A Poem By My Great Grandfather

Mom — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 13:25:18 +0000

Somebody’s dog is killing sheep,
Out in the darkness while you’ asleep;
Chasing them down in the midnight fog,
Tell me stranger, is that your dog?

Somebody’s boy is riding his steed,
Out on the highway at breakneck speed.
Popping away with his little gun,
Say! neighbor, is that your son?

Somebody’s girl is walking the streets,
Smiling at every tough she meets;
Loosing her head in the mid-night whirl,
Dear fond mother, is that your girl?

Lest the time will come
when your blood will seethe,
When that dog comes home
with wool in his teeth,
Or the boy ends up with a broken neck.
Or the girl, poor thing, is a hopeless wreck.

If that’s your dog, the ornery pup,
Build a dog house or chain him up.
If that’s your boy, ’tis the proper thing,
Tie him down with an apron string.
And if that’s your girl, let little be said,
Spank her hard and put her to bed.

Rev. Wm. J. Hopper, Browns, Illinois. circa 1900

He was a circuit-rider

Post from: But First, We Have Coffee

A Poem By My Great Grandfather

Grandma’s Apron

Mom — Fri, 22 Aug 2008 13:44:44 +0000

Grandma’s Apron
Author Unknown

When I used to visit Grandma.
I was very much impressed,
by her all-purpose apron,
and the power it possessed.For Grandma, it was every day
to choose one when she dressed.
The strings were tied and freshly washed,
and maybe even pressed.

The simple apron that it was,
you would never think about;
the things she used it for,
that made it look worn out.

She used it for a basket,
when she gathered up the eggs,
and flapped it as a weapon,
when hens pecked her feet and legs.

She used it to carry kindling
when she stoked the kitchen fire.
And to hold a load of laundry,
or to wipe the clothesline wire.

She used it for a hot pad,
to remove a steaming pan,
and when her brow was heated,
she used it for a fan.

It dried our childish tears,
when we’d scrape a knee and cry,
and made a hiding place
when the little ones were shy.

Farm produce took in season,
in the summer, spring and fall,
found its way into the kitchen
from Grandma’s carry all.

When Grandma went to heaven,
God said she now could rest
I’m sure the apron she chose that day,
was her Sunday best.

Post from: But First, We Have Coffee

Grandma’s Apron

But First, We Have Coffee » poetry

A Poem By My Great Grandfather

Grandma’s Apron