The Tory Grandfather or How I Lost the Will

Welcome reader!  You have come far afield to reach this poetic outpost.
I am starting this wee blog so I can get the verses I write on the back of cigarette packages and coffee shop napkins all organized in one spot.

To start the fun is a verse meant for the British magazine Punch as it presented itself in the late 18th century.


The Tory Grandfather or How I Lost the Will

Old Richard was a Tory gent who wore a powdered wig.

And flew a jaunty union jack a- fluttering from his rig.

But Patrick Henry made his speech and Richard stood aghast,

And little lads began to throw tomatoes as he past.

So Richard kept within his house, locked within its tower,

And cursed the rebels down to hell with every chiming hour.

He cursed their bones, he damned their eyes, his curses rattled on and on,

Not knowing then he cursed his own beloved grandson John.

Some years after Washington and Marquis de Lafayette,

Had covered Lord Cornwallis with shame and deep regret,

Old Richard lay a-dying in his plantation house most grand,

With his son bonny Hardy there to hold his quaking hand.

Hardy bent a mournful head near his father's lips to hear,

The last words of his father's to fall on human ear.

“Hardy my blessed boy shall have my lands, my slaves, my purse,

But to my rebel grandson John I give thirteen shillings and my curse.