WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN" BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

 

   ((Oddly enough, both my parents occasionally would quote a line or two from Riley's
two most famous poems. This is the one Dad would quote. I first posted this on 13Oct 2012)) 


We had the first frost of the fall season in parts of New England and it put me in mind 
how Dad would  sometimes recite "When the frost is on the pumpkin...". That's the only part of
the poem he'd say. I think he must have had to recite it in school when he was a kid and that's all
he remembered.

Reading it just now I had to grin at the line about the turkey since I've now had experiences with
a loud, "struttin" turkey here in my own backyard!




 "When the Frost is on the Punkin"
                          James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,   
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,   
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,   
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;   
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,         
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,   
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere   
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—   
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,   
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;   
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze   
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days   
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,   
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;   
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still   
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;   
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;   
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—   
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps   
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;   
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through   
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...   
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be   
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—   
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

AN APOLOGY. BOY AM I DUMB.

ARRRRGGGGGH. I deleted the Poetry Challenge draft. I will have to rebuild the post from scratch as it can't be recovered. So the new version won't be posted until tomorrow or Saturday.
My apologies to the participants. I hit the wrong button. I plead old age.

MENDING WALL BY ROBERT FROST

You see them everywhere in New England:around houses, churches, farms, cemeteries, and in some cases, deep in the woods away from towns and roads. Stone walls are one of the hallmarks of the region. Since my Dad's family has been here for over four centuries, it's probable that some of them were built by one or more of my relatives. Sometimes when I find a wall on a walk in the woods I take a photo  of it and wonder if it has a connection to my family.

Robert Frost wrote a famous poem, Mending Wall, that was published in 1904; Here it is with some of the photos I've taken over the years.

. Mending Wall

SOMETHING there is that doesn’t love a wall,   
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,   
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;   
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.   
The work of hunters is another thing:            5
I have come after them and made repair   
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,   
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,   
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,   
No one has seen them made or heard them made,            10
But at spring mending-time we find them there.   
I let my neighbour know beyond the hill;   
And on a day we meet to walk the line   
And set the wall between us once again.   
We keep the wall between us as we go.            15
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.   
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls   
We have to use a spell to make them balance:   
“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”   
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.            20
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,   
One on a side. It comes to little more:   
There where it is we do not need the wall:   
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.   
My apple trees will never get across            25
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.   
He only says, “Good fences make good neighbours.”   
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder   
If I could put a notion in his head:   
“Why do they make good neighbours? Isn’t it            30
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.   
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know   
What I was walling in or walling out,   
And to whom I was like to give offence.   
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,            35
That wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,   
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather   
He said it for himself. I see him there   
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top   
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.            40
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,   
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.   
He will not go behind his father’s saying,   
And he likes having thought of it so well   
He says again, “Good fences make good neighbours.”
-Robert Frost
North Of Boston 2nd ed.   Henry Holt and Company, New York 1915

REMINDER FOR THE ELEVENTH ANNUAL GREAT GENEALOGY POETRY CHALLENGE

Just a reminder that the deadline for this year's Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge is only
two weeks away on 21November.

Once again,here are the rules;

1. Find a poem by a  poet, famous or obscure, about the region
one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a
legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local
animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written.
0r, if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone
performing the song.

2. Post the poem or song to your blog (remembering to cite the source
where you found it.).  If you wish to enter an older post, you may as long
as it has not appeared here in an earlier Poetry Challenge.

 3.Tell us how the subject of the poem or song relates to your ancestor's
home or life, or the area of the country where they lived.

4.Submit your post's link here to me  in a comment or send me an emaill  
by midnight Thursday, November 21st and I'll publish all links to the entries 
on Thanksgiving Day, November 28th

5. If  you submit a humorous poem or song that will be entered under the
"Willy Puckerbrush" division. Willy was the late geneablogger Terry
Thornton's alias for some humorous posts and comments.

There you have it. You have two months to find your poem and post it to your
blogs. I will be waiting to see what you come up with this year!

"LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE"

((First posted on October, 2011))



When we were small our Mom occasionally would recite this poem and would tickle us when she reached the "Gobble-uns 'll git you ef you don't watch out!" part. Then when I was in the third grade at the Frank V.Thompson school in Dorchester I read the poem in our English text book. Years later I used to post it every Halloween on an email list for a fantasy role playing group. So it's a sort of Halloween tradition for me.


Anyway, it's the best Halloween poem I know. Enjoy.

And `ware th' Gobble-uns!

Little Orphant Annie

by James Whitcomb Riley.

LITTLE Orphant Annie ’s come to our house to stay,   
An’ wash the cups and saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,   
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,   
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;   
An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done,         
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun   
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about,   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you   
        Ef you   
            Don’t           
              Watch   
                Out!   

Onc’t they was a little boy would n’t say his pray’rs—   
An’ when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,   
His mammy heerd him holler, an’ his daddy heerd him bawl,           
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he was n’t there at all!   
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,   
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’wheres, I guess;   
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout!   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you           
        Ef you   
            Don’t   
              Watch   
                Out!   

An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin,         
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin;   
An’ onc’t when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there,   
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she did n’t care!   
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,   
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,          
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ’fore she knowed what she ’s about!   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you   
        Ef you   
            Don’t   
                Watch          
                    Out!   

An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,   
An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!   
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,   
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is allsquenched away,—        
You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,   
An’ churish them ’at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,   
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about,   
Er the Gobble-uns ’ll git you   
        Ef you           
            Don’t   
              Watch   
                Out!

"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN" BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

((Oddly enough, both my parents occasionally would quote a line or two from Riley's
two most famous poems. This is the one Dad would quote; I'll post the other later this month
I first posted this on 13Oct 2012)) 


We had the first frost of the fall season last night in parts of New England and it put me in mind 
how Dad would  sometimes recite "When the frost is on the pumpkin...". That's the only part of
the poem he'd say. I think he must have had to recite it in school when he was a kid and that's all
he remembered.

Reading it just now I had to grin at the line about the turkey since I've now had experiences with
a loud, "struttin" turkey here in my own backyard!




 "When the Frost is on the Punkin"
                          James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,   
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,   
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,   
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;   
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,         
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,   
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere   
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—   
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,   
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;   
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze   
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days   
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,   
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;   
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still   
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;   
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;   
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—   
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps   
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;   
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through   
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...   
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be   
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—   
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

HALLOWEEN TALES: "THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD" PT2

((First posted in October 2014))


My distant cousin Jonathan Moulton's first wife was Ann Smith who he married
in 1749 and with whom he had a family of eleven children. She died of smallpox
in 1775. He married  Sarah Emery in 1776, and their marriage resulted in four
more children. She is the "new wife" in a poem written by my 4th cousin 6x
removed John Greenleaf Whittier.   It's probable that Whittier may have met
one or more of Moulton's adult children, but as the foreword to the poem
indicates, he certainly was familiar with the legends that had sprung up
about Jonathan Moulton

THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD.

[the following Ballad is founded upon one of the marvellous legends connected
with the famous Gen. M., of Hampton, N. H., who was regarded by his neighbors
as a Yankee Faust, in league with the adversary. I give the story, as I heard it when
a child, from a venerable family visitant.]

Dark the halls, and cold the feast—
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest!
All is over — all is done,
Twain of yesterday are one!
Blooming girl and manhood grey,
Autumn in the arms of May!

Hushed within and hushed without,
Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout;
Dies the bonfire on the hill;
All is dark and all is still,
Save the starlight, save the breeze
Moaning through the grave-yard trees;
And the great sea-waves below,
Like the night's pulse, beating slow.

From the brief dream of a bride
She hath wakened, at his side.
With half uttered shriek and start —
Feels she not his beating heart?
And the pressure of his arm,
And his breathing near and warm?

Lightly from the bridal bed
Springs that fair dishevelled head,
And a feeling, new, intense,
Half of shame, half innocence,
Maiden fear and wonder speaks
Through her lips and changing cheeks.

From the oaken mantel glowing
Faintest light the lamp is throwing
On the mirror's antique mould,
High-backed chair, and wainscot old,
And, through faded curtains stealing,
His dark sleeping face revealing.

Listless lies the strong man there,
Silver-streaked his careless hair;
Lips of love have left no trace
On that hard and haughty face;
And that forehead's knitted thought
Love's soft hand hath not unwrought.

"Yet," she sighs, "he loves me well,
More than these calm lips will tell.
Stooping to my lowly state,
He hath made me rich and great,
And I bless him, though he be
Hard and stern to all save me!"

While she speaketh, falls the light
O'er her fingers small and white;
Gold and gem, and costly ring
Back the timid lustre fling —
Love's selectest gifts, and rare,
His proud hand had fastened there.

Gratefully she marks the glow
From those tapering lines of snow;
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending
His black hair with golden blending,
In her soft and light caress,
Cheek and lip together press.

Ha !— that start of horror !— Why
That wild stare and wilder cry,
Full of terror, full of pain?
Is there madness in her brain?
Hark! that gasping, hoarse and low:
"Spare me — spare me — let me go!"

God have mercy !— Icy cold
Spectral hands her own enfold,
Drawing silently from them
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem,
"Waken! save me!" still as death
At her side he slumbereth.

Ring and bracelet all are gone,
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn;
But she hears a murmur low,
Full of sweetness, full of woe,
Half a sigh and half a moan:
"Fear not! give the dead her own!"

Ah ! — the dead wife's voice she knows !
That cold hand whose pressure froze,
Once in warmest life had borne
Gem and band her own hath worn.
"Wake thee! wake thee!" Lo, his eyes
Open with a dull surprise.

In his arms the strong man folds her,
Closer to his breast he holds her;
Trembling limbs his own are meeting,
And he feels her heart's quick beating:
"Nay, my dearest, why this fear?"
"Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!"

"Nay, a dream — an idle dream."
But before the lamp's pale gleam
 Tremblingly her hand she raises,—
There no more the diamond blazes,
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, —
"Ah!" she sighs, "her hand was cold!"

Broken words of cheer he saith,
But his dark lip quivereth,
And as o'er the past he thinketh,
From his young wife's arms he shrinketh;
Can those soft arms round him lie,
Underneath his dead wife's eye?

She her fair young head can rest
Soothed and child-like on his breast,
And in trustful innocence
Draw new strength and courage thence;
He, the proud man, feels within
But the cowardice of sin!

She can murmur in her thought
Simple prayers her mother taught,
And His blessed angels call,
Whose great love is over all;
He, alone, in prayerless pride,
Meets the dark Past at her side!

One, who living shrank with dread,
From his look, or word, or tread,
Unto whom her early grave
Was as freedom to the slave,
Moves him at this midnight hour,
With the dead's unconscious power!

Ah, the dead, the unforgot!
From their solemn homes of thought,
Where the cypress shadows blend
Darkly over foe and friend,
Or in love or sad rebuke,
Back upon the living look.

And the tenderest ones and weakest,
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest,
Lifting from those dark, still places,
Sweet and sad-remembered faces,
O'er the guilty hearts behind
An unwitting triumph find.
pp117-120

John Greenleaf Whittier Poems Benjamin B. Mussey , Pub. Boston, Ma. 1850

ANNOUNCING THE ELEVENTH ANNUAL GREAT GENEALOGY POETRY CHALLENGE

It's that time of year again! Time to start thinking about a post for the Eleventh Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge!


As in the past, I'll be posting the links to the submissions on Thanksgiving Day,which this year falls on Thursday, November 28th. So the deadline for submissions will be a week before, on Thursday, November 21st. That gives everyone  two months to find (or write) and share their poem or song. If you find one long before that deadline (as I have) you can post it on your blog now, but don't forget to send me the link to it before November21st

These are the Challenge rules:

1. Find a poem by a  poet, famous or obscure, about the region
one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a
legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local
animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written.
0r, if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone
performing the song.

2. Post the poem or song to your blog (remembering to cite the source
where you found it.).  If you wish to enter an older post, you may as long
as it has not appeared here in an earlier Poetry Challenge.

 3.Tell us how the subject of the poem or song relates to your ancestor's
home or life, or the area of the country where they lived.

4.Submit your post's link here to me  in a comment or send me an emaill  
by midnight Thursday, November 21st and I'll publish all links to the entries 
on Thanksgiving Day, November 28th

5. If  you submit a humorous poem or song that will be entered under the
"Willy Puckerbrush" division. Willy was the late geneablogger Terry
Thornton's alias for some humorous posts and comments.

There you have it. You have two months to find your poem and post it to your
blogs. I will be waiting to see what you come up with this year!

"THE WRECK OF RIVERMOUTH" BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

I wanted to post a poem on my geneablog for National Poetry Month, one that I could use for the Genealogy Poetry Challenge later this year. So I looked and found one by cousin John Greenleaf Whittier again, this one about a legendary witch and a shipwreck at Hampton NH where my ancestor Abraham Perkins had lived. I found it on the Bartleby.com website:


New England: Hampton, N. H.
The Wreck of Rivermouth
John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892)


RIVERMOUTH Rocks are fair to see,   
  By dawn or sunset shone across,   
When the ebb of the sea has left them free,   
  To dry their fringes of gold-green moss:   
For there the river comes winding down           
From salt sea-meadows and uplands brown,   
And waves on the outer rocks afoam   
Shout to its waters, “Welcome home!”   

And fair are the sunny isles in view   
  East of the grisly Head of the Boar,           
And Agamenticus lifts its blue   
  Disk of a cloud the woodlands o’er;   
And southerly, when the tide is down,   
’Twixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown,   
The beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel           
Over a floor of burnished steel.   

Once, in the old Colonial days,   
  Two hundred years ago and more,   
A boat sailed down through the winding ways   
  Of Hampton River to that low shore,           
Full of a goodly company   
Sailing out on the summer sea,   
Veering to catch the land-breeze light,   
With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right.   

In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid           
  Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass,   
“Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made!”   
  A young man sighed, who saw them pass.   
Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand   
Whetting his scythe with a listless hand,            3
Hearing a voice in a far-off song,   
Watching a white hand beckoning long.   

“Fie on the witch!” cried a merry girl,   
  As they rounded the point where Goody Cole   
Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl,           
  A bent and blear-eyed poor old soul.   
“Oho!” she muttered, “ye ’re brave to-day!   
But I hear the little waves laugh and say,   
‘The broth will be cold that waits at home;   
For it ’s one to go, but another to come!’”           

“She ’s cursed,” said the skipper; “speak her fair:   
  I ’m scary always to see her shake   
Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair,   
  And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a snake.”   
But merrily still, with laugh and shout,           
From Hampton River the boat sailed out,   
Till the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh,   
And they lost the scent of the pines of Rye.   

They dropped their lines in the lazy tide,   
  Drawing up haddock and mottled cod;           
They saw not the Shadow that walked beside,   
  They heard not the feet with silence shod.   
But thicker and thicker a hot mist grew,   
Shot by the lightnings through and through;   
And muffled growls, like the growl of a beast,           
Ran along the sky from west to east.   

Then the skipper looked from the darkening sea   
  Up to the dimmed and wading sun;   
But he spake like a brave man cheerily,   
  “Yet there is time for our homeward run.”           
Veering and tacking, they backward wore;   
And just as a breath from the woods ashore   
Blew out to whisper of danger past,   
The wrath of the storm came down at last!   

The skipper hauled at the heavy sail:           
  “God be our help!” he only cried,   
As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail,   
  Smote the boat on its starboard side.   
The Shoalsmen looked, but saw alone   
Dark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown,           
Wild rocks lit up by the lightning’s glare,   
The strife and torment of sea and air.   

Goody Cole looked out from her door:   
  The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,   
Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar           
  Toss the foam from tusks of stone.   
She clasped her hands with a grip of pain,   
The tear on her cheek was not of rain:   
“They are lost,” she muttered, “boat and crew!   
Lord, forgive me! my words were true!”           

Suddenly seaward swept the squall;   
  The low sun smote through cloudy rack;   
The Shoals stood clear in the light, and all   
  The trend of the coast lay hard and black.   
But far and wide as eye could reach,           
No life was seen upon wave or beach;   
The boat that went out at morning never   
Sailed back again into Hampton River.   

O mower, lean on thy bended snath,   
  Look from the meadows green and low:           
The wind of the sea is a waft of death,   
  The waves are singing a song of woe!   
By silent river, by moaning sea,   
Long and vain shall thy watching be:   
Never again shall the sweet voice call,           
Never the white hand rise and fall!   

O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight   
  Ye saw in the light of breaking day!   
Dead faces looking up cold and white   
  From sand and seaweed where they lay.           
The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept,   
And cursed the tide as it backward crept:   
“Crawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake!   
Leave your dead for the hearts that break!”   

Solemn it was in that old day           
  In Hampton town and its log-built church,   
Where side by side the coffins lay   
  And the mourners stood in aisle and porch.   
In the singing-seats young eyes were dim,   
The voices faltered that raised the hymn           
And Father Dalton, grave and stern,   
Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn.   

But his ancient colleague did not pray,   
  Because of his sin at fourscore years:   
He stood apart, with the iron-gray           
  Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears.   
And a wretched woman, holding her breath   
In the awful presence of sin and death,   
Cowered and shrank, while her neighbors thronged   
To look on the dead her shame had wronged.           

Apart with them, like them forbid,   
  Old Goody Cole looked drearily round,   
As, two by two, with their faces hid,   
  The mourners walked to the burying-ground.   
She let the staff from her clasped hands fall:           
“Lord, forgive us! we ’re sinners all!”   
And the voice of the old man answered her:   
“Amen!” said Father Bachiler.   

So, as I sat upon Appledore   
  In the calm of a closing summer day,           
And the broken lines of Hampton shore   
  In purple mist of cloudland lay,   
The Rivermouth Rocks their story told;   
And waves aglow with sunset gold,   
Rising and breaking in steady chime,           
Beat the rhythm and kept the time.   

And the sunset paled, and warmed once more   
  With a softer, tenderer after-glow;   
In the east was moonrise, with boats off-shore   
  And sails in the distance drifting slow.           
The beacon glimmered from Portsmouth bar,   
The White Isle kindled its great red star;   
And life and death in my old-time lay   
Mingled in peace like the night and day!


 Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed.  Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.America: Vols. XXV–XXIX.  1876–79.




 

THE 10TH ANNUAL GREAT GENEALOGY POETRY CHALLENGE

Happy Thanksgiving!

Welcome to the 10th Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge. This year we have posts from familiar faces and some newcomers. The contributions include two original poems, a song, and a humorous poem  All the blogposts are enjoyable and great reads.
Here are this year's Challenge entries



Ann Marie Bryan's 8x great grandmother was Anne Bradstreet, one of the earliest American  poets.Ann Marie tells us about her ancestress and shares a poem written in 1659 "In Reference To Her Children, 23June 1659"  at her blog, Tales of a  Family.



Last year Linda Shufflebean participated in the Challenge for the first time, This year she's back with a post explaining her love of family history and American History in particula and how poems about history are a part of elementary education. So her poem is one familiar to many school children, "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere" by Longfellow (as as you know, I am a big fan of Longfellow!)  Read Linda's post  "Tenth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge" on Empty Branches on the Family Tree.



Nancy Messier's ancestor's were from the coal mining town of  Byker - Hill in Northumberland, England. While researching her family she found a reference to a song "Byker Hill" and not only found the lyrics to the song but also a video of it being performed. You can see and hear it at "Byker-Hill for Tenth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge" over at My Ancestors and Me.


Dorene has been a contributor every year to the Challenge. This year's contribution at her Graveyard Rabbit of Sandusky Ohio is "Poem About Ohio by Nellie Grant". The poem is entitled "Imperium in Imperio" and celebrates the state of Ohio.



Another new contributor this year is Elizabeth Gautreau who has ancestry from Nova Scotia.She found a poem with some great imagery written by Marshall Schacht called "Two Winds On Nova Scotia". The post is "10th Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge" and her blog is called This Is Us.


Like many of us, my friend Michael Davies has vivid memories of our grandparents. Michael put his memories into a poem, "Remembering Nanna and Grandad".Then he explains the significance of the images in each line. It's a great read over at Tall Tales of a Family.



Speaking of memories about family life,  the entry from cousin Janice Brown of the Cow Hampshire blog is ""The Old Hearth Stone" by Matthew Harvey" is about the members of the family that gathered each night around the fireplace. You can picture the scene in your imagination as you read the poem in Janice's post  2018: The 10th Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge.



At her Bridging the Past blog, Lori Lyn Price shares her poem Virden, New Mexico which she wrote when she was in the eighth grade. Like other poems in this year's challenge it is rich with memories and imagery that paints a picture of a family and a community. She has also added some great photos.



Barbara Poole is another longtime contributor to the Challenge  Like Anne Marie Bryant she is the 8x great grandaughter of colonial poetess Anne Bradstreet and for this year's post at  Life From The Roots  Barbara writes about a book she owns of Bradstreet's poetry. She includes three poems that range from an epitaph for a family member to a love poem about her husband to a poem of giving thanks for her daughter's recovery from illness. You can see them at 10th Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge!



Heather Wilkinson Rojo has written many times on her blog Nutfield Genealogy about the Scots Irish settlers of Londonderry, NH. For this year's Challenge she's found a poem about a settler who was captured by the indians but managed to escape.The details are in the poem Jamie Cochran: The Indian Captive, A Poem by Robert Dinsmoor  "The Rustic Bard".



I don't often get to award the Willie Puckerbrush Award for a humorous poem (which is named for an alias the late Terry Thornton used) but this year a newcomer to the Challenge Diane Anderson wins it for a poem written by a small town minister who liked to make "punning remarks". Alfred J. Cotton was his name and his "remarks" about the marriages of  "JOHN C. MOORE AND RUTH DOWDEN, LEVIN S. MOORE AND  MARY ANN DOWDEN." made me grin. read them yourself at My Entry in the Tenth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge at Diane's blog  This Hoosier's Heritage.


I have two entries this tear. The first poem is about a town in Maine where several generations of my
Laughton familylived in the 19th century, and it was written by another of my cousins. The post is called "At Norridgewock" by John Greenleaf Whittier.


My second post is a poem that's perfect for Thanksgiving Day. The English poet Robert Southey imagined how the Pilgrims might have reacted when they saw their new home for the first time.it's at my post "First Landing of the Pilgrims " by Robert Southey.


That concludes this year's Great  Genealogy Poetry Challenge. Please visit the blogs of this year's contributors, read the poems and remember to leave a comment to let them know how much you enjoyed their posts. 

And thanks to all the bloggers for their great posts!

ONLY 5 DAYS LEFT UNTIL DEADLINE FOR THE GREAT GENEALOGY POETRY CHALLENGE

If you have been thinking about taking part in this year's Poetry Challenge you have only 5 days
left (counting today) to submit your entry!

 Here are the rules for the Challenge:

 1. Find a poem by a  poet, famous or obscure, about the region
one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a
legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local
animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written.
0r, if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone
performing the song.

2. Post the poem or song to your blog (remembering to cite the source
where you found it.).  If you wish to enter an older post, you may as long
as it has not appeared here in an earlier Poetry Challenge.

 3.Tell us how the subject of the poem or song relates to your ancestor's
home or life, or the area of the country where they lived.

4.Submit your post's link here to me by midnight Thursday, November 15th
and I'll publish all links to the entries on Thanksgiving Day, November 22nd!

5. If  you submit a humorous poem or song that will be entered under the
"Willy Puckerbrush" division. Willy was the late geneablogger Terry
Thornton's alias for some humorous posts and comments.

"LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE"

((First posted on October, 2011))



When we were small our Mom occasionally would recite this poem and would tickle us when she reached the "Gobble-uns 'll git you ef you don't watch out!" part. Then when I was in the third grade at the Frank V.Thompson school in Dorchester I read the poem in our English text book. Years later I used to post it every Halloween on an email list for a fantasy role playing group. So it's a sort of Halloween tradition for me.


Anyway, it's the best Halloween poem I know. Enjoy.

And `ware th' Gobble-uns!

Little Orphant Annie

by James Whitcomb Riley.

LITTLE Orphant Annie ’s come to our house to stay,   
An’ wash the cups and saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,   
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,   
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;   
An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done,         
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun   
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about,   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you   
        Ef you   
            Don’t           
              Watch   
                Out!   

Onc’t they was a little boy would n’t say his pray’rs—   
An’ when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,   
His mammy heerd him holler, an’ his daddy heerd him bawl,           
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he was n’t there at all!   
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,   
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’wheres, I guess;   
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout!   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you           
        Ef you   
            Don’t   
              Watch   
                Out!   

An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin,         
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin;   
An’ onc’t when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there,   
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she did n’t care!   
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,   
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,          
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ’fore she knowed what she ’s about!   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you   
        Ef you   
            Don’t   
                Watch          
                    Out!   

An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,   
An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!   
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,   
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is allsquenched away,—        
You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,   
An’ churish them ’at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,   
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about,   
Er the Gobble-uns ’ll git you   
        Ef you           
            Don’t   
              Watch   
                Out!

REMINDER THE TENTH ANNUAL GREAT GENEALOGY POETRY CHALLENGE DEADLINE

Just a reminder: there's only three weeks left to submit entries in this year's Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge . Thanksgivng Day falls on November 22nd this year so the deadline for submissions will be a week before, on Thursday, November 15th.

Here are the rules for the Challenge:

 1. Find a poem by a  poet, famous or obscure, about the region
one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a
legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local
animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written.
0r, if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone
performing the song.

2. Post the poem or song to your blog (remembering to cite the source
where you found it.).  If you wish to enter an older post, you may as long
as it has not appeared here in an earlier Poetry Challenge.

 3.Tell us how the subject of the poem or song relates to your ancestor's
home or life, or the area of the country where they lived.

4.Submit your post's link here to me by midnight Thursday, November 15th
and I'll publish all links to the entries on Thanksgiving Day, November 22nd!

5. If  you submit a humorous poem or song that will be entered under the
"Willy Puckerbrush" division. Willy was the late geneablogger Terry
Thornton's alias for some humorous posts and comments.

This is the tenth year of the Challenge and I'm looking forward to seeing what poems people find! 

"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN" BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

((Oddly enough, both my parents occasionally would quote a line or two from Riley's
two most famous poems. This is the one Dad would quote; I'll post the other later this month
I first posted this on 13Oct 2012)) 


We had the first frost of the fall season last night in parts of New England and it put me in mind 
how Dad would  sometimes recite "When the frost is on the pumpkin...". That's the only part of
the poem he'd say. I think he must have had to recite it in school when he was a kid and that's all
he remembered.

Reading it just now I had to grin at the line about the turkey since I've now had experiences with
a loud, "struttin" turkey here in my own backyard!




 "When the Frost is on the Punkin"
                          James Whitcomb Riley

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,   
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,   
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,   
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;   
O, it's then the time a feller is a-feelin' at his best,         
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,   
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere   
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here—   
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees,   
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;   
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze   
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days   
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,   
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn;   
The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still   
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;   
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;   
The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—   
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.   
 
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps   
Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yaller heaps;   
And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through   
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and sausage too!...   
I don't know how to tell it—but ef such a thing could be   
As the angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—   
I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin' flock—   
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

"AT NORRIDGEWOCK" BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

I had started worrying I wouldn't find a poem for this year's Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge when I found this poem in an anthology edited by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.There are three
reasons why this is perfect for my entry:

One, it's written by my distant cousin, John Greenleaf Whittier.

Two, it's about Norridgewock, Maine where three generations  of my Laughton family ancestors (all three of them named John Laughton) lived in the 18th century.

And three, it's about Fall.  


Here it is:

AT NORRIDGEWOCK.
by John Greenleaf Whittier

T' is morning over Norridgewock, —
  On tree and wigwam, wave and rock.
Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred
At intervals by breeze and bird,
And wearing all the hues which glow
In heaven's own pure and perfect bow,
   That glorious picture of the air,
Which summer's light-robed angel forms
On the dark ground of fading storms,
  With pencil dipped in sunbeams there,—
And, stretching out, on either hand,
O'er all that wide and unshorn land,
Till, weary of its gorgeousncss,
The aching and the dazzled eye
Rests, gladdened, on the calm blue sky, —
   Slumbers the mighty wilderness!
The oak, upon the windy hill,
   Its dark green burthen upward heaves;
The hemlock broods above its rill.
Its cone-like foliage darker still,
   Against the birch's graceful stem,
And the rough walnut-bough receives
The suu upon its crowded leaves,
   Each colored like a topaz gem;
   And the tall maple wears with them
 The coronal, which autumn gives,
  The brief, bright sign of ruin near,
  The hectic of a dying year!-pp143-144

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed., Poems of Places: America Vol.II   Houghton, Mifflin And Company, Boston, Ma. 1851

ANNOUNCING THE TENTH ANNUAL GREAT GENEALOGY POETRY CHALLENGE

It's time to start thinking about a post for the Tenth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge!
Hard to believe I've been doing this for ten years now.

As in the past, I'll be posting the links to the submissions on Thanksgiving Day,which this year falls on Thursday, November 22nd. Deadline for submissions will be a week before, on Thursday, November 15th. That gives everyone  two months to find (or write) and share their poem or song. If you find one long before that deadline (as I have) you can post it on your blog now, but don't forget to send me the link to it before November 15th!

These are the Challenge rules:

1. Find a poem by a  poet, famous or obscure, about the region
one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a
legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local
animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written.
0r, if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone
performing the song.

2. Post the poem or song to your blog (remembering to cite the source
where you found it.).  If you wish to enter an older post, you may as long
as it has not appeared here in an earlier Poetry Challenge.

 3.Tell us how the subject of the poem or song relates to your ancestor's
home or life, or the area of the country where they lived.

4.Submit your post's link here to me by midnight Thursday, November 15th
and I'll publish all links to the entries on Thanksgiving Day, November 22nd!

5. If  you submit a humorous poem or song that will be entered under the
"Willy Puckerbrush" division. Willy was the late geneablogger Terry
Thornton's alias for some humorous posts and comments.

There you have it. You have two months to find your poem and post it to your
blogs. I will be waiting to see what you come up with this year!

THE NINTH ANNUAL GREAT GENEALOGY POETRY CHALLENGE POSTS

Happy Thanksgiving and welcome to the 9th Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge post
roundup! This year's edition has all sorts of genealogy related poetry: lyrics from hymns and songs,
poetry written by ancestors, poetry about ancestors, and poetry written by descendants about
their ancestors. Please read these fifteen contributions, and remember to leave comments to let the bloggers know how much you enjoyed their posts.


A year ago Michael Davies blogged about a Welsh inscription on the bottom of his great grandparents' headstone. The English translation was "Ever to the Sound of the Golden Harp." and
it is part of a hymn. Michael shares the hymn in both Welsh and English in his post The Reference to "Y Delyn Aur" by Price and Annie Davies   at his Tall Tales of a Family blog.

Michael also has contributed a second post, November 11th - The Lost Of The War, which is a poem 

he wrote when he was 14 or 15 years old, It was inspired by a school trip to visit

World War One battlefields in Belgium and France

June Butka of Dame Gussie's Genealogy Rants found a poem entitled "Picture in Verse" about her 8x

great grandfather and writes that "I believe the sentiment expressed in this poem could be applied to immigrants to our nation today. Life is uncertain, filled with the unknown. It’s how we deal with Life that determines who we are." You can read it in Immigrants remembered.


After the Revolution Linda Stufflebean's Loyalist ancestor moved to New Brunswick near the Miramichi River. Her post The Ninth Annual Great Genealogy Challenge included maps and photos of the area plus a great poem by childrens' author Robert Munsch, Check it out at Linda's  Empty
Branches on the Family Tree.

There are several levels to Nancy Messier's "Matilda Toots" for the 2017 Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge at My Ancestors and Me. On one level it's a memory of a family tradition and the place 

a 19th century song has in it. It also is a history of the song that includes a link to a performance plus the actual lyrics. Finally, the lyrics themselves are a glimpse into how are 19th century ancestors 

spent a day ice-skating.  

Elizabeth O'Neal's submission at My Descendant's Ancestors reflects her Tennessee heritage. It's 

the official state poem "Oh Tennessee, My Tennessee", written by William Lawrence while he was

a POW during the Viet Nam war.  Elizabeth thinks it has great imagery and I agree with her.

The naming of towns or changing those names was often a contentious issue for our ancestors. Dorene Paul's  "Sandusky" by Judge Elisha W. Howland has a poem about one such controversy and the history behind it at her Graveyard Rabbits of Sandusky Bay blog.

Like Van Landry I have some Entanglements in my family tree although a bit further back than his.

He explains all about it and includes a great poem he wrote about it {"Me, Myself and I") at his blog

Family History.. Van wins the "Willy Puckerbrush" which I give out in memory of Terry Thornton for "Most Humorous Post

Randy Seaver joins the challenge this year with "The Wreck of the Hesperus" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.  I'm a big Longfellow fan so I enjoyed learning about Randy's family connections to the setting of the poem. It's all on his Genea-Musings blog.

Over at his TransylvanianDutch blog, John Newmark has posted a poem that was written ninety years ago about immigrants to America that he feels has just as much relevance todsy as it had when it was written.Poem: A Cry of the Foreign Born - by St. Louis poet, Leah Rachel Yoffie (1883-1956)

Reader Duane Hermann doesn't have a blog but he wanted to take part in the Challenge. So he sent me two poems in a comment. They are poems he wrote after visiting his ancestral homeland of Bavaria and they've been published in his poetry collection Prairies of Possibilities. I've posted them
here on West in New England in Two Poems From Duane Hermann


John Tews's great grandmother wrote many poems during her short life and he is fortunate enough to
have some of the original handwritten works. He shares her story and photos of one such poem at his

post at Filiopietism Prism,  A Poem by Florence Leonette [Flagg] Cooke for the Ninth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge of Bill West (October 4, 2017)

Barbara Poole recently found a poem about her ancestor Dr. Mannaseh Cutler, David McCullough 

helped a wee bit in why she found it, and  you can read all about that at Barbara's blog Life from The Roots in her post "On Learning To See," and I have David McCullough to Thank for the Poetry Challenge Idea.

One of the little known facts about William Bradford, the Pilgrim governor of  Plymouth Plantation,

is that he wrote poetry. Heather Wilkinson Rojo  of Nutfield Genealogy (who recently toured many Mayflower related places in England) shares one of Bradford's poems  in her post A Poem by a Pilgrim.

Finally, a few months ago my connection to a pear tree that was planted by an ancestor four hundred years ago, that had a poem written about it in the 19th century, and that is still living today. You can
read the whole story here in my post The Governor's Tree


That concludes this year's Challenge. Thank you  to all the participants for such great posts!

TWO POEMS FROM DUANE HERMANN

I received a comment to my last call for the Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge last week from poet Duane Hermann. He sent me "Two poems about my ancestral village in Bavaria, published in 2005 in Prairies of Possibilities, a collection of poems of mine".

I enjoyed reading them very much.

HOME TO BAYERN

My grandfather
never missed
the hills of Franken,
He never walked the streets
of Reckendorf,
his family “hometown,”
He would have been amazed
to see the things
his father took for granted.
He did not learn,
“Gross Gott,”
as the proper greeting,
Nor did he plow
the family fields
of Bayern.
He lived
a continent away
and never knew his family.
A grandson went,
a century after,
to find the home and people;
His heart leapt
and wept for joy
in reunion.
Deutscher und Amerikaner:
alles ein Famalia –
It’s been so long…


IN FRANKEN

The little shrine by the way
with a history no one knows –
“It’s been there forever,”
like the mountains.
The land is dotted
with these little shrines,
Markers of devotion
and symbols of their faith.
They add a richness to the land,
a reminder to us now:
This land you see
is more than dirt and trees,
It embraces the souls
past more than we will know;
people lived and died and prayed
as some day you will too:
Continue on your day –
beyond this mortal life.

LAST CALL FOR THE GREAT GENEALOGY POETRY CHALLENGE BLOGPOST ENTRIES!

Only one day left to send your submissions in for the Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge
The deadline is midnight tomorrow night, Thursday, November 16th. Don't forget to send
me the link to your post!

These are the Challenge rules:

1. Find a poem by a  poet, famous or obscure, about the region
one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a
legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local
animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written.
0r, if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone
performing the song.

2. Post the poem or song to your blog (remembering to cite the source
where you found it.). If you wish to enter an older post, you may as long
as it has not appeared here in an earlier Poetry Challenge.

 3.Tell us how the subject of the poem or song relates to your ancestor's
home or life, or the area of the country where they lived.

4.Submit your post's link here to me by midnight Thursday, November 16th
and I'll publish all links to the entries on Thanksgiving Day, November 23rd!

If  you submit a humorous poem or song that will be entered under the
"Willy Puckerbrush" division. Willy was the late geneablogger Terry
Thornton's alias for some humorous posts and comments.

HALLOWEEN TALE: "LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE"

((First posted on October, 2011))


I was a third grader at the Frank V Thompson School in Boston's Dorchester section when I
first read this poem in our English text book. Years later I used to post it every Halloween on
an email list for a fantasy role playing group. And our Mom used torecite the "Gobble-uns 'll
git you ef you don't watch out!" part, which was followed by tickling. 

 Anyway, it's the best Halloween poem I know. Enjoy.

And `ware th' Gobble-uns!

Little Orphant Annie

by James Whitcomb Riley.

LITTLE Orphant Annie ’s come to our house to stay,   
An’ wash the cups and saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,   
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,   
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;   
An’ all us other children, when the supper things is done,         
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun   
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about,   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you   
        Ef you   
            Don’t           
              Watch   
                Out!   

Onc’t they was a little boy would n’t say his pray’rs—   
An’ when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,   
His mammy heerd him holler, an’ his daddy heerd him bawl,           
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he was n’t there at all!   
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,   
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’wheres, I guess;   
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout!   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you           
        Ef you   
            Don’t   
              Watch   
                Out!   

An’ one time a little girl ’ud allus laugh an’ grin,         
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood-an’-kin;   
An’ onc’t when they was “company,” an’ ole folks was there,   
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ said she did n’t care!   
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,   
They was two great big Black Things a-standin’ by her side,          
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ’fore she knowed what she ’s about!   
An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you   
        Ef you   
            Don’t   
                Watch          
                    Out!   

An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,   
An’ the lampwick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!   
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,   
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is allsquenched away,—        
You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,   
An’ churish them ’at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,   
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ’at clusters all about,   
Er the Gobble-uns ’ll git you   
        Ef you           
            Don’t   
              Watch   
                Out!