We thought you genealogists out there might enjoy a touch of literary works that relate
to family history. Enjoy!
These poems were contributed by Kevin Crumpler with permission of the
Wem all related yur
A genulman came out from town,
He looked us all straight up an down
Then said, "To me, its very queer,
Is this some game? You look the same,
Please do explain,
Whatevers happening here?"
We smiled a little knowin smile,
But wouldnt say too much,
The answer wasnt difficult, but why that subject touch?
Were friendly folk round here and might
Look simple and sublime,
But underneath our blankets, sure, we all have quite a time.
wem all related yur,
The genes ave been well stirred,
At dead of night the doors do creek
And windows rise as someone sleek
Will whisper low, "Moi turn this week,"
So wem all related yur.
Yes, wem all related yur,
Tis really not a slur
To tell the tale like Davey Mac,
To wear yer breeches like Bill-Jack,
And hang yer cap on any rack
So, wem all related yur.
We never told that Sir
That a fellows not a cur
Who sports a jaunty Crumpler chin,
A Burbidge skin, A Selby grin,
And has a load of next of kins,
Cos, wem all related yur.
And so that genulman from town
Went on his way wi quite a frown
An never knowd what fun we had
Or how dam good twas to be bad,
To him, each one would be a cad,
But judgements we defer,
Cos wem all related yur!
By Beau Parke , Time Was - poems from Lytchett Matravers
A COUNTRY TRADEGY
Samuel Crumpler paid the price for being so nice
and trusting with his bull;
He walked the field that blistering Summer's day
whilst checking acreage and gauging chores
unmindful of his young and powerful charge.
Then suddenly the animal took pace
and rushed and roared and snorted t'wards his face,
whilst Sam stepped back, yet still believed
the bull was easy to contain:
But on it went, moemntum built
to such a speed and strength that Sam, alarmed,
tried frantic'ly to reach the branches of the nearby oak,
but failed to get the leverage he needed now
to avoid its frenzied, maddened surge;
He yelled in terrying pain as he was pinned against
the trunk and gored relentlessly by this unreal, unreasoning
monster that he'd fed and nurtured from a calf;
The blood was spurting forth as sweat and slime and slaver
from the bull was intermixed with gore,
and bones were crushed till Samuel Crumpler's broken frame
was tossed into the air, now cruelly
scythed and crunched beyond all comprehension.
His sorrowing widow and nine sons and daugheters
saw him laid to rest a few days later
in the Village Churchyard, knowing that local history
had been made at his expense for trusting that
young bull and lowering his guard.
Samuel Crumpler, wheelwright, carpenter and sometime farmer died.
aged fifty-five, in 1849; a kind and strong and gallant,
some say foolish, family man.
By 'Beau' Parkes, Poems from Lytchett Matravers