Oh! The old Manor House,

    On the banks of the stream,

That beautiful river,

    The rattling Teign,

With its green mossy banks

    And its clear waters blue,

Reflecting like mirrors

    so deep and so true.

Oh ! the dear and lov'd haunts

    Where in childhood we play'd

'Neath the green weeping willow

    And old yew-tree's shade;

Must we henceforth love

    But in memory’s dream,

That o1d Manor House

    On the banks or the stream?

My father, beloved by

    The whole country round,

With his few, but high spirited

    Noble bred hounds;

He'd a bright, cheering word

    And a smile for each one,

There was Charmer and Gipsey,

    And Francie and Don.

The noble old Trueman

    Deserved a good name,

And Wildboy stood high         

    In the annals of fame;

But all - all are gone,

    Like a spring fading beam,

From the old Manor House

    On the banks of the stream.

'Mid jovial companions

    So cheerful and gay,

His life gilded calmly

    And sweetly away;

He'd a smile for the wretched–

    A mite for the poor,

And the stranger was welcom'd

    With joy to his door.

But to requite his kindness

    Came treacherous friends–

They wrought innovation

        And spirit and change:

And naught there remains

        As it used to be,

Save the river and the shade

        of the old yew tree.

Who now wil1 watch o'er

        The flowers that we loved !

Who now will rove o'er

        The walks where we roved ?

We've left them to strangers–

        Will they be so kind

As to cherish those treasures

        That we've left behind ?

They may,-but unto them

        They can't be so dear

As to the memory of those

        Who had planted them there:

Whilst we unremembered

        Regret, the loved scene,

And the old Manor House

        On the banks of the stream.

Then farewell to the home

        of our childhood delight,

We will here make another

        As rosy and bright.

Let us laugh and be happy–

        Enjoy life while we may,

For this beautiful world

        Is fast passing away.

Though friends now may weep us

        In a far distant land,

Let us hope and be merry–

        'Tis the far better plan.

The sweet remembrances

        That cling to the just

Shall flourish around them

        When sleeping in dust.

Farewell, and forever,

        No more shall we dream

Of the old Manor House

        On the banks or the stream.

CLYROW COTTAGE, 26^th August, l855

  THE NEW YORK DISPATCH

               SEPTEMBER 2, 1855.