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 stand the shorthorns side by side.

    Their breathin' makes a sort of cloud
    Above their heads - there's no frost here.
    "My beauties," gran'dad says out loud,
    "You'll get your breakfasts, never fear."

    When up I climb into the loft
    To fill their racks with clover hay,
    Their eyes, all sleepy like and soft,
    A heap of nice things seem to say.

    The red ox shakes his curly head,
    An' turns on me a solemn face;
    I know he's awful glad his shed
    Is such a warm and smelly place.

    An' last of all the stable big,
    With harness hanging on each door,
    I always want to dance a jig
    On that old musty, dusty floor.

    It seems so good to be alive,
    An' tendin' to the sturdy grays,
    The sorrels, and old Prince, that's five -
    An' Lightfoot with her coaxing ways.

    My gran'dad tells me she is mine,
    An' I'm that proud! I braid her mane,
    An' smooth her sides until they shine,
    An' do my best to make her vain.

    When we have measured oats for all,
    Have slapped the grays upon the flanks,
    An' tried to pat the sorrels tall,
    An' heard them whinny out their thanks,

    We know it's breakfast time, and go
    Out past the yellow stacks of straw,
    Across the creek that used to flow,
    But won't flow now until a thaw.

    Behind the trees the sky is pink,
    The snow drifts by in fat white flakes,
    My gran'dad says: "Well, Bob, I think
    There comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

Morning.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

All On An April Morning.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Slander.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Thankfulness.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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When Mollie and I were married from the dear old cottage-home,
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I parted with a sigh in a stranger-land to roam,
And to seek a western home for me and mine.

By a grove-encircled lake in the wild and prairied West,
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I laid my knapsack down and my weary limbs to rest,
And resolved to build a cottage-home and stay.

I staked and marked my "corners," and I "filed" upon my claim,
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When Mollie saw my "cottage" and the way that I had "bached",
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Hanford Lennox Gordon

On Washing Day

"I'm going to gran'ma's for a bit
My mother's got the copper lit;
An' piles of clothes are on the floor,
An' steam comes out the wash-house door;
An' Mrs. Griggs has come, an' she
Is just as cross as she can be.
She's had her lunch, and ate a lot;
I saw her squeeze the coffee-pot.
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An' mother dried my frock, an' said:
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I'm off to gran'ma's, for, you see,
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"But down at gran'ma's 'tis so nice.
If gran'ma's making currant-cake,
She'll let me put the ginger spice,
An' grease the tin, an' watch it bake;
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Fay Inchfawn

Rural Morning

Soon as the twilight through the distant mist
In silver hemmings skirts the purple east,
Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view
And dries the morning's chilly robes of dew,
Young Hodge the horse-boy, with a soodly gait,
Slow climbs the stile, or opes the creaky gate,
With willow switch and halter by his side
Prepared for Dobbin, whom he means to ride;
The only tune he knows still whistling oer,
And humming scraps his father sung before,
As "Wantley Dragon," and the "Magic Rose,"
The whole of music that his village knows,
Which wild remembrance, in each little town,
From mouth to mouth through ages handles down.
Onward he jolls, nor can the minstrel-throngs
Entice him once to listen to their songs;
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John Clare

Rural Morning.

Soon as the twilight through the distant mist
In silver hemmings skirts the purple east,
Ere yet the sun unveils his smiles to view
And dries the morning's chilly robes of dew,
Young Hodge the horse-boy, with a soodly gait,
Slow climbs the stile, or opes the creaky gate,
With willow switch and halter by his side
Prepar'd for Dobbin, whom he means to ride;
The only tune he knows still whistling o'er,
And humming scraps his father sung before,
As "Wantley Dragon," and the "Magic Rose,"
The whole of music that his village knows,
Which wild remembrance, in each little town,
From mouth to mouth through ages handles down.
Onward he jolls, nor can the minstrel-throngs
Entice him once to listen to their songs;
Nor marks he once a blossom on his way;
A senseless l...

John Clare