Yorskhire Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, part 6


LYRICS by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, 1885:


My heart is weary, and I fain
Would seek the rural scenes again-
    Of Hull's dull round I tire.
I long to scent the briny sea,
And let my footsteps wander free,
    Ere Autumn days expire.

Oh ! to sojourn at Scarborough !
Alas ! the thought but heralds sorrow-
    Sorrows without number ;
Compelled in town to linger late,
I listless pass up Whitefriargate
    And view the muddy Humber.

Oh ! but to hear the milkmaid's song,
And roll the perfumed meads among,
    All in the morning early !
A milkman's is my matin song-
His voice like an untuneful gong
    Or hideous hurly-burly.

Oh ! but to hear the lowing kine,
The bleat of sheep and airs of swine-
    All in the pastures verdant.
My swine is "frizzle," and my sheep
Are black, and bleat out "chimney sweep"
    In tones almost discordant.

Oh ! for an angle in the brook,
In some quiet, secluded nook,
    Hard by a shining river.
The only fish that I can find
Are all on marble slabs reclined
    Without a vital quiver.

Oh ! but to hear the nightingale,
In some starlit, shady vale,
    When the world is sleeping.
My Philomel is scanty clad,
Her wail near Monument is sad-
    A homeless woman weeping.

Oh ! but to watch the harvest moon,
When ensues of night the noon,
    Nigh to a bower of roses.
The place where I must Cynthia watch
Is somewhere near the Halfpenny Hatch,
    Far distant from all closes.

My heart is weary, and I fain
Would seek the rural scenes again-
    Of Hull's dull round I tire.
I long to scent the briny sea,
And let my footsteps wander free,
    Ere autumn's days expire.


Mignonette, O, gentle Rose,
    Tulips sing praise of thee-
Forget-me-not's the prayer that flows
    Dahlia, love, from me.

Oh, do not crave to Marigold,
    Heartsease comes not of this-
Wild thyme thou woudst behold,
    And sigh for fuchsia bliss.

So prythee, do not Marigold,
    Thy true love Picotees-
He'll say when Rose-buds sweet -unfold
    Come honeysuckle these.


Enamelled beauty, still thy voice,
    Forsake thy witching smile,
Thou shouldn't have been both pure and good,
    Instead of which thou'rt vile.

The kisses that thou dolt dispense
    Beneath those golden tresses,
How sad that they are vendible
    Along with thy caresses.

The graceful form that nature gave,
    Unto thy handsome self,
Hath made thee but a sacrifice
    To Mammon and his pelf.

Thy winsome eyes that should have shed
    Some sunshine o'er a human,
Pourtray no modest lover's glance,
    Most mercenary woman.

Thy heart that once was chaste and fair
    As newly fallen snow,
Tells thee most plainly that thou art
    Merely a gaudy show.

Forswear the gay and jewelled throng,
    Renounce thy evil doing,
Discard the gems and gilded chains
    That link thee unto ruin.


An actor draws a house,
    A barmaid bitter-beer,
"Pussy" draws a mouse,
    Who no doubt thinks it queer.

A soldier draws a sword,
    A donkey draws a barrow,
A small boy draws a pipe,
    Much unto his sorrow.

A merchant draws a cheque,
    A quadruped a plough,
A barber draws a razor
    Beneath your pensive brow.

A policeman draws a staff,
    A magistrate his " screw,"
An artist draws a picture
    With pretty scenes in view.

A "swell" draws his Havannah,
    A poor man draws his clay,
A quill-driver draws his salary,
    And a working man his pay.

A dentist draws a tooth,
    An architect a plan,
And there's a King, yclept death,
    Draws breath from every man.

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