Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A THANKSGIVING FEAST, by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LAMENT FOR A TURKISH SUICIDE AGE 22 by HETTIE JONES THANKSGIVING SONG by CAREY YATES BUSBY THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE GIAOUR; A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE TURKISH LADY by THOMAS CAMPBELL THANKSGIVING by OLIVER MURRAY EDWARDS SAADABAD by JAMES ELROY FLECKER THE HAMMAM NAME (FROM A POEM BY A TURKISH LADY) by JAMES ELROY FLECKER CHESKIAN ANTHOLOGY by THOMAS HOOD ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME? by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER |
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