FAMILY HISTORY: POETRY Collection written by Elsie Strawn ARMSTRONG
  
  File contributed for use in USGenWeb Archives by: Les Howard Strawn
  
  Copyright 2006.  All rights reserved.
  http://www.usgwarchives.net/copyright.htm
  http://www.usgwarchives.net/pa/somerset/
  ________________________________________________
  
  
  I was born in Pennsylvania
      In the year of eighty-nine,
  And brought up by my parents
      Under strictest discipline.
  
  I was allowed to go to church
      On Sabbath day and night,
  And to parties for to work,
      Because they thought it right.
  
  I was sent to school at four,
      And at five I'd learned to read,
  The spelling book and Bible
      Were the books I had to heed.
  
  The Thomas Dilworth spelling book
      And the Bible were the rule,
  And they were all the books
      The children had at school.
  
  But an extra education
         They thought they'd give to me,
  And I was taught arithmetic
         To the single rule of three.
         
  In that branch I took delight,
      Went through two rules in a day,
  I wrote it in my book
      And took no time to play.
  
  Seventy years ago,
      Girls got but little education,
  To spin and weave the clothing
      Seemed to be their occupation.
  
  Then girls got but little schooling
      In comparison to now,
  When they spun and wove the clothing,
      And dressed as they could, and how.
  
  Then, girls, they made the parties,
      Parties to do the work,
  Where all strove to excel
      And none went there to shirk.
  
  In those days, they made the parties
      To get help to do the spinning,
  And then they made the parties
      To sew and make the linen.
  
  And then they made the parties
      To get help to break the wool,
  And they also made the parties
      To get help, the flax to pull.
  
  And still I well remember
      How pleased I was, to be invited
  To go with my friends and schoolmates,
      To that work, I was delighted.
  
  To go with them to pull the flax,
      To me 'twas like a play,
  For I could take my swathes with ease,
      And so nice I'd make it lay.
  
  I could kept my through ahead,
      And lay my swathe complete,
  I often ran a race
      But never yet, was beat.
  
  And it was the finest neighborhood
      That ever I was in,
  To tattle and to back-bite
      To them would be a sin.
  
  The purest love and friendship
      Existed, all around,
  Entirely the best neighborhood
      That ever I have found.
  
  I gladly would go back there
      To see the springs and hills,
  And visit the old school house
      And see the little rills.
  
  At its head I often drank,
      And viewed the old playground,
  Perhaps some of my playmates
      May yet be living round.
  
  But the lapse of sixty years
      May have made a mighty change,
  And some of them, like myself,
      May have taken a wide range.
  
  But from the best accounts
      That I can get or have,
  More than half now
      Are lying in the graves.
  
  But still I had my parents
      Till I was fifty-four,
  To visit now and then,
      And nearly six months more.
  
  In the year of forty-three
      Those loved ones were called away,
  And I was left an orphan
      In the month of May.
  
  My mother about eighty,
      My Father eight-five,
  And I felt that I was loved,
      Long as they were alive.
  
  And still I had some sons
      That were affectionate and kind,
  But now they all have families,
      And I seem left behind.
  
  They invite me to their homes,
      And I would oftener go,
  But my business and my care
      At home demand me so.
  
  And here I sit alone,
      From one month to another,
  And of late I feel deserted
      By my kind, attentive brother.
  
  Perhaps he may be sick,
      Or there is some reason why
  If I thought it was neglect,
      O, then I'd have to cry.
  
  And here I sit alone, with
      My windows darkened o'er.
  I cannot bear the light,
      For my eyes they are so sore.
  
  Sometimes I sit and rock me,
      Sometimes I walk the floor,
  Sometimes I sing or cry,
      Or talk my troubles o'er.
  
  When I look back on my way,
      And view the path I've trod,
  They loving kindness, O, how great,
      Thy mercy, O, My God!
  
  O, spare me yet a few more days,
      With grace to act my part,
  O make me pure and spotless too,
      And fully cleanse my heart.
  
  And When I'm called from hence away,
      Grant me some humble seat,
  In that fair clime where Jesus is,
      To sit beneath his feet.