My father, he was a mountaineer,
His fist was a knotty hammer;
He was quick on his feet as a running deer,
And he spoke with a Yankee stammer.
My mother, she was merry and brave,
And so she came to her labor,
With a tall green fir for her doctor grave
And a stream for her comforting neighbor.
And some are wrapped in the linen fine,
And some like a godling's scion;
But I was cradled on twigs of pine
And the skin of a mountain lion.
And some remember a white, starched lap
And a ewer with silver handles;
But I remember a coonskin cap
And the smell of bayberry candles.
The cabin logs, with the bark still rough,
And my mother who laughed at trifles,
And the tall, lank visitors, brown as snuff,
With their long, straight squirrel-rifles.
I can hear them dance, like a foggy song,
Through the deepest one of my slumbers,
The fiddle squeaking the boots along
And my father calling the numbers.
The quick feet shaking the puncheon-floor,
And the fiddle squealing and squealing,
Till the dried herbs rattled above the door
And the dust went up to the ceiling.
There are children lucky from dawn till dusk,
But never a child so lucky!
For I cut my teeth on "Money Musk"
In the Bloody Ground of Kentucky!
When I grew tall as the Indian corn,
My father had little to lend me,
But he gave me his great, old powder-horn
And his woodsman's skill to befriend me.
With a leather shirt to cover my back,
And a redskin nose to unravel
Each forest sign, I carried my pack
As far as a scout could travel.
Till I lost my boyhood and found my wife,
A girl like a Salem clipper!
A woman straight as a hunting-knife
With as eyes as bright as the Dipper!
We cleared our camp where the buffalo feed,
Unheard-of streams were our flagons;
And I sowed my sons like the apple-seed
On the trail of the Western wagons.
They were right, tight boys, never sulky or slow,
A fruitful, a goodly muster.
The eldest died at the Alamo.
The youngest fell with Custer.
The letter that told it burned my hand.
Yet we smiled and said, "So be it!"
But I could not live when they fenced the land,
For it broke my heart to see it.
I saddled a red, unbroken colt
And rode him into the day there;
And he threw me down like a thunderbolt
And rolled on me as I lay there.
The hunter's whistle hummed in my ear
As the city-men tried to move me,
And I died in my boots like a pioneer
With the whole wide sky above me.
Now I lie in the heart of the fat, black soil,
Like the seed of a prairie-thistle;
It has washed my bones with honey and oil
And picked them clean as a whistle.
And my youth returns, like the rains of Spring,
And my sons, like the wild-geese flying;
And I lie and hear the meadow-lark sing
And have much content in my dying.
Go play with the towns you have built of blocks,
The towns where you would have bound me!
I sleep in my earth like a tired fox,
And my buffalo have found me.
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Comments
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Tom Russell sings (much of) this
Thought you might be interested in knowing that Tom Russell sings this wonderfully. I don't know whether he set it to music or someone else did. The childhood verses are left out to get it down to a song's length but that's how I discovered it. -
This poem epitomises the spirit of freedom and adventure. I love it as it expresses feelings from the heart, and the ultimate pleasure to rejoin all that was wild and free after death has claimed the body.
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assignment
From guest Harsimran (contact)
Such a good poem its the best I came across when we were in class we had assignment to do on it it was so long and we had 1 day because were in grade 6. But I still can't memorise it because we have other homework to do . -
I love it.
From guest Daniel Schurhammer (contact)
I remember memorizing this when I was 7. I sill remember all but 1 verse almost 50 years later. Best poem ever. -
From guest Metin Cullen (contact)
This is a poem i memorized for fun because i loved it. I am a young 15 yr old boy. -
ballad of william sycamore
From guest kevin lundrigan (contact)
This is one of my favorite poems and the final line is as close to perfect as a poem can be -
From guest Anna Adams (contact)
The first poem I memorized for my own pleasure and still love 60 years later. Reading it, I'm pleased I had only altered a couple of words in my memory. -
From guest Judy M. Stillion (contact)
They tell me this is not great poetry. Yet I have remembered it for 40 years while the "grest new poets" words blow away from my mind in a day. -
Memories
From guest Ben Burton (contact)
The line, "With their long straight squirrel rifles" crossed my mind last night, and for the life of me, I couldn't recall the name of the poem, so I googled this AM and found this site. Once I saw the name and first line, I was able to recite most of it...ah, senility! I read this in one of my older sister's lit books when I was in third grade. It made an impression that early. I later (7th grade) read it to an honorable mention finish in the Birmingham city poetry festival, winning the following year with "Song of the Shirt," by Thomas Hood. -
WOW
From guest Judy (contact)
I had to learn this back in junior high and have been trying to remember the name for months. I teach school and my reading class is studying ballads and I wanted to show this to them. -
From guest Aline Guillot (contact)
One of my favorite poems -- I memorized it in jr. high and 40 years later still remember all but a couple of lines. Wish Sam Elliott would make a CD of Benet's poems -- can't you all just hear his voice? -
stephen vincent benet
From guest A.C. Turner (contact)
I searced web sites with negative results. I found yours and found it to be excelant! THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!!! -
5
it is very good
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