Yorskhire Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, part 8


LYRICS by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, 1885:


My dear Mrs. Blossom, I pray you'll excuse
The lines I address you direct from the Muse,
While a tribute of honour I pay in my song
To the strangers I spent such a sweet day among ;
One hope I'll express-due to gratitude's claim
And the lustre attached to so fruitful a name-
That hope is that Fate may keep free from all harm
The lady who reigns o'er the old Manor Farm.
May Mr. T. Blossom be aye free from care,
And ready to give from that old fashioned chair
His views upon Turnips, and Barley, and Wheat,
The next time we all have the pleasure to meet
May Fate likewise keep him far distant from harm,
Long to reign over the old Manor Farm.
A word I have got for your daughters so fair,
That cluster around the old red-cushioned chair ;
There's Nelly so generous, and likewise so pretty,
And Lizzie the graceful, and Annie the witty,
And last but not least the dear Abigail-
No blossom so charming e'er grew in the Yale;
May health and prosperity keep them from harm,
And long-may they cherish the old Manor Farm.
To your jolly son Tom I am deeply attached,
In fact I believe we are very well matched,
For we both love a dog, a gun, and a horse,
And surely for that we shall never be worse ;
For instincts like these are in Yorkshiremen's sons-
To honour their horses, their dogs, and their guns ;
May success ion your Richard at Barnsley await,
And shed o'er your name an honour as great
As that which belongs to the fearless and true-
Staunch men who are willing to die or to do-
May fortune attend you and nothing e'er harm
All those who inhabit the old Manor Farm.


Let poets praise the nightingale,
    The blackbird, lark, or thrush,
And doating seek the verdant vale
    To hear their warblers' gush ;
One bird I picture in mine eye
    I prize beyond all these,
Altho' it soars not regions high,
    Nor warbles up in trees.

Present at our festivals
    With aroma divine,
It decks the boards in banquet halls,
    Along with rosy wine ;
And when alive with chanticleer
    My bird trips o'er the green,
Its snowy plumage doth appear
    In many a rural scene.

The famous bird of which I sing
    - Once saved an ancient city ;
A single feather from its wing
    Can move to scorn or pity ;
Honour to whom honour's due,
    My fowl may be obtuse,
But of all birds that ever flew
    Give me a good fat goose.


The night when first I saw her,
    I never shall forget ;
She danc'd with such perfection,
    'Twas in the Lancers' set.

Each man admired her beauty,
    The fair sex spoke in praise ;
And every eye was captive
    Amid the tinted blaze.

Her hair was black and flowing,
    Her eyes were orbs of fire,
Her grace was simply charming,
    What more could man desire ?

I saw her at the banquet-
    'Twas one of oats and hay,
Provided for this circus mare,
    So thoroughly au fait.


Our ship is bound for Baltimore,
    Across the Western sea,
And as we feel the freshening breeze,
    She cleaves the ocean free !
Ere Albion's cliff's shall disappear,
    Again the can we'll find,
And drink a true and fond farewell
    To those we leave behind ;
Then, as our ship scuds thro' the sea,
With England lessening on our lea,
Blow high, blow low,, what cares have we .
If those at home still constant be,
And true and faithful we shall find
Those loving hearts we leave behind,
        Till we come back from Baltimore.
And should it blow a hurricane,
    Well, lads, we've got to face it ;
Aloft there floats the Union Jack,
    What sailor would disgrace it?
So while we sail the stormy main,
    With hearts as light as feathers,
We're bound to face, blow high, blow low,
    The roughest of all weathers.
Blow hurricane or tempest gale,
No heart among our crew shall fail ;
And as we cleave the briny sea,
Of home our' thoughts shall often be,
Trusting those hearts we leave behind,
Both true and constant we shall find
When we come back from Baltimore.


Who leads such a roving life as I ?
To distant parts of the world I fly,
And wherever I go, as may be guessed,
I'm always reckoned a welcome guest.

O'er many an ocean I have crossed
In many a gale been tempest-tossed,
But through all the dangers of every sea
I'd always friends to take care of me.

I once was firm in a miser's grip,
And often was pressed to his eager lip.
But escaped at last from his sordid breath,
When lie bowed his head to a King named death.

Thence I passed into a spendthrift's hand,
And was means of mirth to a midnight band,
And from thence I went to a widow's home,
But quickly again was compelled to roam.

I stay with the rich, and visit the poor,
And slip through the hands of the ardent wooer ;
I'm here and there, and often afar,
Here at a wedding, and there at a war.

Wheresoever I stop or go,
I'm always courted by high or low;
By prince or peasant, wherever I land,
I'm always welcomed with outstretched hand.

Who leads such a roving life as I ?
To distant parts of the world I fly,
And whether on land or the bounding sea,
There's ever a welcome waiting for me.

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