Thomas Cowherd

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

To Dr. Laycock, On His Leaving Brantford On Account Of Illness - Poem by Thomas Cowherd

Doctor, you must not hence depart
Ere I address a parting lay
Fresh gushing from an honest heart,
Which grieves because you cannot stay.

To Rhyme I make but small pretence,
Yet what I write is what I feel;
And should it prove but common-sense,
Many defects this will conceal.

I have oft wished since you came here,
That we might years together spend;
And now I hang 'twixt hope and fear,
In strange uncertainty, my friend.

Right glad, dear Doctor, would I be
If you left here in perfect health;
I know 'tis prized by you and me
As far before the greatest wealth.

And well it may! For that is wealth
In most men's hands but splendid dross
To purchase friends who leave by stealth
Their friend, when he has found its loss.

Yet 'tis I own, when rightly used,
A goodly thing for you and me,
Who can't of hoarding be accused
At least from all that I can see.

Then take what I most freely give-
A wish sincere that you may yet
Return in health near us to live,
An honest livelihood to get.

And may your partner live to share
With you for years fresh joy and peace.
For this I urge an earnest prayer
To God who makes my joys increase.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 26, 2012



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