Yorskhire Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, part 12


LYRICS by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, 1885:


Now fast, now slow,
We onward flow,
    My little skiff and I ;
The airs are light,
The ocean's bright,
    And sunshine fills the sky.

What wonder if
My little skiff,
    My little skiff and I,
With such a sea,
Right merrily,
    Are pleasant company.

Now fast, now slow,
The Number's flow
    Becomes a raging sea ;
I wonder if
My little skiff
    And I part company.

With shorten'd sail
We face the gale,
    My little skiff and I,
And scud along,
The storm among,
    Beneath a leaden sky.

Far on the beach,
From danger's reach,
    My little skiff lies free ;
Her duty done,
She's nobly won
    This song of praise from me.


The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee,
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou bast done for me.

The summer may renounce her bloom,
    And spring withold the genial showers,
The rose discard its sweet perfume
    And cease to reign the queen of flowers ;
The lark forget his matin hymn
    That greets the ploughman o'er the lea,
But I'll remember thee, Tom Groat,
    And all our social hours of glee.

The sailor may forget the barque
    That bore him bravely thro' the gale,
The hounds heed not the huntsman's " hark "
    Whose echoed echo fills the vale,
The soldier may forget the sword
    That won for him his victorie,
But I'll remember thee, Tom Groat,
    And all our social hours of glee.


The steeple clock proclaims the hour,
    The passing hour of day,
Its chimes are heard in yonder tower,
    When breaks the morning grey ;
At midnight you can hear its boom
    Pervade the silent air,
When darkness throws its sable gloom
    Around God's House of Prayer.

The steeple clock proclaimed the hour
    When you and I were born,
Its chimes were heard in yonder tower
    Upon our natal morn ;
The steeple clock will tell the time
    When we have passed away,
And other ears shall hear its chime
    Above our beds of clay.

Chime on, chime on, old steeple clock,
    Above God's House of Prayer,
Chime on, chime on, old steeple clock,
    We ponder o'er thy air ;
Thou tellest us in every chime
    A few brief hours we know,
A footstep in the march of time,
    Our reign is here below.


Farewell for awhile to the city,
    Farewell for awhile to the town,
Let us roam where the woodlands are pretty,
    Over the hill and the down ;
Farewell to the streets and the alleys,
    Adieu to the terrace and square,
Let us roam thro' the beautiful valleys,
    Fill'd with the life-giving air.

With tints all the uplands are pretty,
    And sweet is the voice of the thrush,
Far away from the haunts of the city,
    Out where the rivulets rush ;
The orchards and gardens are glowing,
    Fields are with melody gay,
And scent-laden zephyrs are blowing
    Whiffs of the newly-cut hay.

The partridge, woodpigeon, and plover
    Now and again may be seen,
While leverets and rabbits run over
    Meadows delightfully green ;
All bright are the beautiful hedges
    Swallows are up on the wing,
And water rats deep in the sedges,
    Warily sit by the spring.

Adown by the hamlet and village,
    The farmer is out on his way,
Surveying the crops on his tillage,
    Driving an old dappled grey ;
In the distance the mill wain is going,
    And down at the foot of the hill
The mill-race is rapidly flowing,
    Busily working the mill.

The anglers adrift in the river,
    Are watching the fish in the weir,
Beneath the gold sunbeams that quiver
    All in the soft, balmy air ;
The cows are knee-deep in the clover,
    The lambkins and foals are at play,
While the larks overhead gaily hover,
    Up in the clouds far away.


Lovely Nell of Manor Farm,
    Light hearted maiden she,
Within her eye there lurks a charm
    Such as you seldom see ;
And what is more, a noble heart
    Wins every one unto her,
Oh, happy he, who plays the part
    Of her accepted wooer.

With lovely Nell of Manor Farm .
    No maiden may compare,
She far excels in every charm,
    The fairest of the fair ;
A palace she would grace or cot,
    Her air serene and calm,
No maid a fairer form has got
    Than Nell of Manor Farm.

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