Relic Home and Blacksmith Shop

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Thomas Burnside Poems ~ from History of Mountainville ~ compiled by Melba Shelley Hill

"Old Uncle"  
A Rhyme Addressed to my Wife

I have left the busy city Nell, it's awful noise and din,

I have left the busy city and its whirlpool of sin.

Away far down, where pinie streams flow,

Through victors lovely veil, I pitch my tent to fine repose,

Where none will tell my tale of woe.

A pilgrim of the wilds this day, where man do seldom roam,

I eat my crust with thanks to God for this my humble home.

Small is my woodland cabin Nell, and here I sit alone,

Alone, yet never lonely Nell, for fancies of my own.

Some dreary memories of the past, my aged farm doth thrill,

And heart, it beats more wildly, while all around is still.

And here at night while looking back, over all my four score years,

I close my book, I cannot see the pages, for blinding tears.

But I'll soon pass away Nell, for men do come and go.

Before I cross that river dark, My Blessings I'll bestow.

Give all my dearest children Nell, a loving kiss for me,

And say for them my last farewell, will be for them and thee.

If ever that you wander near this lonely grave of mine,

Just open the gate, and pass right through, to where the wood vine.

Then  drop a burning tear Nell, or leave a lonely sigh,

And angels, they will whisper it as they slowly pass me by.


~~~~~~~~

Marion

Marion, my child, thou are gone
To where we cannot tell.
We fondly hope to some bright sphere 
Where holy angels dwell.

Marion, my child, while here
Thy race was ill to sin,
And yet for all we'd keep you here
I've got to give in.

Marion, my little tender flower,
Eternal life be given.
We ne'er shall murmur for to lose
The gift we got from heaven.

Mama feels so lonely now
At morning, noon and even,
Sweet consolation bids us hope
we'll meet again in heaven.

Written in memory of Marion Coates 1909
~~~~~~~~
"My Farm"
by Marvin LeRoy Coates

My farm to me, is not just land,
Where bare, unpainted buildings stand,
To me, my farm is nothing less
Than all God's created loveliness.

My farm is not where I must soil
My hands in endless, dreary toil..
But there, through seed and swelling pod, 
I've learned to walk and talk with God.

My Farm, to me, is not a place
Outmoded by a modern race..
I like to think I just see less
Of evil, greed and selfishness.

My Farm's not lonely - for all day
I hear my children shout and play
And here when age comes, free from fears,
I'll live again, long, joyous years.

My farm's a heaven -- here dwells rest,
Security, and happiness
Whatever befalls the world outside,
Here faith and hope and love abide.

And so my farm is not just land,
Where bare, unpainted buildings stand
To me, my farm is nothing less
Than all God's Hoarded Loveliness.


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