Results for ‘POEMS’
Summer is gone once again fall is here
And it sure is a nice time of year
There are no flies and a lot less heat
So when doing work outside you won’t be beat
The traffic on the highways is a lot less
Yes to do any traveling this time is the best
Boating fishing and swimming are gone for this year
And the weather will be poor before they’re back here
The gardens were good with the heat and rain
So the produce is plentiful no need to complain
Hunting season is coming and soon will be here
And all the hunters hope they’ll get a deer
The trees are colored their splendor to behold
In colors of red yellow brown orange and gold
The pumpkins are ripe there are a lot around
So I hope none are allowed to rot on the ground
Some will be canned or made into pies
While others will be carved with two eyes
Grapes are hanging in clusters of green and blue
Just waiting to be devoured by me and you
Others will be made into jam jelly or wine
That’s something we don’t need at any time
Apple trees are loaded there is many to go around
So none should be left to fall on the ground
Pies and other things that are good they’ll make
Some will be eaten while others will be baked
Peaches are great but they don’t last very long
Yes the season is short so get them before their gone
Potatoes cabbages rutabagas and other things like cucumbers
Are available also for you to buy without number
Winter is around the corner with the snow and ice
So may no one fall and be injured as it wouldn’t be nice.
Winston E. Ralph
[People’s Press. 8 May 1900]
On Saturday last between fifty and sixty relatives gathered at the old homestead to celebrate the 77th anniversary of David Misener, and a right good time was had. The following is a bit of poetry composted by one of the “kids”:-
In the merry month of May,
And on Uncle Dave’s birthday,
A party was invited down the creek,
And some that got the dodgers
That were sent by Mrs. Rodgers
Said, “We’ll get there, and that double quick.”
From the east they came and west,
All dressed in their Sunday best,
So that each one now did look so neat and trim,
For it seemed their only thought
To put on the best they got,
Or perhaps they’d not at all be in the swim.
Now, Frank was near the field
When the rigs all in there wheeled,
And he gazed upon the party with a stare,
Then he says, you just can bet
They’ll put up with what they get,
But then again I s’pose they do not care.
When he saw the horses all,
Why he says I have no stall,
But, I’ve concluded for to tell them what to do,
Just tie up to the fence
And feed at your own expense,
Is the only way I see of getting through.
Now, it was market day,
And Emma was away,
For to get some cotton clothing for the kid.
When she got in sight of home
Her thoughts began to roam,
But we can never tell you what she said.
There came aunts, uncles, cousins
And others, too by dozens,
And many with a basket on their arm;
They had coffee there from Java.
And chicken with the gravy,
With many things that grow upon the farm.
Now, they brought all sorts of victuals
That were cooked in different kettles,
And they placed them on the table all together,
Then each took a bite and sup
Till they ate the wheel thing up,
They said, “We’ll surely now have better weather.”
But the greatest fun of all
Was to see the girls play ball—
How they’d run and skip and caper to the base,
When the boys would give a shout
And be sure to bat them out,
And then, of course, they’d have to take their place.
All too soon it came on night,
But the thing came off all right,
And no one of the party seemed vexed;
So we bade them all good-bye,
With a twinkle in our eye,
And wonder where the meeting will be next.
[Welland Tribune November 8, 1943]
The playground has grown up with weeds
Since youth has gone to war–
And from the benches half concealed,
The cheers are heard no more;
Upon the diamond many games
Were played in days gone by,
The team work learned in hours of sport
Now serves men in the sky;
And brothers, who are still too youngster
To join them in the fray,
Have volunteered for home defense
At close of working day;
They left their games, because some men
Loved greed and power so well
They made this pleaant world of ours
Unsafe in which to dwell.,
The birds are slowly winging home
This peaceful twlight hour–
An unseen hand must guide them
To their nest in tree and tower;
The sun has thrown its golden beams
Into the darkening sky,
A ray of hope, that soon our men
Will homeward march or fly.
Valerie Malcolm Baker
[Welland Tribune November 8, 1943]
She was a plump, good-natured wife
And he a grouch for years;
But they lived quite harmoniously
And seldom were there tears,
In all their married life he had
Just slipped along the way
Without a compliment to her,
Though he had lots to say.
He’d seldom see her new spring hat,
Or notice what she wore;
As long as life went gliding on
The same as years before.
But one fine day he paused to think
A compliment was due–
He thought of all she’s done for him
And what she had been through.
“My dear,” said he, “it’s wonderful,
These grim and anxious days,
To see the way you stand the strain,
It’s worthy of all praise.
You may be stout, and sometimes seem
As frisky as a pup;
But I admire your courage, for
You’ve more chins to keep up!”
William McClure
By Louis Blake Duff
In heaven, when the summer comes,
I shall hang my harp and say,
I am off to walk my garden
At the dawning of the day.
A-weary of jasper walls
Homely flags I’ll walk once more,
A-weary of your purple thrones–
Oh the bench beside my door!
I am off to walk my garden
In the grey and creeping light;
To drink the keen, cool wines of morn
From flagons filled in the night.
I’ll see the quiet day come up
In search of the sleeping lea,
And hear the solemn trees confer
In whispering mystery.
Aloft the locust by the bridge
Her uncounted censers swings;
The brook below in sweet content
Sings of happy wanderings.
Fair Flora in her robes of white
As in summers gone will smile
And wave to me from the hedgerow
When I mount the meadow stile.
And when I mount the meadow stile
I shall know my journey done;
The new heaven far behind me,
And an old one just begun.
O paradise; when summer comes,
I shall hang my harp and say,
I am off to walk my garden
At the dawning of the day.
By Winston E. Ralph March 21, 2021
When ever we are out and driving around
We look for barns and many are found
There are log ones down near Killaloe
But others are a pile of logs with them what do we do
Years ago in the Bancroft area many barns were seen
Now few are left as farming is hard it seems
Some were big while others were small
While everyone had at least six cow stalls
The cattle knew which stall they went to
Bringing them in one at a time you didn’t do
In this area every road had at least three
Now there’s none in operation that I can see
Folks want bacon for breakfast and milk to drink
But these come in with chemicals if you only think
Years ago loose hay was forked from the wagon into the mow
And youngsters tramped it in the dust somehow
After feeding and bedding cattle houses and pigs in the pen
Before going to the house we checked on the hens
There was a track along the rafters to lift the hay
As it wasn’t forked in they done it the easy way
The wagons came in and the fork came down
And with three lifts no hay on the wagon was found
Barn swallows built nests on the rafters up high
Where they were safe and the little ones wouldn’t die
Some barns were built against the side of a hill
So the wagons of hay the mow they could easily fill
These old barns were built back many years ago
And how much snow has fallen on them God only knows
When these barns were built there was a large bee
As many folks in construction pictures that I can see
Some were painted in colors of red white or others
While others were left to fade as their owners didn’t bother
Milking was done by hand but a machine soon took over
But the cows never cared as they ate grain hay and clover
If these barns could talk a good story they would tell
Of those working around and how children did yell
After putting in loose hay people felt it would be better to bale
Its hard to farm among rocks so most of them did fail
This area wasn’t meant to be farmed in a big way
Go to Peterborough or Belleville and you’ll see nice farms I’ll say
By Jack Herity, Belleville, Ontario
[Welland Tribune October 6, 1943]
He must pack a heap of pleasure
Underneath his shaggy dome;
Now it’s getting on to autumn
And his birds are coming home.
It must stir up all his senses
In a kind of inside grin
When he gazes down the Southway and
Sees his squadrons winging in.
Must be like a mighty merchant,
When his ships come one by one,
To the harbor where there’s quiet
And retreat from pirate’s gun.
Pirates! That’s the right name for us,
Oh, I’m guilty, same as you,
For I’ve often sent them tumbling,
Broken, tattered, from the blue.
I have lain for hours listening
For that throbbing cry,
And to see an old commander
Lead his flock across the sky;
But-well there above the fireplace
You can see my guns today,
And they’re mighty ornamental
Since I went down Kingsville way.
Angels used to be right common,
If I believe what I’ve heard say;
But a scientist will tell you
We don’t have such things today.
Still I guess if we could see things
In a sort of spirit light,
We would find Jack Miner’s raiment
Is a robe of shining white.
[Welland Tribune October 25, 1943]
When the politicians plague us
And for party each may strive,
When new “isms” are propounded
Just to keep them all alive;
We’ve a thrill of satisfaction,
And it keeps our heads quite cool,
Knowing none can beat the ethics
Of the famous golden rule.
In the course of evolution
We our country’s welfare seek;
And perhaps into the future
We’re inclined to have a peek.
It’s a fundamental doctrine
Which we all were taught at school.
That the essence of good living
Is the old-time golden rule.
We may feel inclined for scoffing
And maintain it doesn’t work,
But its truth remains implicit
Though we feel inclined to shirk.
If we’d practice it more ofter
No false doctrines would befool;
And all nations would be happy
If we used the golden rule.
William McClure
[Welland Tribune October 19, 1943]
Let us be proud of Canada
And all her glories share;
For a truly loyal soul
None can with her compare.
This vast dominion we possess
Is held in trust, we know,
As an example to the world-
And feared by every foe.
Let us be proud of Canada
And all her fighters bold;
For they beneath her banner now
Have epic stories told.
From city, prairie, village, town,
Their courage ranks the same;
And in this world-wide battlefield
None fail to “play the game.”
Let us be proud of Canada.
A nation young in years;
Developing her mighty strength
“Mid “Blood and sweat and tears”
From shore to shore her people thrive
Unfettered, bold and free;
Where all can share as partners, in
A true democracy.
Let us be proud of Canada
And buy bonds all we can;
For thereby is her strength conserved
In each financial plan.
No other land has her appeal
No matter where we roam;
So let’s be proud of Canada
For Canada’s our home.
William McClure
[Welland Telegraph December 1903]
Reader, have you got a wife?
Kiss her every day,
“Tis the duty of your life
To kiss her every day.
Tell her that the world is graced
By such as she, the true, the chaste-
Then put your arms around her waist
And kiss her every day.
Tell her that she’s growing prettier
Every dawning day,
Dearer, nicer, wiser, wittier,
Kiss her every day.
Many lives are graveward carried,
Wounded, bruised and hurt and harried,
They stopped their sparking when they married;
Often that’s the way.
Tell your wife how much you’d miss her,
If she went away.
Take her in your arms and kiss her,
Forty times a day.
Tell her she’s your life and crown,
Never leave her with a frown,
Keep your ugly temper down,
And kiss her every day.
Winter, summer, rain or shine,
Never sulk and blame,
Spring or autumn, never whine
For your own good name.
Sometimes she’ll be cross and cold;
Never mind, she’s good as gold,
Let her have her little scold,
And kiss her just the same.
When there’s something wrong with baby,
Kiss her every day.
‘Twill help to soothe her worry, may be,
Kiss her every day.
Kiss her when her soul is sad
Kiss her when her heart is glad
Be your fortune good or bad,
Kiss her every day.
Toronto World.
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