Newsclipping from Andrew Christman  Scrapbook Collection

Good Old Monroe

 

     Author unknown

I've been asked to make a speech,
Your indulgence I beseech,
While in verse I strive to preach,
Of Monroe to all and each.

There's a county called Monroe,
In southeastern O-H-I-O,
Where snakeroot and ginseng grow,
And the roosters loudly crow.

To Monroe we give a toast,
Of her people we will boast,
We will swear to love her most,
Of any place from coast to coast.

May we adore our native sod,
So richly blessed by nature's God,
Hills and valleys of goldenrod,
A sight to make us all applaud.

Although they say we're from the sticks,
And cannot cope with city slicks,
Begorrah, we're up to their tricks,
No matter what their politics.

Monroe can grow most any crop,
Farming there is not a flop,
The rain, it never fails to drop,
And it never fails to stop.

Once the roads were made of dirt,
Dobbin's feet the mud would squirt,
And if one were not alert,
One would splash a brand new skirt.

We have long since passed the day,
Of the romantic horse-drawn shay,
Motor buggies have come to stay,
Yes, courtin's done a different way.

As long as Father Time holds sway,
Things will change from day to day,
The narrow gauge "tis sad to say,
To motor travel gave right of way.

No longer does her whistle shrill,
Resound and echo from hill to hill,
She's gone the way we sometimes will,
While others come, our places fill.

Now, if we don't watch out by golly,
We'll get to feelin' melancholy,
This is a time we should be jolly,
To be downcast is outright folly.

Let's reminisce on happy themes,
Not one forgotten, buried dreams,
On green woodlands and sparkling streams,
On azure sky and bright sunbeams.

A big reunion there have we,
The greatest of it's kind it be,
Where many go their friends to see,
A huge home-coming annually.

They used to go all sorts of ways,
On hay loads and moving drays,
Started at the sun's first rays,
It is one of our biggest days.

Now folks go in motor car,
On good roads without a jar,
Yes, they come from near and far,
Time and distance are no bar.

We have a first class county fair,
The lads and lassies all go there,
The exhibits, they are fine and rare,
Doubt these statements if you dare.

Think of the gas and oil and coal,
For which we're known from pole to pole,
How they've kept us off the dole,
Made independent many a soul.

Monroe produces superb cheese,
It's quality all folks does please,
I'm sure we'd all get on our knees,
For just one hunk of switzer cheese.

Woodsfield is our county seat,
There is where good fellows meet,
Talk about their corn and wheat,
Don't get drunk unless they treat.

Monroe has reared her share of men,
Whose names are in the who and when,
We proudly boast our kith and kin,
So few have landed in the pen.

For scenic beauty, Monroe will vie,
With any county beneath the sky,
The artist's brush need never try,
To paint the scene which delight the eye.

Yes, we could praise dear old Monroe,
'Till all the river's up-hill flow,
'Till hairs upon all bald heads grow,
'Til Gabriel does his trumpet blow.

But I'll from further rhymes refrain,
Lest your patience I might strain,
Lest you think I am insane,
Here's hoping that we meet again.

 

Provided by Paul Young

 

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