We thought you genealogists out there might enjoy a touch of literary works that relate to family history.  Enjoy!

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These poems were contributed by Kevin Crumpler with permission of the author:

We’m all related yur

A gen’ulman came out from town,

He looked us all straight up an’ down

Then said, "To me, it’s very queer,

Is this some game? You look the same,

Please do explain,

Whatever’s happening here?"


We smiled a little knowin’ smile,

But wouldn’t say too much,

The answer wasn’t difficult, but why that subject touch?

We’re friendly folk round here and might

Look simple and sublime,

But underneath our blankets, sure, we all have quite a time.

You see … we’m 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 we’m all related yur.

Yes, we’m 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, we’m all related yur.

We never told that Sir

That a fellow’s not a cur

Who sports a jaunty Crumpler chin,

A Burbidge skin, A Selby grin,

And has a load of ‘next of kins,’

‘Cos, we’m all related yur.

And so that gen’ulman from town

Went on his way wi’ quite a frown

An’ never know’d 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 we’m all related yur!

By Beau Parke , ‘Time Was’ - poems from Lytchett Matravers


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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


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This page was last updated on 02/20/05.

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