PoemsWe 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 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
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 |
