Thurmont – Gateway To The Mountain
The following comes from a June-July 1959 Thurmont Topics. The newsletter was a publication for employees of Moore Business Forms. Thurmont’s late George W. Wiremen was the editor of the publication during his career there.
The Bentztown Bard was the author of the following poem written for Thurmont. A bard is a poet. The Bentztown Bard was the pen name of a 42-year journalist with The Baltimore Sun, named Folger McKinsey. According to cecildaily.com’s journalist, Erika Quesenbery Sturgill, McKinsey was known in Frederick and Baltimore for his writing and poetry, but was an Elkton, Maryland, native and a former assistant editor to the Cecil Whig. He moved from Elkton to Frederick and lived in an area called Bentztown. He worked at The Daily and Weekly News while in Frederick, and wrote two volumes of History of Frederick County, MD, with Thomas J. Williams.
He continued in Baltimore as a columnist. While there he wrote the song, “Baltimore Our Baltimore” in 1915 for a contest that he won. He wrote countless poems. In his obituary upon his death at the age of 83 in July of 1950, he was acclaimed with knowing every nook and cranny of the state, from the mountains to the sea.
Thurmont – Gateway To The Mountain
Thurmont lies at the foot of the hills
And its street runs into the mountain,
And very near are the singing rills
And the foam of a forest fountain;
And the old homes stand in such friendly guise
As if to welcome you in
From the world of struggle and strife
And the hatred, evil and sin.
All day long the seasons flow,
The peaks of the ridge beyond it
Are telling of dreams that come and go
To the orchards that softly frond it;
And the lovely park in its quiet peace
Brings back as fine a story
Of the lads that served for the great increase
Of freedom and of glory.
Thurmont stands with its back to the blue
Of the hills, and looks away
To the vales that lie in the frost and dew
And the mists of the autumn gray;
And wandering spirits of fancy dwell
In the nooks and the lovely hollows,
And ever the kiss of the mountain spell
The way of the wanderer follows.
Thurmont, high on the hoary knob,
And yet so nestled down
In the tender arms of the mystic hills
That dream of the mountain town;
As I shall dream, as I go my way,
Remembering, aye, so long,
How the autumn sun shone yesterday
On its peace and beauty and song!
— THE BENTZTOWN BARD
