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/ ________________________________________________ Description of my father: My father, always well, Seemed never sick nor tired, And always did more work, Than any he had hired. He was a first class blacksmith, That work he could do right, Worked in the field all day And in the shop at night. He made and kept his tools In order on his farm, Hard work seemed not to hurt him Nor do him any harm. He was always to good humored, So pleasant and so mild, So cheerful and so social, Indulgent to his child. I always could approach him And ask him what I would, And always get the answer Pleasantly and good. How well I loved his company In the house and on the farm, A going to church or market My dependence was his arm. He plowed his corn and mowed his hay, When he was eighty-four Few men can do so much work After they are four score. He fed his stock and chopped his wood, And kept his fire alive, But epidemic took him off When he was eighty-five. He was about five feet And seven or eight in length, Almost all bone and muscle, And was well made for strength. His weight about one hundred And fifty or fifty-five, As healthy, sound and active As any now alive. His eyes were blue and bright, His hair was raven black, Industry, perseverance, Of these there were no lack. His beard was black, his teeth were white, Stood firmly in his head, Were double all around, And white when he was dead. When young, I stood behind him, A combing his black hair, While he was reading I was standing on his chair. I combed it round my fingers, So beautifully it curled, In such glossy ringlets, I thought it best the world. Over his white linen stock That buckled on behind, A Quaker silver buckle, And beautifully it shined. The stock, fine Irish linen, Gathered full and plaited, When ironed nice and smooth, No dress for neck could beat it. The contrast was so striking, The vivid black and white, The collar of vest or coat Concealed it not from sight. The coat breast was oval round, The skirt was straight and square, The vest had waists and flaps, "Twas the style the Quaker wore. In those days they wore the breeches "That reached full half way down, Close below the knee A band was fixed around. And on the band, a buckle That kept it nice and bright, With the stockings well shoved under And the buttons all fixed right. And when they wore long boots Which were tucked to fit the leg With long sharp turned up toes, They then looked very snug. And a buckle on the boot, Near the top behind, And a strap sewed on the breeches To boot to confine. The shining silver buckle In the shape of a heart, Upon the well blacked boot, Depend, it did look smart. Likewise the silver knee buckle On the outside of each knee, And row of gilded buttons Looked nice and fine you see. My father had the breeches, He had red plush and blue, Black velvet, snuff and drab, That was the Quaker hue. It took five silver buckles, Then to dress a man, These times with scarce a buckle, Dress themselves well they can. And now they're wearing boots, The top halfway up the leg, And their pants are shoved down over, And that don't look so snug. But let them dress cheap as they can, These times do much demand it, These times are hard and we're debarred, Silver, they can't command it.