Yorskhire Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, part 9

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UNCONQUER'D ON THE DEEP.

Our famous ship Britannia,
    The mistress of the sea,
As she rides along the ocean,
    Where another ship like she?
Her tars all valiant seamen,
    Unsullied they shall keep
Our Union Jack triumphant,
    Unconquer'd on the deep.

'Twas on her glorious deck
    That Blake and Nelson fell,
Seamen whose hearts were brave and true,
    And loved Britannia well ;
'Twas then the foeman trembled,
    And so 'twill be again,
When they launch another standard,
    To meet us on the main.

And should a hostile fleet
    Britannia's peace molest,
Her thunder then would hoarsely roll,
    And valour fill each breast.
Woe then unto the opposing force-
    The vanquished foe no more
Should face our ship Britannia,
    Or reach their native shore.

"The flag that's braved a thousand years
    The battle and the breeze,"
Shall still maintain its glory,
    As mistress of the seas ;
Our tars all valiant seamen,
    Unsullied they shall keep
Our Union Jack triumphant,
    Unconquered on the deep.

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IN MEMORIAM.

Upon a smiling morn in May
My Lizzie's spirit fled away,
All lonely now I wander ;
I once was light of heart and gay,
Now nought on earth can cheer my way
While on her form I ponder.

Her eyes were of the raven's hue,
Her lochy were of the raven's too,
All lonely now I wander ;
Her love was deep, her love was true,
Her bed's beneath the churchyard yew ;
No maid was ever fonder.

By Barmston's blue and limpid wave
Sleeps Lizzie ile her silent grave ;
And often there I ponder ;
And o'er her while the wild flowers wave,
And deck my absent darling's grave,
There ever shall I wander.

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TO A SCHOOLFELLOW.

Do you recall those pleasant days
    We spent at *Boston College,
When woods and streams were dearer far
    Than all the world of knowledge?
I often dwell upon those hours
    We passed as lads together,
Our journeys down to Jackdaw Crag
    Across the moor and heather.

Our little trips to Wetherby,
    Thorpe Arch, and Bramham Park,
Where we got rid of surplus funds
    In many a festive lark ;
And now a score of years have pass'd
    Since last I saw your face,
And tramp'd with you the dusty lanes
    To some remembered place.

Do you recall the pic-nic lunch,
    Beneath old Cowthorpe's oak,
And how so gay we spent the day
    With laughter, song, and joke ?
Rollino's fled this earthly scene,
    The noblest friend we had ;
His wit made Cowthorpe ring again,
    And every heart was glad.

When I recall those happy hours,
    And think of days gone by,
Old Boston's dales and foliaged bowers
    Come back to memory's eye ;
So farewell, Hal, should fate decree
    No more we meet together,
Reflection still can paint the days
    Of youth's bright sunny weather.

* Boston Spa, near Tadcaster.

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ALPHABETICAL.

O, APB your lot,
    Peerless Polly B,
They say that U're united
    To a Captain of the C.

No more U'll dwell on D-
    By Chester's ancient walls,
So now U're married, C
    That U're XMT from squalls.

Your XLNT YZ
    Will steer U clear of this,
Through your Conubial C,
    Into a Port of Bliss.

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OUR STEAMER SAILS TO-NIGHT, MY BOYS.

Our steamer sails to-night, my boys,
    For Holland she is bound,
Her " Peter " floats along the breeze,
    So let the winch go round ;
And while the creaking derrick swings
    With merchandise and bales,
We'll handle smart the rattling slings,
    For soon the " Edith " sails.
        So rattle along my stalwart lads,
            With actions smart and free,
        The" Edith" she must keep her time,
            This tide must put to sea.

    Our Steamer sails to-night, my boys,
        A well-found ship is she,
    And by Saint Jingo we do swear
        To send her forth to sea ;
    So cheery, lads, and with a wilt,
        Let bales and cases pass,
    And prove unto the owner that
        We're worthy of his " brass."
                  So rattle along, &c.

    Hold up your heads my stalwart lads,
        To labour is not low,
    'Tis only mild and milk-sop fops
        Who look upon it so;
    So let the winch go round, my lads,
        'Tis tide time by yon bell,
    The "Edith" she must sail to-night
      For Rotterdam, all well.
                  So rattle along, &c.

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