Thomas tries calling the signal box on the other side of the bridge. Nothing. They go outside briefly venture onto the bridge. Men retreat as the wind threatens to tear them off the girders and into the waters below. The clouds part again and the full moon reveals the SCENE A thousand yards of the bridge are gone. The high girders of the central spot, the iron piers that had supported them, also gone. And of course, the train has gone too, and every one of its passengers. It's a catastrophe. But this is not a story about a fatal bridge collapse. It's a story about a poet. I'm Tim Harford, and you're listening to Cautionary Tales. Beautiful railway bridge of the silvery Tay. Alas, I am very sorry to say that 90 lives have been taken away on the last sabbath day of 1879, which will be remembered for a very long time. Thus begins a poem titled the Tay Bridge Disaster. It is widely regarded as the worst poem ever written and its author, William McGonagall, is widely regarded as the worst poet. I'll spare you the full poem, but here's a central verse. So the train moved slowly along the Bridge of Tay until it was about midway. Then the central girders with a crash

Tim Harford (26:30)

William McGonagall did not succeed in selling his poems in New York, so returned to Scotland. He was cheered to receive a letter from the poet laureate of Burma writing on behalf of Burma's king Tibor, making McGonagall Topaz McGonagall, Knight of the White Elephant of Burma. McGonagall accepted the honour and wore his medal, a silver elephant, with pride. If he ever feared that this letter was as fraudulent as the others, he shared no doubts. McGonagall spent his final years giving public performances in Perth, Glasgow and Edinburgh where the main attraction appeared to be the opportunity to hurl abuse and worse at the aspiring poet laureate. McGonagall would dash about the stage excitedly enacting the action as he gave dramatic recitals of his war poems clad in a kilt and brandishing a claymore with perilous enthusiasm. More useful was his small round shield with which he could parry incoming eggs and cabbages. William McGonagall died in poverty on 29 September 1902. He was 72 years old, or 77. He was buried in a pauper's grave, having practiced the art of poetry for 25 years and having been mocked for every one of them. The death certificate misspells his name. Emil Zola died on the same day. As it happens, Zola a fine writer he was no William McGonagall. Cautionary tales will return after the break. The poetry critics argue that McGonagall has an important lesson to teach us. He is the perfect example of how not to write poetry. If you must read him, be sure to do the opposite of whatever he does. Joseph Salemi, an award winning poet, complains, I know far too many persons who share some of McGonagall's faults. Can we at least resolve that we will not commit the poetic crimes that McGonagall committed? Can we stop with the humdrum plainness, the vapid statement, the dull diction, the crappy metre, the tedious length, the triviality, the commonplace thoughts and the cliched perceptions? Dr. Gerard Carruthers, an expert in Scottish literature, agrees. There is something rather cruel about a still reprinting and republishing McGonagall. He told the BBC, it's time for us to close the book on McGonagall once and for all. But that feels so narrow minded. I draw a different lesson. We shouldn't complain about a man who wrote bad poetry. We should celebrate a man who wrote poetry. Of course the poems are bad, but most poems are bad. Most acts of human creativity are fairly incompetent. Most of us can't write novels, not that anyone else would pay to read. Most of us can't draw or paint anything that anyone else would pay to look at. Most of us can't act, we can't sing, we can't dance. Who cares? Dance and sing anyway. I think we're prone to making a sad mistake. When we think about creative acts we instinctively set the benchmark at an absurdly high level. We've been Spoiled, perhaps, because at the touch of a button, we can listen to Glenn Gould playing Johann Sebastian Bach. We can watch Ian McKellen and Judi Dench performing Shakespeare. We can read a novel by Austen or watch a film by Coppola, or gaze at an interior by Vermeer. Not only has modern technology made these wonders possible, but modern technology also makes more humdrum creative acts economically worthless. Nobody is going to pay me to perform Bach or paint a watercolour, but I still play the piano from time to time. And very occasionally I pick up a pencil and a sketchbook. It doesn't matter if there's no economic value in the result. There's personal value. For me, in the process of trying to express myself, that might seem obvious, but it's easy to forget. In debates about the rise of generative AI, people worry about the death of human creativity. But I don't think generative AI is more of a threat to human creativity than the camera or the record player. It changes the economics. To be sure, McGonagall lost his job as a weaver because of machine looms, so he would have understood all about losing work to a machine. But while a new technology changes who might be paid for creative work and what sort of creative work they might be paid for, and how much they might be paid for it, it doesn't make creative work impossible. All of us are free to sit down in front of a piano or an easel and try to create something beautiful. And while it's nice to succeed, it's more important to try. As we grow from children into adults, we often express our creativity less. It might be because we're afraid of failure, which is another thing to admire about McGonagall. He wasn't afraid of creative failure. In fact, he wouldn't recognise creative failure if it hurled an egg at him. That's one way to look at McGonagall, anyway, as a man who was always willing to express his inner creativity. But that's not actually the way I see him. I don't think William McGonagall was admirable because he gave poetry a try. I think he was a genius. You've perhaps heard the story about the man who goes to a doctor. He feels depressed. The world seems so frightening and bleak. Don't worry, says the doctor. The great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him perform. That'll cheer you up. The man starts to sob. But doctor, I am Pagliacci. It's a story that's been retold and remixed countless Times. So here's another remix. What if William McGonagall isn't the pompous, talentless, sad victim of bullies that he seems to be? What if William McGonagall is the most brilliant clown who ever lived? And what if, unlike Pagliacci, whose despair became clear when he took off the mask, McGonagall never removed his mask because underneath it, he was the one laughing harder than anyone. Think back to that appearance as Macbeth, in which McGonagall refused to lie down and die and wrestled with the infuriated actor playing Macduff. It's hard to think of a funnier scene in the history of theatre. Was it really just McGonagall's arrogance and stupidity? Or did he know full well that he was putting on a show? When the reviewer said that McGonagall had decided to astonish the gods, he wasn't referring to some pagan pantheon. The gods is theatre. Speak for the cheap seats. McGonagall was playing to the crowd and specifically to the poorest theatre goers of all. His friends from the workshop had all contributed to get him on stage in the first place. And they loved what they saw. McGonagall certainly gave you a show. And once you read McGonagall's poetry, not as an exhibit of utter incompetence but as a deliberate sly joke, you quickly detect hints of mischief. A one poem, an Ode to the

Tim Harford (38:11)

Idiot or court jester, you be the judge. As for those prank letters from Queen Victoria's secretary, from Dion Boucicault, from the King of Burma, maybe they were hoaxes on McGonagall. Maybe they were hoaxes by McGonagall on the rest of us. They certainly helped to shape the legend. For a man almost universally viewed As a failure, McGonagall knew how to draw a crowd. When a statue of Scotland's greatest poet, Robert Burns, was unveiled in Dundee, McGonagall was kept away from the occasion by police to avoid a disturbance of the peace. His Dundee performances so often ended in a near riot that he was eventually banned from giving any more recitals in the town. No wonder he died in poverty. He'd been making 15 shillings a night, the equivalent of a week's wages for an ordinary labourer. Not so bad for a man who lost his trade because of the march of the machines. His downfall wasn't because his poems were terrible. It was because his clowning performances were too riotously successful to be allowed to continue. He died in poverty, not because he was bad, but because he was just too good. We'll never know what William McGonagall was really thinking as he took to the stage each night. Was he oblivious as he seems to be, a man with skin so thick that neither insults nor insights ever got through? Or was he far more tragic than the mythic figure of Pagliacci the clown, proud of his poems but knowingly subjecting himself to knightly humiliation because there was no other way to put food on the table? Or was the whole thing a comic masterstroke? Did he never take off the mask, or did he never put it on in the first place? But while we can't read his mind, we can read his poems, and they've brought pleasure to countless people. A few years ago, an Edinburgh auction house put up for sale a collection of first editions of Harry Potter books signed by the author J.K. rowling, who, it turns out named Professor Minerva McGonagall in honour of the man she described as the worst poet in British history. The books went for a handsome enough price, I suppose, but in the same auction a rather higher sum was paid for a different literary gem, 35 poems by William McGonagall, some of them signed by the great man himself, J.K. rowling. If commercial success is the mark of a great artist, then she's one of the best. But she's no William McGonagall. He will be remembered for a very long time. For a full list of our sources, see the show notes@timharford.com Cautionary Tales is written by me, Tim Harford, with Andrew Wright, Alice Fiennes and Ryan Dilley. It's produced by Georgia Mills and Marilyn Rust. The sound design and original music are the work of Pascal Wise. Additional sound design is by Carlos San Juan at Brain Audio. Ben Nadaff Haffrey edited the scripts. The show features the voice talents of Genevieve Gauntlet, Melanie Guttridge, Stella Harford, Oliver Hembrough, Sarah Jopp, Masaya Munroe, Jamal Westman and Rufus Wright. The show also wouldn't have been possible without the work of Jacob Weisberg, Greta Cohn, Sarah Nix, Eric Sandler, Carrie Brodie, Christina Sullivan, Keira Posey and Owen Miller. Cautionary Tales is a production of Pushkin Industries. It's recorded at Wardle Studios in London by Noria Barr and Lucy Rowe. If you like the show, please remember to share, rate and review. It really makes a difference to us. And if you want to hear the show ad free, sign up to Pushkin plus on the show page on Apple Podcasts or at Pushkin FM plus. Sam.