Norwich bulletin., 1909-07-17

iality and sweetness of your nature Ah.- dear Uncle George, 1 have one great consolation. It Is impossible | for this union to be broken. The cen turies may pass like marching host l but so long as the trees remain there | you shall be always to me my mortal immortal and imperishable friend and to Bohemia, the great emblem of her genius and her strength.
 -"Joe" Bedding. My Dear Uncle George: They say that time and tide wait for none. It may have silvered your gray locks, but it has not dimmed your eyes nor aged your young heart, which will ever be young to those that love you. Count. me in; and may your birthdays come thick and fast as the years go flying by. and you remain with us until we all go together.
 -(Julian Rix) Dear Uncle George:
 Do you remember me?
 I shall never forget
 You. And my name is
 Stuart Robson. When you've brought the cattle home,
 when you've sung Weigh O!
 My Bully!"
 And the wine-cup circulates around
 the feast, Just turn your thoughts a moment,
 just a moment, if you please, To us 'sabsent-bodied beggars" in
 the East. Tho we've wandered from the owls
 wing, and strayed so far afield, In spirit we are ''wid you" just the
 same. May the good Lord always love you
 and not call you too soon, Uncle George. the first and best of
 all the game Altho' today you reckon some four
 score years and three. May you add a thousand to that, a
 thousand and a day. This is the wish of the undersigned in
 far away New York, Here's to you, Uncle Georgeyl Hoo-
 ray! Hoorayl HoorayI
 -("Cosy'' Noble.) went daown East. jest 'tother day To see the folks-New London way Old Granpa Nash, that's ninety four, An Gran'ma Ames that's that or more. A oldish kind of man was there, With ruddy face an rakish air, Who said he'd heerd I'd been t tn
 Coast An asst if 'twasnt foolish boast To say the climate of the Slope Became sort of long-life dope. So jest up an spoke right aout, An told him what we bragged abaout. "Of course,' I said, "''tain't nat'ral tall Thet folks sh'd live frever n all But this much can be truly told Thet though they die-they don't grow
 old.
 There's Bromley, Uncle George" !"
 says I, Thet's past the age when most men
 die,
 Though old in years-he's jest boy Thet fairly frolics in youths ioy. Get aout," says he. You call him old ? Wall, you do brag, as I've been told I've hearn before abaout your josh Why, Georges my youngest son, by
 Goshi"
 Joseph R. Grismer. (To Uncle George Bromley on His
 Eighty-fourth Birthday) Bohemia laughs at Time once more, Nor needs the grim Scythe- bearers core,
 As here her clansmen throng to
 meet you. With hearts elate and pride galore, Ho! brave old boy. of eighty-four. Across tins festive board we greet
 you. High Priest of fun and frolic, he Meath frescoed walls or greenwood tree
 Will bivouac on the field of battle. What would the fete without him be? Then let Us give him three times three
 And make the clinking glasses
 rattle. Hail, stalwart Sire. with face benign, As mellow as Falernian wine, And sparkling as the Widow
 Cliquot; Long may we hear that voice of thine, As in the days of Auld Lang Syne, Long life to thee. my old amigo.
 -Lucius Harwood Foote
 (1s17-Bromley-1eo1.) Thro' years that never aught bur
 manly luster shed, He whom we feast today hath laugh
 ed at Time, And with the reaper in his hand lop-
 ped off the head Of each conspiror 'gainst the bond
 sublime
 That binds mans heart to mans. Thro' days and nights and weeks and
 months of merry years, That rugged heart of his could only
 beat For Friendship and for Friendships
 cause. Nor signs nor tears Have stilled its endless flow of na-
 ture sweet
 That held Bohemia's clans. Through countless revels that were biz
 with song and wit, His voice rang out the blithest of His tongue found words as sage as
 Plato ever writ, His soul enlisted in an endless quest For spirits tuned to joy; Made every atmosphere he breathed
 word of cheer; Wreathed in smiles. Men loved him
 better far Than ever woman loved her lord. For
 none sincere
 As Friend-love. which no jealous
 lust can mar,
 Nor passions thrill alloy. Through orgies that have youthful
 vigor drowned in wine, And strong mems wits transformed
 to tongueless things, His rum proof mind. as tho controlled
 by hands Divine, Poured thro' his lips as smoothly as
 on wings,
 The quips of jest and song Then when the nascent day dethroned
 the waning night, And glared on kings of revelry laid
 low, This King of Kings triumphant, sway
 ed the merry fight, And wit and song rang still in joy
 ous flow
 As thro' the whole night long. So thro' these merry, merry years. = from one to eighty four This good old man hath lived with