Yorskhire Poems by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, part 20


LYRICS by Thomas Jefferson Monkman, 1885:


Revolving o'e thy level baize of green
Thine ivory spheres with pleasure I have seen,
                    Both red and white.

Likewise at pool, with yellow, pink, and green,
And pyramids whose ruby balls have been
                    A pretty sight.

Experts who handle smart the magic cue,
Perform the kie bosh feat, and side, and screw,
                    At many an angle,

But novices are wary what they do,
'Tis just, when they do cut thy cloth in two,
                    A guinea mangle.

And when thy votaries do perform at pool,
Their lives are taken with an air as cool
                    As hokey-pokey.

So your assassin smiles, as is the rule,
Conscious no law can send him to that school,
                    Yclept chokey.

Thy marker oft observes that he is dry,
In fact it is with him the usual cry,
                    Ruin, port, or sherry.

His lips at any of these drinks he'll try,
" Being more than seven," not in the leastways shy,
                    And always merry.

Assassination oft takes place upon thy table,
Don cueists stab a ball when they are able,
                    And make a cut.

I do not wish for you to look on this as fable,
For deeds are done as dark as any sable,
                    With cue and butt.

Armstrong and Krupp are men with noted names,
Famous in fact, from Tiber to the Thames,
                    As men of cannons.

But not a patch on thee, for in thy games
There's made as many as would fill, tho' minus flames,
                    A dozen Shannons.

Oft in thy presence I've enjoyed a whiff,
And pulverised no end of Hessle's cliff
                    Upon my cue.

And now, farewell, I'll just give thou the "gruff,"
Keep all thy cushions pliant, never stiff,
                    So long, adieu !


"Man's inhumanity to man,
Makes countless thousands mourn."

God's greatest gifts to all are free,
The air, the sunshine, and the sea ;
What worth the world to you or me,
Minus the air, the sun, the sea ?

God's priceless gift, the human mind,
Leaves wealth and baubles far behind ;
Should reason but desert her throne,
Golconda's mines could not atone.

Man has the range of all the earth,
Be he of low or noble birth ;
No barriers stay him east or west,
Mankind, therefore, is truly blest.

But man perverts God's will and plan,
And makes to mourn his fellow man ;
His labour and his endless toil
Serve but to swell some Croesus' spoil.

If man would God but imitate,
And shower his boons on low estate ;
A myriad souls might bless their fate,
And make the world one smiling state.


There was a young damsel, oh, bless her,
It cost very little to dress her ;
        She was sweet as a rose
        In her everyday clothes,
But had no young man to caress her.
                        -Meridian Recorder.

There was a young turkey, oh, blesss her,
It cost very little to dress her ;
        Some dry bread and thyme
        About thanksgiving time,
And they ate the last bit from the dresser.
                        -American Punch.

A newspaper poet, oh, bless him,
And pelt him, and club him, and bang him;
        He kept writing away
        Till the people one day
Rose up and proceeded to hang him.
                        -Detroit Free Press.

There was a young lady, oh, bless her,
Who'd seven or eight spoons to caress her;
        She'd blue satins and pink-
        But what do you think 2
Not one of these spoons could re-dress her.
                        T. J. M.


Britannia's tars true courage show
    Upon the stormy deep,
For when the raging tempests blow
    And seas run mountains steep,
'Tis then our tars, at duty's call,
    A bold and valiant crew,
Scorn wind and wave and dangers all,
    Like British sailors true.

Our fearless tars upon the deep,
    When Albion's foe is near,
With dauntless hearts their vigils keep,
    And have no thought of fear ;
Britannia's honour, in their hands,
    As in the days of yore,
Shall spread its fame o'er distant lands,
    Resound from shore to shore.

Fear not then for Britannia's fame,
    Upon the boundless deep,
Untarnish'd still her glorious name
    Our gallant tars shall keep ;
And when Old England's foe is seen,
    Their duty they will do,
For England and the country's Queen,
    Like British sailors true.


Here's a health to ladies fair,
    And the beauty they possess,
By this goblet do I swear
    The penchant I confess.

Let truth and wine together flow,
    Sing in vino veritas,
So my lips with these shall glow
    When I toast a pretty lass.

£. s. d.


Tell me not in penny numbers
    Life is simply going by steam,
And the man's a fool that slumbers
    When the milkman brings the cream.

Man who takes this view is sordid,
    All his life of gold a dream,
When its gotten, when its hoarded,
    Then it often goes by steam.

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