Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A THANKSGIVING FEAST, by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A THANKSGIVING FEAST, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: We two are the last my daughter!
Last Line: Will be here thanksgiving day.
Alternate Author Name(s): Van Deth, Gerrit, Mrs.
Subject(s): Feasts; Food & Eating; Gratitude; Holidays; Thanksgiving Day; Turkey


WE two are the last my daughter!
To set the table for two,
Where once we had plates for twenty,
Is a lonesome thing to do.
But my boys and girls are scattered
To the east and the west afar,
And one dearer than even the children
Has passed through the gates ajar.

I'm wanting my bairns for Thanksgiving.
I thought last night as I lay
Awake in my bed and watching
For the breaking of the day,
How my heart would leap in gladness
If a letter should come this morn
To say that they could not leave us here
To keep the feast forlorn!

Samuel, my son in Dakota,
Is a rich man, as I hear,
And he'll never let want approach us,
Save the wanting of him near;
While Jack is in San Francisco,
And Edward over the sea,
And only my little Jessie
Is biding at home with me.

And I feel like poor Naomi
When back to her own she went,
And they said, "Is this Naomi?"
She well knew what they meant.
I've stayed, and the lads have wandered,
And the time that was swift to go
When I was brisk and busy
Is laggard and dull and slow.

O! the happy time for a mother
Is when her bairns are small,
And into the nursery - beds at night
She tucks her darlings all;
When the wee ones are about her,
With gleeful noise and cry,
And she hushes the tumult with a smile,
Her brood beneath her eye.

But a mother must bear her burden
When her babes are bearded men,
On 'change and in the army,
Or scratching away with a pen
In some banker's dusty office,
As Martin is, no doubt—
A mother must bear her burden,
And learn to do without.

I know the Scripture teaching,
To keep the halt and blind,
And the homesick and the desolate,
At the festal hour in mind.
Of the fat and the sweet a portion
I'll send to the poor man's door;
But I'm wearying for my children
To sit at my board once more.

I tell you, Jessie, my darling,
This living for money and pelf—
It takes the heart from life, dear,
It robs a man of himself.
This old bleak hill-side hamlet,
That sends its boys away,
Has a right to claim them back, dear,
On the fair Thanksgiving day.

Shame on my foolish fretting!
Here are letters, a perfect sheaf;
Open them quickly, dearest!
Ah me, 'tis beyond belief!
By ship and train they're hasting,
Rushing along on the way.
Tell the neighbors all my children
Will be here Thanksgiving day.





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