Mudcat Campfire - 2

Subject: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 12:11 AM

Well, let's see now, we need some warmer coats than we had last summer for our outdoor sing around the Mudcat campfire. Hey, there's Les, dressed up in buckskin or some kind of costume for the anticipation of Lewis & Clark re-enactments. Oh, gee, I guess this is actually a costume party, in anticipation of Halloween.
You know, there's a song I learned in grade school about "The Wobblin Goblin" with the broken broom... I can remember some of it... but has anyone else ever heard that song? Warm apple cider and some pumpkin pie for all around.

alice

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 12:52 AM

Here is a poem I memorized as a child, and it always reminds me of this time of year. It is the author's birthday today, too. Kids love to hear me recite this around Halloween time.

Little Orphant Annie
James Whitcomb Riley
7 October 1849 - 22 July 1916

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,
To bake the bread, an' tend the fire, to earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other chillens, when the supper things is done,
We sets 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 who wouldn't say his prayers,--
So when he went to bed at night, away upstairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Pappy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
Oh they seeked him in the rafter room, an' cubbyhole, an' press,
They 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!

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 didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
There was two big black things a standin' by her side.
An' they whisked 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 lamp-wick flickers, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin' bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond an' dear,
An' cherish them 'at loves you, an' wipe away the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the poor an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: j0_77
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 02:27 AM

Hi Alice, that is the best poem I have seen in a long long long time. I will print and frame it - send it to all my friends and family, it reminds me of poems I heard from a very special person I used to know long ago.

Thankyou

:)

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 11:04 AM

hey j0, thanks for stopping by this thread. I guess the weather is a little too brisk for folks to gather round the virtual campfire. Although there should be alot of leaves to burn these days.

There is another poem my mom used to recite which I have not been able to locate. It wasn't as famous as Little Orphan Annie. All I can remember is
"Little brown baby with sparklin' eyes, come to yo Pappy and sit on his knee,
Whatch yo been doin', a makin' mud pies?
My yo 's as almost as dirty as me.
What's that on yo face, dat's molasses I bet,
Come here Mariah (Miranda?) and wipe off his chin,
.... then it goes on with a bit about a bogey man, and then ends with the Pappy holding the baby safe and never letting anything hurt him.
anyone remember hearing/reading this poem?

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Mían
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 11:30 AM

She pulls the shawl a little more snuggly around herself and stares at the fire, watching the flames dance from the gentle wind. She listens to the others banter and sing. She searches for the flask in her pocket - yup, still there, with its liquid gold inside. Ah, autumn colors. Shockingly blue sky. Red fire. golden uisce beatha. Evergreen contentment.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 11:42 AM

Hey, I just found it on a dogpile.com search. Maya Angelou recited it at a conference in Utah, and although what she quoted is a little bit different at the beginning than the way my mom used to recite it, here it is:
James Weldon Johnson poem, written 1892,
Little brown baby with sparkling eyes, come to your papa, sit on his knee.
What you been doing son? Look at that baby, you as dirty as me.
Look at those hands, that's molasses, I bet.
Come here around, clean off his hand.
Boy, the bees are going to get you and eat you up, yeah,
being so sticky and sweet. Goodness, land.

Little brown baby with sparkling eyes,
who's Papa's child. Who is it never once that he tries
to be cross or he lose that smile?
Where did he get those teeth? But you're a scamp.
Where did the dimples come from in your cheek?
No, Papa don't know you. I believe you're a tramp.

Mama, there is some straggler trying to get in.
We don't want no straggler trying to get in.
Let's throw him away to the great boogerman.
I know he's hanging around here somewhere.

Boogerman, Boogerman, come in the door.
Here is a little boy you can have to eat.
Momma and Papa don't want him no more.
Just gobble him up from his head to his --

I knew that would make you hug me up close.

You go away old Boogerman, you can't have this boy.
He ain't no straggler, no stranger, of course,
he's Papa's darling and sweetheart and joy.

Come to your Papa, Baby, go to your rest,
I wish you could always know ease and clear skies.
I wish you could stay just a baby on my breast,
you little brown baby with sparkling eyes.

There are other poems and lyrics of folk songs on this page from her speech. Here is the URL click here http://www.weber.edu/chfam/html/angelouspeech.html

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 11:52 AM

My mother and her family knew alot of poems and songs. Reciting poetry was as much a home entertainment (and saloon entertainment) as singing songs. Does anyone else remember poetry being a part of your family?

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 12:03 PM

From sites I've found on him, James Weldon Johnson would have been about 21 when he wrote the poem about 'little brown baby'.
Here is some more info about Johnson:
In 1900, he wrote the song "Lift Ev'ry Voice and Sing" on the occasion of Lincoln's birthday; the song which became immensely popular in the black community and became known as the "Negro National Anthem." Johnson moved to New York in 1901 to collaborate with his brother Rosamond, a composer, and attained some success as a songwriter for Broadway, but decided to take a job as U.S. Consul to Venezuela in 1906. While employed by the diplomatic corps, Johnson had poems published in the Century Magazine and The Independent.

In 1912, Johnson published The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man under a pseudonym, the story of a musician who rejects his black roots for a life of material comfort in the white world. The novel explores the issue of racial identity in the twentieth century, a common theme in the writing of the Harlem Renaissance.click here http://www.poets.org/lit/poet/jwjohfst.htm

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Mían
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 12:06 PM

Poetry was a part of our family. I think we even have a family favorite... I don't recall the title of it, but it is about a bubbling, gurgling, rushing stream...

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Dave Swan
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 02:19 PM

Poetry was part of the household where I grew up. Here's a poem I learned in the third grade. When I looked it up I was happily surprised to find that I remembered it with about 90% accuracy. It's good fun at a campfire.

SEEIN' THINGS
Eugene Field 1850-1895

I ain't afeard uv snakes, or toads, or bugs, or worms, or mice,
An' things 'at girls are skeered uv I think are awful nice!
I'm pretty brave, I guess; an' yet I hate to go to bed,
For, when I'm tucked up warm an' snug an' when my prayers are said,
Mother tells me "Happy dreams!" and takes away the light,
An' leaves me lyin' all alone an' seein' things at night!

Sometimes they're in the corner, sometimes they're by the door,
Sometimes they're all a-standin' in the middle uv the floor;
Sometimes they are a-sittin' down, sometimes they're walkin' round
So softly an' so creepylike they never make a sound!
Sometimes they are as black as ink, an' other times they're white--
But the color ain't no difference when you see things at night!

Once, when I licked a feller 'at had just moved on our street,
An' father sent me up to bed without a bite to eat,
I woke up in the dark an' saw things standin' in a row,
A-lookin' at me cross-eyed an' p'intin' at me so!
Oh, my! I wuz so skeered that time I never slept a mite--
It's almost alluz when I'm bad I see things at night!

Lucky thing I ain't a girl, or I'd be skeered to death!
Bein' I'm a boy, I duck my head and hold my breath;
An' I am, oh! so sorry I'm a naughty boy, an' then
I promise to be better an' I say my prayers again!
Gran'ma tells me that's the only way to make it right
When a feller has been wicked an' see things at night!

An' so when other naughty boys would coax me into sin,
I try to skwush the Tempter's voice 'at urges me within;
An' when they's pie for supper, or cakes 'at's big an' nice,
I want to--but I do not pass my plate f'r them things twice!
No, ruther let Starvation wipe me slowly out o' sight
Than I should keep a-livin' on an' seein' things at night!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 02:53 PM

Alice, my grandmother used to recite Little Orphan Annie to me and my two cousins, and it used to give me chills up my spine.

Swanno- great poem! I used to be petrified of the Unholy Quartet- Dracula, Frankenstein, The Mummy, and Wolfman. All these guys would take turns hiding in my closet at night, leaving the sliding door open just about two inches so they could peer out at me. I learned to fall asleep with the sheet pulled tight around my throat, so if Dracula tried to bite my throat I would wake up and have a fighting chance.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 02:56 PM

Dave, that's a good one. It sure speaks of more innocent times when most kids were trained to have a moral conscience! As my son just went off to orchestra class (the only class he takes at school - the rest homeschooled) he commented on how rude the other kids were because he has an old beat-up violin case. We talked a bit about the way some kids at school treat the other kids.
My mother had a real liking for Eugene Field, and she would recite that tear-jerker, Little Boy Blue. I memorized it once, but couldn't get through saying it without getting choked up.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 02:59 PM

My son does cartooning, and he has a pal that comes up with the gags and then Ryan does the drawings. One of my favorites that they did last year were two monsters standing in a clothes closet, shivering and saying, "do you think it's safe to open the door?"

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Mían
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 04:19 PM

I found the river poem, it is "The Cataract of Lodore."

Click here

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Jon Freeman
Date: 08 Oct 99 - 04:24 PM

What great poems! I wasn't much into poetry as a kid but I did like a few. The Pobble Who Had No Toes by Edward Lear was one of my favourites. I had recently tried to find the words to one called The Train To Glasgow and to my suprise, my mother managed to find my old book (The Faber Book of Nursery Verse) which contained these.

I have just been browsing through this book to see if I could find any by the authors mentioed in this thread. I don't know if this one is well known or not but I quite liked this one by Eugene Field.

The Remorseful Cakes

A little boy called Thomas ate
Hot buckwheat cakes for tea
A very rash proceeding, as
We presently shall see.

He went to bed at eight o'clock,
As all good children do,
But scarce had closed his little eyes,
When he most restless grew.

He flopped on this side, then on that,
Then keeled upon his head,
And covered all at once each spot
Of his wee trundle-bed

He wrapped one leg around his waist
And t'other round his ear,
While Mamma wondered what on earth
Could ail her little dear.

But sound he slept, and as he slpet
He dreamt an awful dream
Of being spanked with hickory slabs
Without the power to scream.

He dreamt a great big lion came
And ripped and raved and roared-
While on his breast two furious bulls
In mortal combat gored.

He dreamt he heard the flop of wings
Within the chimney flue-
And down there crawled, to gnaw his ears,
An awful bugaboo!

When Thomas rose net morn his face
Was pallid as a sheet;
"I nevemore," he firmly said,
"Will cakes for supper eat!"

Jon

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 09 Oct 99 - 12:04 AM

Oh, my God, Mían, "The Cataract of Lodore" is quite a poem.

Well, stirring the fire and throwing on another log, I think it's time to add a little something to the jug of cider and continue the scary songs and stories. Now, where is my golden arm? We seem to have just a few of us drawn to the flames of this campfire, but I think there are others lurking in the dark. Here is a link to the Realm of Spooky Tales.click here

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 10 Oct 99 - 12:46 AM

Here's a spooky song from the DT called "AMERICAN WOODS" click here

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: DonMeixner
Date: 10 Oct 99 - 04:08 PM

When I was kid we were the caretakers of a large Catholic day camp in central New York State. Apparently Babtists were better at this than Catholics. At nights in the summer when august was full on us we'd go down to lake and build driftwood fires. We'd sit and go blind with the flames and sparks rising high over Cross Lake . Sometimes we'd swim in the dark water just beyond the arc o f light that the fire would afford us. Mom and Dad would sit and watch while six kids scared hell out of each other in the near dark. When we were to cold to swim we'd come on shore and shiver in the front while we roasted our backside against the fire. WE told ghost tales of the Banshee that was said to live on the Little Island in the middle of the lake. My sisters to this day ask me if I can still remeber the tell. My father would tell us of Hiawatha who was a real historical character and was said to have been born on the shore of Cross Lake. Not Gitchie Goomie as a poem might suggest. We always cooked hot cocoa, even in August. Cocoa against the cool of the night was always a welcome warmth. We sang songs that we all knew. "Clementine", "The RailRoad runs Through The Middle of the House", "Dunderbeck". Mom and Dad would sing "Goldmine in the Sky" in what I now know was harmony. Dad would recite "The Charge of the Light Brigade" and " The Cremation of Sam Magee". At some point we'd do "The Old Rugged Cross" and "In the Garden". The quarter mile back home after the fire was out was a star gazer's heaven. No light polution to obscure the heavens and even once the Northern Lights. Some of the six kids still sing hymns for no apparent reason. And while I'm the only one who breaks out in epic poems at odd moments. We all still have a fondness for fires by the lake. Midnight swims, only now with our various children, and Mom sings "Gold Mine in The Sky". I'm sure that she still hears the harmony.

Don

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Allan S.
Date: 10 Oct 99 - 07:35 PM

Wow what a bunch of goodies Havent heard them in years. Does anyone know the following that starts as follows Curses on you little man with youre saddle shoes of tan With your upturned pantallons and your bogie wogie tunes. I heard it years ago and have been looking for it ever since

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: MAG (inactive)
Date: 10 Oct 99 - 08:06 PM

There's that great song/poem on the Joan Baez "Baptism" LP:

The wood is full of shining eyes

The wood is full of creeping feet

The wood is full of tiny cries

You must not go to the wood at night

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Mían
Date: 11 Oct 99 - 11:55 AM

oooooo, such savory sites for stories, songs & sagas, spooky, spoken - thanks!

oh, and whilst trying to recall the name of the poem, Cataract of Lodore, I kept mixing it up in my mind with EAP's Lenore, another family favorite.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 11 Oct 99 - 02:38 PM

The old Farmer's wife sat by the hearth, an old grizzled tomcat snoozing at her feet, when the door creaked open. The old Farmer entered, and he slowly sat down in his rocker facing the woman. " John!" she said," what ails thee? Your skin is pale and your eyes wide!"

The Farmer told her this story: " As I made my way home from Market this night, I was summat frighted as I approached the Churchyard, for the wind was at the trees and made them sound like spirits in the darkness. As I drew abreast o' the tombstones, I seen a strange light approaching upon the road toward me, and I hid myself among the headstones. As I peered out, the light come nearer, and I seen it was a lantern upon a pole, and it were carried by a great Black Cat! All at once I heard a kind of eerie singing, and it were coming from six other cats walking behind the black un. These six carried a golden coffin, and on the golden coffin sat a silver crown that shined in the moonlight." As the farmer spoke these words, the old tomcat that sat at his wife's feet suddenly sat up, and he stared at the Farmer with the fire shining in his eyes." John!" whispered the Farmer's wife," Do you look at Old Thomas!" The Farmer replied " I see him," and continued.

" These cats went into the graveyard not far from myself. The Black Cat stuck the lantern-pole in th' gound, and the other cats put down the casket and begun to dig. ' Poor Tim !" yowled the Black Cat. At this, the old tomcat suddenly stood up staring at the Farmer, his shackles raised and his tail in the air. The wife said " Oh John! What has come over our Thomas?" The Farmer replied " I see him, woman!" and continued.

" With mournful singing these cats then lowered the coffin into the grave, as the Black Cat held the silver crown high in the air. Then, slowly that cat turned and he begun to walk right toward me, and his eyes looked like... like.. like Thomas's eyes do now!" And it was true that the old tomcat's eyes were now as big as saucers, and he seemed twice his normal size. " And it was then that Black Cat shown me the crown and said to me in a kind of a low voice ' tell Tom Timson that Tim Thomson is dead!' At these words from the Farmer, the old tomcat began to let out a loud growl, and to grow even larger.

Suddenly, the old tomcat shouted THEN I'M KING OF THE CATS ! and he flew up the chimney and was seen no more.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: katlaughing
Date: 11 Oct 99 - 03:09 PM

LeeJ! You have GOT to publish!!!! Good gawd, man, is there no end to your creativity?! WONDERFUL, WONDERFUL Story!

I guess I ll have to watch my black cat now. I've always had at least one black cat.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Mían
Date: 11 Oct 99 - 03:15 PM

For those who are able to spend a little more time reading a story, or can imagine someone reading it to you in hushed and spooky tones, here is a link to Ichabod Crane and the Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Click here

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: katlaughing
Date: 11 Oct 99 - 06:27 PM

Thanks, Mian, we've always read that aloud this time of year! Great story. I was really thrilled when we lived back there and were able to take a drive through that very country during this time of year; really made it easy to imagine!

kat

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Penny S.
Date: 11 Oct 99 - 07:01 PM

Kat, I don't think LEJ originated that, as I think I have heard Bernard Cribbins tell a version some years ago. But he tells it so well!

Penny

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 11 Oct 99 - 08:33 PM

Kat.. Penny is right. It is an old story that I recall my Grandmaw telling us on her front porch, a story we always called King of the Cats. She would start off in a conversational tone, then build the suspense through the story, then jump forward and shout the KING OF THE CATS! part, nearly sending us under the porch swing.

I don't know where she heard it. I like to think it's been passed along through the years. I used to tell my daughter the story when she was little, but I'm sure that now she'd just say " right, Dad. A talking cat."

LEJ

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: katlaughing
Date: 11 Oct 99 - 09:41 PM

Well, I still think your creativity matches it, LeeJ. Thanks Penny, and LeeJ for "coming clean".**BG**

I intend to tape it for my grandsons, along with some other stories and lullabies. They may too young right now to "get it" but they will eventually and they'll know by then, that their "MamaLoo" is nuts about cats!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: karen k
Date: 12 Oct 99 - 04:06 PM

MIDNIGHT MARY - Karen Kobela - a song that really wrote itself. Taken from a story in New Britain, CT, Herald, 10/31/75

A restless spirit it is said, at midnight she does arise
From a great pink granite gravestone each night at this time I surmise.
She joins the other spirits for a stroll amid the shadows
In New Haven's Evergreen Cemetery and they call her Midnight Mary.

The chapel bell has tolled 10 times, the black iron gate clangs shut.
The mortals are gone, the day is done, and the moon has just come out.
This place now belongs to the spirits, the gravestones, maples and oaks.
Now Mary awakes as she tried long ago and comes back to life for a while.

There are so many tales from the past, over 127 years ago.
Since Mary was laid in her coffin to rest, in 1872.
One tells of a horse and wagon driven by the gate late at night
In the gloom of midnight the wagon, sunk in the earth out of sight.

Another tale recalls a young man who stood a midnight vigil by the tomb.
His body, the tale goes, was found the next day, the sight was one of dark gloom.
His clothes were all snagged in the bushes, the look on his face was of fear.
No one ever knew what happened to him, the young man did not live to tell.

But the most ghostly legend of all, tells of the death of Mary herself.
The story goes that she fell unconscious of a rare disease,
That left her in a death-like state of suspended animation.
She was buried on that October day, but revived inside her coffin.

Her aunt who lived across the street awoke during the night in horror.
She saw a vision of her niece clawing at the lid of her coffin.
The coffin was opened the next day, but Mary she was found dead.
But her body all cramped and twisted showed, that she had struggled to live.

The keepers of the Evergreen Cemetery, say that they know nothing of this,
But admit that no one now is alive to remember that long ago.
We'll never know if this tale is true but the stone is there and these words:

"At high noon, just from and about to renew her daily work in her full strength of body and mind, Mary E. Hart, having fallen prostrate remained unconscious until she died at midnight, October 15, 1872 - Born, December 16, 1824."

And across the top of the gravestone are the words:

THE PEOPLE SHALL BE TROUBLED AT MIDNIGHT AND PASS AWAY.

I've been to the cemetery in New Haven, CT and have photos of the stone.

karen k

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 12 Oct 99 - 04:15 PM

ooooooh, spooky lyrics, karen.
Does anyone have the lyrics to The Bare Brown Bog? I have an old recording of it on tape. I'll add the lyrics when I have time if no one beats me to it.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: karen k
Date: 12 Oct 99 - 04:44 PM

Oops! Sorry, forgot to turn the bold off.
karen k

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 10:49 AM

It's time to bring the smoldering embers of the campfire back to life again. Halloween is near.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: katlaughing
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 11:09 AM

Great Song, Karen! I've been past that cemetery, but missed that gravestone! Glad you refreshed this, Alice.

kat

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: kendall
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 01:04 PM

There is a poem by Ruth Moore called THE HANGDOWNS

THERES A HILL ON BARTLETTS ISLAND
SO STEEP AND HIGH AND ROUND
WHERE THE WENDIGO ON HIS BIG FLAT FEET
MAKES TRACKS ALL OVER THE GROUND.
wHERE THE DINGBALLS DING AT THE WILLUMALONES
AND THE SIDE HILL GOUGERS SKI
AND DOCTOR PILLGARLIC WITH HAIR ON HIS TEETLIVES IN A HOLLOW TREE

BUT THE HANGDOWNS, THE HANG-DOWNS
DONT EVER GO NEAR THE HANG-DOWNS
THEY'RE HARD TO SEE, AND THERE'S ONE TO A TREE,
AND, THEY HANG DOWN.

ON EVERY END OF A DING BALLS TAIL
IS A GREAT BIG BOWLING BALL
HEL'LL DING AT YOU ONCE, HE'LL DING AT YOU TWICE
AND BROTHER, THAT WILL BE ALL.
AND DOCTOR PILLGARLIC PLAYS A GAME
ON FOLKS JUST PASSING THROUGH
IF HE PLAYS THAT GAME, YOU WONT BE THE SAME
YOU'LL HAVE HAIR ON YOUR TEETH TOO.

BUT, THE HANG DOWNS THE HANGDOWNS
STAY AWAY FROM THE HANG DOWNS
THEY'RE SLIMEY AND GREEN, AND THE'RE SELDOM SEEN,
BUT THEY HANG DOWN

BIG TUNK AND LITTLE TUNK SLEEP IN THE POND
AS LONG AS THE MOON IS BRIGHT
BUT, LET IT BE FOGGY AND DARK AND STILL,
THEY GO TUNK TUNK ALL NIGHT.
AND THE ABERNITS CREEP OUT OF THE BRUSH
TO WIGGLE UP YOUR NOSE
AND TOBACCO JUICE SQUIRTERS LIE IN WAIT
TO SPIT ALL OVER YOUR CLOTHES.

BUT, THE HANGDOWNS THE HANG DOWNS
YOU BETTER BEWARE OF THE HANGDOWS
YOU BETTER RUN LIKE A SON-OF A GUN
BECAUSE, THEY HANG DOWN

NOW, THE RAZOR SHINS CAN KICK AT A TREE,
AND WHAMMO..DOWN IT WHUMPS
IF ONCE THEY GET A WHACK AT YOUR SHINS
YOU'LL GO HOME ON BLOODY STUMPS
AND THET WILL-AM-ALONES GO ROUND ALL DAY
SOMETIMES THE WHOLE NIGHT THROUGH
ROLLING POISON TOAD STOOLS INTO LITTLE BALLS
ITS CANDY JUST FOR YOU

BUT THE HANGDOWNS THE HANG DOWNS
DONT FOOL AROUND WITH THE HANG DOWNS
THEY'RE COLDER THAN ICE AND THEY'RE NOT NICE
AND THEY HANG DOWN

OH THE HILL ON BARTLETTS ISLAND IS FULL OF MANY THINGS
SOME GIVE GREAT SQUEALS SOME ROLL ON WHEELS
OR FLY ON GREAT BLACK WINGS
ON YOUR LUCKY DAY, YOU MIGHT GET AWAY
FROM ONE OF THEM, OR TWO,
BUT YOU WONT EXIST AND YOU WONT BE MISSED
OR, MAYBE, YOU WONT BE YOU IF..

YOU RUN AFOUL OF THE HANG DOWNS
THE SLITHERY WITHERY HANG DOWNS
THEY WONT MOVE A HAIR, BUT, THEY'LL BE THERE
AND THEY HANG DOWN...

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: kendall
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 01:15 PM

can someone explain how to make these things print out in proper form?

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 01:26 PM

Kendall- just place a br at the end of each line, surround each br with <> arrow brackets. That will separate the lines.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: kendall
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 07:50 PM

Let me try that
its awkward, but should make it readable

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: kendall
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 07:51 PM

thanks Lonesome

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 08:49 PM

Kendall, I can't read it all in caps. Please repost in upper and lowercase type.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: kendall
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 09:29 PM

what? that whole thing?

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 26 Oct 99 - 10:27 PM

....just kidding.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Pauline L.
Date: 27 Oct 99 - 12:58 AM

Alice,

Thanks so much for posting Little Orphan Annie. It's a very pleasant memory from my childhood. Neither of my parents sang or played an instrument, but they loved classical music and I grew up listening to it, along with them. My father loved poetry and recited it frequently. Poetry and music were warm, bright spots in my childhood in my dysfunctional family, and I love them still. James Whitcomb Riley wrote another autumn poem that I love, but I can only remember the very beginning: "When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder's in the shock..." Can you or anyone else help me find the whole poem?

Pauline L.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 27 Oct 99 - 09:22 PM

Riley wrote in Hoosier dialect, so you have to search for "punkin", not pumpkin, making it a litte harder to find on the net. Here it is:

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY (1849-1916)
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

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's the times 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 blossums 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 over-head! --
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 celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too! ...
I don't know how to tell it -- but ef sich 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!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: DougR
Date: 28 Oct 99 - 01:27 AM

Gee whiz, Kendall, it's just typing! :>) DougR

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Mandochop
Date: 28 Oct 99 - 03:24 PM

Hey all

I dont know if it qualifies as poetry, but I always used to read Dylan Thomas' "A Child's Christmas in Wales" with my mother when I was young. I remember best the part about the boys throwing snowballs at cats on the cold days when they had nothing to do. It;s really beautiful language. Try reading it to your child, or even just for yourself.

Rob

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Pauline L.
Date: 29 Oct 99 - 12:48 AM

Alice,

Thanks for the words to "When the Frost Is on the Punkin." I haven't outgrown my love for it, and I hope I never do.

Pauline L.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 26 Jul 00 - 09:00 PM

The ghost story thread reminded of the two virtual campfire threads we've had. Hey, it's camping time again!

Alice

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: GUEST,Banjo Johnny
Date: 27 Jul 00 - 12:46 PM

For deep horror in a song, based on truth, listen to "Strange Fruit". It was recorded by Billie Holliday. == Johnny

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: kendall
Date: 27 Jul 00 - 03:52 PM

Joan Sprung does a great job on The Misteltoe Bough
Would anyone want a really filthy version of Dan MaGrew?

Subject: RE: Mudcat Campfire - 2
From: Alice
Date: 27 Jul 00 - 09:16 PM

Does that mean you have one, kendall, or is that a rhetorical question?