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Help and advice for LYRICS by Jefferson Monkman, 1885: Part 11: The city paved with gold The seasons The gallant Captain Will you come down yon green shady lane?

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LYRICS by Jefferson Monkman, 1885: Part 11: The city paved with gold The seasons The gallant Captain Will you come down yon green shady lane?


THE CITY PAVED WITH GOLD.

He sought the city paved with gold.
Allured by dreams of wealth untold ;
Thus from his humble cot,
Attracted by his golden dream,
Far distant from his native stream
He chose to cast his lot.

He found the city paved with gold,
And filled his purse with wealth untold,
But, ah ! from golden. heights,
His heart turns to his native stream.
Joy conies not with his golden dream,
He sighs for lost delights.


THE SEASONS.

SPRING.
Sunny hours,
Emerald bowers,
Genial showers,
Budding flowers.

SUMMER.
Solar sway,
Gardens gay,
Scorching ray,
Fragrant hay.

AUTUMN.
Sudden showers,
Harvest mowers.
Fading flowers,
Changing bowers.

WINTER.
Hived bees,
Hoary trees,
Bitter breeze.
Frozen leas.


THE GALLANT CAPTAIN.

He was a gallant captain
    In a famous line,
Whenever he did order " port,"
    'Twas never in a w(h)ine.

Oft times he weigh'd his anchor,
    Yet never knew its weight ;
The only scales he had aboard,
    Were those who scaled a height.

" Rock'd in the cradle of the deep "
    The porpoise it would play
On porpoise for to entertain
    The captain on his way.

And when the sea was angry,
    And furious storms arrows,
You'd see this gallant captain
    Oft standing by his bows.

A curious bird he had aboard
    That with him cross'd the main ;
'Twas thus the ocean angry got
    In presence of his crane.

The noble art of self-defence
    Was known unto his tars,
For every sailor on the ship
    Knew all about the spars.

No gambler was the captain,
    Yet on the sea would toss,
And often back his ship astern,
    But never made a loss.

He was a very generous man,
    Liberal, smart, and brave ;
It was indeed a treat to see
    Him give his hand a wave.

Although he was no artist,
    Yet once a month he drew
The instrument that sped his ship,
    And likewise did his (s)crew.

A stranger to our factories,
    He yet a yarn could spin,
His bobbins on the ocean were
    Not traceable to gin.

    He was a smart old skipper
On the sea to (h)operate,
    Hence my muse tips him the flipper,
Which is all I have to state.


WILL YOU COME DOWN YON GREEN SHADY LANE?

Will you come down yon green shady lane,
    Near the church at the foot of thee hill ?
And we'll wander o'er the meadow and plain,
    And list to the click of the mill;,
For there's something about the old church, love,
    And something about the old mill,
'Mid the groves of the ash and the birch, love,
    That clings to my heart fondly still.

For 'twas near to yon green shady lane,
    On a farm at the base of the hill,
Where the hawthorn adorns the sweet plain,
    Close by yon ivy-grown mill ;
Yes, close by yon ivy-grown mill, love,
    'Twas there did your ancestors dwell,
And oft gazed from the brow of yon hill, love,
    On scenes that they cherish'd so well.

Will you come' down yon green shady lane,
    Hard by the old water mill,
And we'll view the lov'd church once again,
    That stands at the foot of the hill ?
For there's something about the old church, love,
    And something about the old mill,
'Mid the groves of the ash and the birch, love,
    That clings to my heart fondly still.


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