Thomas Cowherd

(March 20, 1817 – April 4, 1907 / England)

Song To Brantford - Poem by Thomas Cowherd

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Thou lovely town in which I dwell,
My own adopted place,
In verse I would most gladly tell
The pleasures which I trace,

As back I look through all the years
Which o'er my head have passed,
Since I began, with many fears,
My hopes on thee to cast.

For that support which, under God,
I have from thee obtained.
Now through life's journey I would plod,
With gratitude unfeigned.

When I at first began my trade,
I was not worth a cent.
That small commencement then I made
With money to me lent

By one whose name I fain would tell,
If he would give consent.
On love like this I'll fondly dwell,
Till my poor life be spent.

His kindness set me first afloat
In business and its cares,
And thy inhabitants have bought
My humble, shining wares.

So that my needs have been supplied,
And a most ample share
Of true home sweets I have enjoyed,
Such as are far too rare.

But yet I have had sorrows too,
Sent by my Father kind,
To make me think, and say and do
All he in love designed.

And now I candidly declare,
I would not if I could,
Have altered my sweet bill of fare,
It has been all so good.

Our eight dear children growing up,
My wife and I behold,
And quaff such, pleasures from life's cup
As none can get from gold.

And whence does such pure pleasure come?
I answer, from the Lord.
His presence cheers our humble home,
And we can well afford

To praise and glorify His name,
While we do here remain;
And be content to suffer shame,
If but the Crown we gain.


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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 26, 2012



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