Before Bedtime

        The cat sleeps in a chimney jam
            With ashes in her fur,
        An' Tige, from on the yuther side,
            He keeps his eye on her.

        The jar o' curds is on the hearth,
            An' I'm the one to turn it.
        I'll crawl in bed an' go to sleep
            When maw begins to churn it.

        Paw bends to read his almanax
            An' study out the weather,
        An' bud has got a gourd o' grease
            To ile his harness leather.

        Sis looks an' looks into the fire,
            Half-squintin' through her lashes,
        An' I jis watch my tater where
            It shoots smoke through the ashes.

John Charles McNeill

John Charles McNeill was a prominent American poet known for his works that vividly depicted the landscapes and spirit of North Carolina. Born on July 26, 1874, in Wagram, North Carolina, he won acclaim with his book 'Songs Merry and Sad,' which won the Patterson Cup in 1905. His poetry primarily reflects rural life and Southern traditions. Sadly, McNeill's promising career was cut short when he died on October 17, 1907, at the young age of 33.

John Charles McNeill

Odessa

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Love's Fashion

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

Home Songs

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

The Prisoner

John Charles McNeill, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

An Old Bachelor

'Twas raw, and chill, and cold outside,
    With a boisterous wind untamed,
But I was sitting snug within,
    Where my good log-fire flamed.
        As my clock ticked,
        My cat purred,
        And my kettle sang.

I read me a tale of war and love,
    Brave knights and their ladies fair;
And I brewed a brew of stiff hot-scotch
    To drive away dull care.
        As my clock ticked,
        My cat purred,
        And my kettle sang.

At last the candles sputtered out,
    But the embers still were bright,
When I turned my tumbler upside down,
    An' bade m'self g' night!
        As th' ket'l t-hic-ked,
        The clock purred,
        And the cat (hic) sang!

Tudor Storrs Jenks

Summer Evening

The sinking sun is taking leave,
And sweetly gilds the edge of Eve,
While huddling clouds of purple dye
Gloomy hang the western sky.
Crows crowd croaking over head,
Hastening to the woods to bed.
Cooing sits the lonely dove,
Calling home her absent love.
With "Kirchup! Kirchup!" mong the wheats
Partridge distant partridge greets;
Beckoning hints to those that roam,
That guide the squandered covey home.
Swallows check their winding flight,
And twittering on the chimney light.
Round the pond the martins flirt,
Their snowy breasts bedaubed with dirt,
While the mason, neath the slates,
Each mortar-bearing bird awaits:
By art untaught, each labouring spouse
Curious daubs his hanging house.

Bats flit by in hood and cowl;
Through the ba...

John Clare

Chore Time.

    When I'm at gran'dad's on the farm,
    I hear along 'bout six o'clock,
    Just when I'm feelin' snug an' warm,
    "Ho, Bobby, come and feed your stock."

    I jump an' get into my clothes;
    It's dark as pitch, an' shivers run
    All up my back. Now, I suppose
    Not many boys would think this fun.

    But when we get out to the barn
    The greedy pigs begin to squeal,
    An' I throw in the yellow corn,
    A bushel basket to the meal.

    Then I begin to warm right up,
    I whistle "Yankee Doodle" through,
    An' wrastle with the collie pup -
    And sometimes gran'dad whistles too.

    The cow-shed door, it makes a din
    Each time we swing it open wide;
    I run an' flash the lantern in,
    There stan...

Jean Blewett

Kit's Cradle.

They've taken the cosy bed away
That I made myself with the Shetland shawl,
And set me a hamper of scratchy hay,
By that great black stove in the entrance-hall.

I won't sleep there; I'm resolved on that!
They may think I will, but they little know
There's a soft persistence about a cat
That even a little kitten can show.

I wish I knew what to do but pout,
And spit at the dogs and refuse my tea;
My fur's feeling rough, and I rather doubt
Whether stolen sausage agrees with me.

On the drawing-room sofa they've closed the door,
They've turned me out of the easy-chairs;
I wonder it never struck me before
That they make their beds for themselves up-stairs.

*            *            *            *            *

I've found a crib wher...

Juliana Horatia Ewing

The Three Little Kittens.

Knit, knit, knit, knit!
See old white-capped Pussy sit,
Fairly gray with worry and care,
In her little straight-backed rocking-chair?
Knit, knit, knit,
Till she is tired of it!

Why does she work so? Look and see,
There in the corner, children three!
Plump and furry and full of fun,
(A good-for-nothing is every one.)
And all those kittens
Must have mittens!

Weather is cold; and snow and sleet
Make it bad for their little feet;
And they dare not peep outside, because
Jack Frost stands ready to pinch their paws--
That's why she sits,
And knits, and knits.

If by any chance she drops her ball,
And if one of them chases it at all,
She peeps out over her glasses' rim
With a savage, dreadful scowl at him,
And cries out, ...

Clara Doty Bates

Christmas Eve

    Friend, old friend in the Manse by the fireside sitting,
        Hour by hour while the grey ash drips from the log;
    You with a book on your knee, your wife with her knitting,
    Silent both, and between you, silent, the dog.

    Silent here in the south sit I; and, leaning,
        One sits watching the fire, with chin upon hand;
    Gazes deep in its heart--but ah! its meaning
        Rather I read in the shadows and understand.

    Dear, kind she is; and daily dearer, kinder,
        Love shuts the door on the lamp and our two selves:

Not my stirring awakened the flame that behind her
        Lit up a face in the leathern dusk of the shelves.

    Veterans are my books, with tarnished gilding:
        Yet there is one gives back to the wint...

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch