Yorskhire Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, part 5

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WILL THE SWALLOWS COME AGAIN?

Will the swallows come again,
   From beyond the sea,
And fly along our verdant plain
   With wings so light and free
Tell me, mother, will they come
   When the roses bloom again,
And wheel around our cottage home-
   O, mother ! will they come again

O, mother ; I am sad to-day !
   I saw the swallows meet
In numbers-'twas but yesterday-
   And leave on wings so fleet ;
I watched till they were far away-
   My eyes gaze now in vain ;
I miss them in my merry play-
   O, mother ! will they come again ?

Will the swallows come again,
   When the fragrant May
Sheds perfume o'er the flowery plain,
   And all our fields are gay ?
Tell me, mother, will they come
   When the roses bloom again,
And wheel around our cottage home-
   O, mother I will they come again ?

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ACROSTIC.

  G rey breaks the morn o'er Gingholova's plain
  I   nforming Chelmsford of the foe's advance ;
  N ow press the Zulus o'er their bleeding slain,
  G esticulating with the shield and lance ;
  H ark ! though our guns sound knells of death,
  O nward, undaunted, charge the valiant horde ;
  L oud cries their vengeance with a dire accord
  O ur arms to overthrow, or yield the vital breath ;
  V ast are the issues of this anxious throw,
  A nd great the loss were England's power laid low.

 C heer upon cheer our British soldiers give,
"H ave at them. lads," they cry, " we'd better die than live;"
 E  kowe in sight, and thoughts of Pearson's men,
"L  ives heed not ! better to die than see them not again ! "
"M ark, soldiers, well your foe, lot every bullet tell,
 S  tand firm, men," Chelmsford says, " and all will yet be well;"
 F  ierce is the bloody fight. What means that loud huzza ?
 O urs is the brilliant victory, see England's rising star
 R  ing triumph bells ! the ordeal has been passed,
 D own is the foe, and Ekowe's freed at last.

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THE BOATMAN'S SONG.

Speed on, my boat, the night is nigh,
All gloomy frowns the murky sky ;
  We've many a league to go
Ere borne along the rolling tide
My shallop, named the " Bonnie Bride,"
  Shall safely to our haven flow.
      Speed on, speed on, my trim-built boat,
      Swift o'-er the waters we must float,
          For Rosa waits for me.

Swift send me o'er the ocean way,
And merrily chase the silver spray
  Across the bounding sea ;
Extended is the rustling sail,
Obedient to the freshening gale
  That speeds my boat so free.
      Speed on, speed on, my trim-built boat,
      Swift o'er the waters we must float,
          For Rosa waits for me.

Speed on, speed on, my trim-built " Bride,"
And I will be thy faithful guide
  As shades of evening fall.
Thou movest "like a thing of life,"
All heedless of the billows' strife,
    Responsive to thy pilot's call.
      Speed on, speed on, my trim-built boat,
      Swift o'er the waters we must float,
          For Rosa waits for me.

Bravo ! thou staunch and trusty "Bride!"
Thou'st borne me home to Rosa's side,
  Safe o'er the northern sea.
So peaceful at thy mooring. ride,
Till we again the ocean glide,
  And then my song shall be-
      Speed on, speed on, my trim-built boat,
      Swift o'er the waters we must float,
          For Rosa waits for me.

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O, GAILY SAILS OUR SHIP TO-DAY.

O, gaily sails our ship to-day,
    And merry are our men,
For when we reach yon nearing bay
    Then we are home again ;
So pass the flowing can, boys,
    And let the toast go round
To wives and loves each one, boys,
    For we are homeward bound.

O, gaily sails our ship to-day,
    With England on our lee,
We follow fast the silver spray
    Across the bounding sea ;
Our hearts are light and glad, boys,
    And leap with every bound,
So good-bye all that's sad, boys,
    For we are homeward bound.

Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman (1885)
Scanned by Graham Metcalf ©2003
OCRd and checked by Colin Hinson ©2003