Yorskhire Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, part 15


LYRICS by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, 1885:


    Oh, by thunder, 'tis the boxers,
            Christmas boxers,
    How they try the key and lock, sirs ;
            How they rap, rap, rap,
    And tattoos beat upon your door,
    And disturb your balmy nap,
            With a tap, tap, tap,
    Louder, ever louder than before ;
            How they drum, drum, drum,
            With a loud incessant hum,
And persistency that's seldom shown in boys.
    Oh, the boys ! boys ! ! boys ! ! ! boys!! ! !
            Boys!!!!! boys!!!!!! boys!!! !!!!!
On a merry Christmas morning what a noise !
    Blow the boys !
            Boxing boys !
    An inferno in the neighbourhood of your door ;
            In the dreamy hours of night,
            Ere the morn has brought its light,
    Yell the boxing boys, a dozen if not more
            Tinkle, tinkle goes the bell
            With a long and lusty spell ;
                How they roar,
            Till you wish them all in Hades,
            Or less distant, say in Cadiz
                At some Hidalgo's door ;
            How they knock, knock, knock,
            While your nerves receive a shock,
                Such as they never knew before
            With their tapping, tapping, tapping,

            And their rapping, rapping, rapping,
            Till burst are the panels of your door.
                To abate the noisy din,
                You let the youngsters in,
                Bestow on them some " tin,"
    And repair unto your chamber as before,
                When another rap, tap, tap,
                Disestablishes your nap,
    As the clock is chiming out the hour, of four ;
                Your heart does not rejoice
                At this second set of boys.
As they trample in your garden by the score ;
    Experience teaches wisdom, so they say,
    And ere comes round another Christmas Day
    I mean to circumvent this noisy corps ;
        In the window, you may bet,
        I will place a bill " To Let,"
Then the boxers may cease rapping at the door.


Oh, Abigail, sweet Abigail,
    I never can forget,
Tho' all the summer's charms had flown,
    The day when first we met ;
And summer's charms are dear to me,
    And dear the flowery vale,
But all their charms are far less sweet
    Than those of Abigail.
And if, perchance, lov'd Abigail,
    Fate bids us meet again
When winter's surly days are o'er,
    And spring's enchanting reign

Bedecks our fields with floral gems,
    And perfume fills the vale,
'Tis then I hope to wander forth
    With charming Abigail.
Oh, then at twilight hour we'll roans
    Thro' lane and shady vale,
And every bird shall tune its lay
    In praise of Abigail ;
And when the lamps of heaven are lit
    And silence fills the vale,
That silence shall be broken by
    A vow to Abigail.


Who serves me with my mental feast,
When golden rays are in the East ?
                                The Newsboy.

Heavenward the lark's at matin hymn,
As hurrying forth comes Tiny Tim,
                                The Newsboy.

Who brings to me last night's debate
With eloquence from Harcourt's pate?
                                The Newsboy.

And stinging strokes from Forster's lash,
Anent the hot Hibernian hash,
                                The Newsboy.

Who record brings of Wilfrid's wit,
And Cowen Joseph's latest hit ?
                                The Newsboy.

Or word of Randolph's brilliant dash,
Whose speeches like the diamond flash,
                                The Newsboy.

Or when some member cuts up rough,
While Wharton hands the scented snuff,
                                The Newsboy.

Who brings us news of Parnell's sneer,
While all the Irish members cheer ?
                                The Newsboy.

Who brings us word from Southern France,
The Grand Old Man's been to the dance ?
                                The Newsboy.

And how he shared with Rollit and all
The frolics of the carnival,
                                The Newsboy.

Who brings us news when markets rise,
And speculators doubt their eyes ?
                                The Newsboy.

Who brings us news when markets drop,
And speculators' soaring stop,
                                The Newsboy.

Who record brings of rumoured war,
And brilliant pleadings at the bar ?
                                The Newsboy.

Who furnishes the leader's strain,
Fruits of the editorial brain ?
                                The Newsboy.

Oh, deem him not a sorry elf,
He's worth his weight in golden pelf,
                                The Newsboy.


We never squeak as we pass by,
In midnight prowls for pigeon pie,
In fact you know a mouse is shy,
When puss is standing sentry by.;
And, oh, to lead a mouse's life,
When it is free from feline strife,
Is just about the best thing out,
So hurrah, for a mouse's life let's shout.

Our dwelling is beneath the ground,
And there our revels do abound,
We never care to court the mews, .
And dodge poor puss with many a ruse,
And with her we have lots of sport,
In terrace, alley, lane or court,
And oh, a mouse's life to lead,
Is just a merry one indeed.

When we make tracks to mansions fine,
On Stilton cheese we daily dine,
And other dainties rich and rare,
From lobster up to potted hare.
When puss in Morpheus' arms is safe,
We're wide awake and never chafe,
And silently we all pass by;
To disestablish pigeon pie.

A mouse's life is very nice,
Who would not be a merry mice
For we have hit a glorious plan,
To interview the grand old man,
And state our case in phrases pat,
For he, like us, objects to eat,
And when we do away with this,
Our lives will be a reign of bliss.


Oh, Eleanor, thine eyes so bright
Surround my soul with pure delight,
And far outshine the queen of night,
Nor moon, nor stars, bear such a light,
    As orbs of thine, sweet Eleanor.

And, oh ! the witching gentle grace
Depicted in thy form and face,
Unblemished by an artful trace,
Where nature's charms alone have place
    In charming, beauteous Eleanor.

Thy charms have set my heart aglow,
And caused the Muse's song to flow ;
For Plato ne'er swore purer vow
Than he who pens these lines to thou,
    Sweet, lovely, charming Eleanor.


The boatman of Paull, who so happy as he
As adown the broad Humber he glides to the sea ?
With helm and with oar he encounters the gale,
And cheerily watches his white spreading sail.

On the banks of the Humber he dwells when at home,
His dwelling in view of the spray and the foam ;
No troubles oppress him the wild waves among,
In the surge of the waters he hears a sweet song.

When his barque is away on the deep rolling sea,
The light-hearted fisher is happy and free ;
To envy a stranger-no malice he bears,
No matter how ill or how hardly he fares.

Be the weather too stormy he then stays ashore,
Overhauling his gear and re-patching his store,
His nets and his tackle, his white spreading sail,
Till the morrow shall bring a more suitable gale.

At eve, on the ocean, the stars in the skies
Are sweet to the boatman as homeward he flies ;
But one star he welcomes far dearer than all,
Is the light on the beach in his dwelling at Paull.

The boatman of Paull, who so happy as he,
As adown the broad Humber he glides to the sea ?
With helm and with oar he encounters the gale,
And cheerily watches his white-spreading sail.

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