Yorskhire Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, part 18

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TO ELIZA.

Am I thy willing constant slave
    To watch thy every glance ?
'Tis all the honour that I crave
    In this wide world's expanse,

To worship at thy peerless shrine
    Without a single doubt or fear ;
My love alone be gauged by thine,
    Eliza's ever was sincere.

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PUNCTUATION VERSES.

There was a gay young , lore,
    Who fain would cut a -
So down to Scarbro's sandy shore
    He went to spend his cash.

"Have you an * ?" said he,
    To one upon the sand ;
If so, to ride him by the sea
    For twenty miles I've plann'd."

"O, yes, sir, hyphen asterisk,
    One of the best in town,
He never makes a sudden stop
    Unless he tumbles down."

The accent was a funny beast,
    The , dore did learn,
For by a sudden launch he left
    His rider far astern.

" Stop that infernal beast ! " cried he,
    " The accent will not do,"
But ere the comma dore could rise,
    The ass was lost to view.

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BEAUTY'S WREATH.

The flowers that bloom in early spring,
    I've culled for beauty's brow,
Sweet perfum'd violets I bring
    And lilies white as snow;
Here are some buds of eglantine,
    And here a daffodil,
With haw bloom from the valleys green
    That grew beside a rill.

Forget-me-nets I've also brought,
    A charming jonquil too ;
And near the hedgerows I have sought
    The flowers of golden hue ;
A yellow primrose for thy hair,
    With pansies to entwine,
A wreath of gems supremely fair,
    All made by hands divine.

These fragrant flowers of early spring,
    I lay at beauty's feet,
Wilt thou accept the gifts I bring
    All delicate and sweet ?
I'll twine them round thy raven hair,
    And fix them on thy brow,
Such gems become the truly fair,
    And truly fair art thou.

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THE LAST FLY OF SUMMER.

(WITH APOLOGIES TO A CERTAIN BALLAD.)

'Tis the last fly of summer,
    Left buzzing alone,
All its noisy companions
    Their buzzing have done ;
Not one of its kindred,
    Or blue-bottle nigh,
To give it directions
    To cupboards hard by.

Sad and friendless, thou lone One,.
    I pity thy lot ;
In this jar of molasses,
    This sweet treacle pot,
Oh, dip in thy pinions
    And bury thy head,
Where a host of thy brothers
    Lie songless and dead.

Our end must soon follow,
    Out friendships decay,
And, like flies in molasses,
    Our lives ebb away ;
All thy friends are departed,
    Thy fellows have flown,
Oh, what man, or what fly,
    Would live here alone?

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THE GARDENER.

The Gard'ner is a model man,
    A credit to the age,
He never wavers in his plan
    To introduce the sage.

His natty beds are Nature's books,
    With lettuce overspread,
And everywhere in shady nooks
    Leaves flourish overhead.

The Gard'ner is no Son of Mars,
    fore partial to heart's-ease;
He disbelieves in cruel wars,
    And goes in for sweet peas.

Altho' he is a man of peas,
    'Tis very strange, I trow,
For he's delighted when he sees
    Potatoes in a row.

A pugilist he may not be,
    And disinclined for knocks,
But often by a greenwood tree
    He contemplates the box.

The Gard'ner is a pious man,
    Much of the fuschsia makes,
Altho' he often fills his can
    And mixes up with rakes.

If for a whiff he has a mind,
    When he is sowing seed,
Dame Nature, bountiful and kind,
    Presents him with a weed.

A trifle he is bound to hoe,
    For field or garden rents,
But ne'er despairs, for spring, you know,
    Will bring him lots of (s)cents.

He has a charitable heart,
    Not of obdurate flint ;
When with donations he's to part
    Supplies come from the mint.

And when he settles down in life,
    His future spouse behold,
He fixes on a charming wife
    In pretty Mari Gold.

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IMPROMPTU AT THORNTON ABBEY.

While now I view these ruins hoary,
My thoughts turn back to ancient story
Of *Pelham's name and Pelham's glory,
Honoured by both Whig and Tory.

*Family name of the Yarboroughs.

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