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Chatsworth Poets
Many poets have been born in the heart of Chatsworth.
You may find a family member here, not even knowing their talent as a poet !!
Below are what I have found so far, but check back as I add new ones as I find them. 

Our Alumni

By James E. Curtis
Published in  a 1964 Plaindealer
The last year of his custodianship.

I look at the pictures in our hall of fame,
Most of them, I can call by name.
The finest group of girls and boys,
That went to school to bring us joys.

And as I look , then I often pause,
For many paid the price for freedom's cause.
Now most are married and settled down,
Their own little babes to chase around.

Beautiful pictures that hang on the wall,
To spread good cheer, in the high school hall.
And in every group is a teacher's smile,
Four years of work that has been worth while.

To let you know what it's all about,
The finest of youth we are turning out.
Not a one of our group but has made good,
As all of our fine Americans should.

Hundreds of faces, we love them all,
Our fine young folks that hang on the wall.
Our best to them, it has been worth while,
To walk down the Hall and see them smile.

Down in the lobby the Honor Roll hangs,
Row upon row, you can read their names.
Some won their chevrons, some won bars,
And too many names with the golden stars.

We read those names that hang on the wall,
And give them thanks, they are heroes all.
For Chatsworth had paid an awful price,
We pray that it will not happen twice.

Up in the Assembly, ten pictures hang,
With a golden star for every name.
I'm sure those lads we'll ne'er forget,
But for the cruel war, they would be here yet.

By Traeger Rosenboom
Chatsworth Plaindealer
The Tatler
April 17, 1930
Whirling past the snowdrifts,
Whizzing down the hill,
Though another train's in sight,
It rushed onward still. 
Too near to close the throttle,
The engineer jumped out,
But the luckless fireman's spark of life,
Has forever been put out. 
They took him to his home town,
And there they buried him,
For that was of his greatest wish,
To be buried among his kin. 
The engineer lives on,
To remember his mistake,
And to think of the poor fireman,
Who through him, had met his fate. 
Also printed in the High School Pantagraph.
Note:I'm not sure what this refers to
By Helen Louise Plaster Stoutemyer
From her book "The Heritage of the One-Room School"
Oh Grandfather's school was the finest in the day, and it stood 90 years in our town.
The stairs curled about in a circular way, and the banisters oft' he slid down.
It opened on the morn of the day he was born, the bell was his treasure and pride.
But 'twas silenced forever -never to ring again - on the day the old man died.
90 years of grumbling - ding-dong, ding-dong!
90 years of mumbling - ding-dong, ding-dong!
It stopped short - never to ring again, when the old man died.
Oh Grandfather's school, built three stories tall, and its color, a dark chocolate brown.
But older it grew and 'twas doomed to fall, so its walls had to come tumbling down.
'Twas the first day of spring, when the bell ceased to ring and the halls once so lively and gay,
Were silent and dead, all the pupils had fled, as Grandfather's life ebbed away.
90 years of children's laughter - ding-dong, ding-dong!
Only silence hereafter - ding-dong, ding-dong!
But the ghosts of the past, hover 'round till the last, since the school and Grandfather are gone.

The Chatsworth Wreck
By James E. Curtis

On August the tenth, the year eighty seven,
The Chatsworth bridge was burned,
That wrecked the flying excursion train,
The one that never returned.
Two big black engines rolling past,
With the coal smoke streaming high,
And in just a few short moments more,
When so many were doomed to die.
Eighty two were the numbered dead,
When the fast one left the track,
At the close of that August day,
When the farmers brought them back.
As the double header went flying past,
With Niagara as her destination,
And the people were all gaily waving,
While passing each railroad station.
Trying their best to make up lost time,
As the excursion train sped through,
And with the old bell ringing madly,
Then loud the whistles blew.
They had soon pulled out of Chatsworth,
For the train was running late,
Then just two miles along the road,
The fast one met her fate.
The bridge was burning beneath the track,
The speeding cars plunged through,
There many passengers passed away,
And killed were most of the crew.
As all the bodies were tossed about,
All along the right-of-way,
For that wreck was making history,
It was Chatsworth's saddest day.
The world was shocked to hear it,
And the telegrams poured in,
To soothe the broken heartaches,
And to ease the next of kin.
I never knew those early days,
But I've heard the Old Ones tell,
Of the screaming of the dying,
At the wreck, where they fell.
And I heard them tell of chaos,
Then they would sadly say,
No one could know the true account,
Of hearts that broke that day.
The wooden coaches had piled up high,
The flames and smoke obscured the sky,
The silent whistle and the silent bell,
Had sounded the dirge of the last death knell.
From joy into sorrow in a moment's time,
Death rode that night, on the railway line,
And left sad memories that foever last,
Of the speeding train of years long past.

Written August 10, 1925 on the anniversary of the wreck, after hearing accounts of wreck from Chatsworth passenger, Alvie Cunnington and Art Gardner, whose father assisted at the site of the wreck.
By J. B. Rumbold
Was recited by him at the 1902 reunion and published in the Plaindealer.

Once again we come to honor, Our remaining pioneers.
To unite the scattered veterans, Who have battled fifty years.
Come to see how they have builded, What they've wrought from out the soil,
And we come to learn life lessons, From their simple honest toil.
Come to guard their closing history, And, before we turn the page,
Stop to pause and pay a tribute, Of our youth, to passing age.
See around us spread the prairies, Far away on every side,
Here the grass in waving billow, There the forest in it's pride.
Where a stream begins it's journey, With it's banks aglow with bloom,
Wander deer in deep seclusion, Still at peace, but still near doom.
Dwell wild creatures unmolested, Knowing not the fear of man,
As they've slumbered on for ages, But a change is near at hand.
Hold ! What slowly moving object, In the distance now appears?
"Tis the tented prairie-schooner, Of the leading pioneers.
Soon there follows in his footsteps, Men from many distant lands,
Leaving friends and homes and kindred, Bring as wealth their willing hands.
Come to earn and reap, in freedom, From the wealth-enfolding sod,
Come to know all men as brothers, Equal in the sight of God.
Here they toiled and wrought and builded, All their years and strength employ,
Earning needs, providing blessings, Comforts we today enjoy.
See his cottage on the prairie, With it's tiny window panes,
Standing darkened, dull and lonely, Beaten by the winds and rains.
Plain his food, and none too plenty, As he gathers "round his board,
Clad in garments coarse and scanty, All his poverty affords.
See him plodding, planting, reaping, Using simple, clumsy tools,
"Tis his strength more than his science, That's the power with which he rules.
Braving storms, and fires, and sickness, Ever hopeful through them all.
Till at last his task is finished, He has gained the end he sought,
All around us lie the blessings, Years of health and strength have brought.
Tho' he came a leading actor, And has only cleared the stage,
He has left an honored record, And a glorious heritage.
See him standing at life's twilight, Evening shadows gath'ring fast,
We are looking to the future, He is living in the past.
One by one his comrades falter, One by one they fall away,
Old familiar faces passing, Leave him lonely, by the way.
Standing bowed, as with a burden, By the weight of adding years,
See his horny hands are paised, Many sounds deceive his ears.
And his steps are slow and halting, Rought the paths he had to tread,
While the frosts of many winters, Settle on his hoary head.
What should crown this closing labor? What is due as his reward?
Needs supplied --are they sufficient? Far too little they afford.
Is it not that they who follow, By their worth shall justify,
All his years of weary effort, And the comforts they supplied?
Should not those whose future welfare, Was his high and noble aim,
Guard with grateful hearts his memory, And prove an honor to this name?
Should not we build for the future, As their useful lives inspire,
Still upholding as our watchword, Ever onward, ever higher?
Peace to those who've gone beyond us, Joy to those who linger here,
Those whose work is nearly ended --Our pioneers, our pioneers.

Three Crosses

By James E. Curtis
For the Chatsworth Plaindealer 1958

Three crosses stood on Golotha's hill
Where the soldiers with one accord,
Nailed on the two, a robber and a thief
To the other they nailed our LORD.
They beat Him and they crowned Him
Then they spat upon his face,
And tired their best to shame Him
And to bring Him to disgrace.
Two of the crosses were smaller 
But the largest was painted red,
With the blood of the dying SAVIOUR
While the gloom came down overhead.
They never knew the crime they did
They were in a fearful state,
After the darkness the cross had hid 
They saw it was then too late.
The thief then mocked the Master
While hanging on a tree,
If you are who you claim to be
Then save yourself and me.
But the robber only meekly said,
I know whom Thou must be
When Thou comest into they kingdom,
Then DEAR LORD remember me.
Then the SAVIOUR gently looked on him,
For He had paid the price,
And said tonight thou shalt be with Me
In my heavenly paradise.
Then He groaned aloud in His anguish,
Father, Why hast thou forsaken me?
Then He feebly said, It is finished,
And He died there, upon the tree.
The world has shaken in horror
While the veil was rent in twain,
And then He ascended to Heaven,
Forever up there he will reign.
The three crosses, long since vanished,
But their memories we still relate,
The cross of love that Jesus bore,
The others were of greed and hate.
The cross that Jesus bore that day
With love and grace divine,
The cross He bore was not His own,
That cross was yours and mine.


It's Christmas

By James E. Curtis
For the Chatsworth Plaindealer 1958

It's Christmas and about the place,
Are sparkling eyes and smiling face.
Because it's Christmas.
When the Angels proclaimed the Holy Birth,
With good will to men
And Peace on Earth.
It's Christmas
Where the manger stands, with the new born King,
And the shepherds pray,
While the Angels sing,
It's Christmas
It's Christmas time and don't forget,
The trees are trimmed and the candles lit
And everyone has done their bit,
It's Christmas.
An Angel stands near the morning star,
And the Wise Men coming from afar,
For on this day we all will say,
It's Christmas.
Where the Holy Child came down to earth,
And a virgin maid to Him gave birth,
The joy came to all the earth,
It's Christmas.
While in every heart we each will pray,
Lord, grant us peace,
It's Christmas day.

The Flight of the Bucks

By James E. Curtis
For the Chatsworth Plaindealer 1958

They had measured the moon, They had time the sun,
E'er the battle of flight, Had hardly begun.
The Lord who had cast them, Out into space
Was not even consulted, About the race.
Then the dollar could speak, In a voice that was heard,
But now it can't whisper, The least teeny word.
They had put a buck extra, In your pocket of jeans,
And took out two more, Which is less bread and beans.
So the farmers aren't happy, with only the shucks,
They give him a dollar, And charge him two bucks.
These thoughts aren't directed, My meighbor at you,
Though you may be the one,That is wearing the shoe.
Make believe money is only a fake,They gobble it up, more than you make.
This isn't Utopia, As the people had hoped,
It isn't just fiction, The world has been doped.
Every schemer his best has tried, To commit the Nation, To buck suicide.
It may be nearing that pitiful end, When people cant ear, more than they spend.
While the Nation is run, By the Union's strong arm,
Who would strangle the masses, And do them all harm.
But don't ever worry, If you fit the shoe,
Just live on the buck, And give them the two.
The time of the conservative, Has faded from view,
You get one leaf of lettuce, while they take the two.
If your dough is real money, Don't worry today,
Just wait till tomorrow, It may just fade away.
Go buy you some goof pills, A psychiatrist go see,
And watch the wild bucks, Take off on a spree.
That's the way I know see it, But I wish you good luck,
And happy the landings, On that third measly buck.

Chasing The Buck

By James E. Curtis
For the Chatsworth Plaindealer 1958

Just hoodwinked and deluded, By a slight-of-hand trick,
And chasing the dollar, Has made the world sick.
Those who don't have, Are doing their best,
Those who have got it, Would ---- all the rest.
When all would do better, Just to calmly sit down,
And wait for the buck, On its next orbit around.
For those in a hurry, May let one get away,
Then be ready to rope it, and to holler hoo-ray.
Bucks used to go strolling, Till we each got a few,
But now like a rocket, They depart from our view.
They're like flying saucer, We see them go by,
With only a vapor, Left in the sky.
While we helplessly watch them, Take off on a sail,
And we don't even try, To put salt on their tail.
While the worst dollar chaser, With less meat on his bones,
And his only big worry, to keep up with the Jones.
So the folks used to say, They were passing the buck,
Now they haven't the speed, And they haven't the luck.
And still we all chase it, With a load on our back,
Till our hearts are exhausted, And we suffer attack.
We burn out the candle, Until we get sick,
Then call for the Doctor, To see us real quick.
If we would but take, The good Doc's advice,
We'd be cool as a cucumber, Fresh packed in the ice.
When the Doc comes, He treats us real nice,
He gives us a shot, And gives more advice.
But still we all think, That Doc doesn't know,
When he shakes his wise head, And says to go slow.
Then the good Doc is sad, when we run out of luck,
By chasing the lucre, that fast running buck.
Then we relax in an oxygen tent, And think of the time,
In vain we have spent.
And then we consider, How foolish we are,
To reach for the moon, Instead of a star.
Now you, try to figger, Because I am through,
If I meet a lost buck, I'll direct it to you.

By Oliver M. Yaggy
Written for his grandfather George J. Walter on his 90th birthday in 1942

To a Dad with wit and lots of grit,
And a heart that is kind and true; 
To a Dad with miles of sunny smiles,
Father Walter, that Dad is YOU!
To a Dad with love for our God above,
And whose church always finds him there;
With reverent grace he is right in his place
Though weather be foul or fair.
To a Dad who works and never shirks,
When e'er there's a task to share;
From his lips no word was ever heard
That his load was too heavy to bear.
To a Dad on whose shoulder, since now he's grown older,
The year's whit mantle doth fail'
And he has spread gladness and helped banish sadness
With kind words and deeds for all.
And so Dad, we pray that your pilgrim way
Now that your Ninetieth milestone you've passed,
May brighten with love, from our Father above,
Till you reach Heaven at last.





By Revilo Oliver

Once Mayor of Chatsworth

Life is a narrow vale between the new and the old, A narrow path between two mountains bold.

In vain we try to look beyond these peaks so high, Still we see nothing but the varied blue in the sky.

Tho’ we weep aloud with anguish and care, Our voice is lost on the empty air.

The only answer we receive as the years roll by, Is the resounding echo of our wailing cry.

But love and hope see a star, and listening can hear, The rustle of angels wings as their shadowy forms draw near.

We are humble mortals born of hopes and fears, And our path in life is strewn with smiles and tears.

Of all there is in life of sad griefs and joys bright, There is not much between the happy morn of birth and the death’s sad night.

We march on through life ever veiled in mystery and dread, For there comes no answer from the voiceless lips of the dead.

Tho’ the stars look down upon us with compassion and love, From their far away places in the heaven above,

Tho’ learned in art and science as taught here below, We can never tell in what cannels our lives will flow.

Tho’ we cry aloud in our vain efforts the future to learn, No answer will ever—no never—return.

Tho’ the heavens for information we eagerly scan, We never can tell the true destiny of man.




 By Miss A. A. Schlabach

For the 1887 Alumni Banquet

June 17, 1887


Ring on, oh faithful school bell, just the same, Tho Poet's pen has naught in praise of thee.

Poe praises bells of every shape and tone, But leaves word of thy glory to me.

His sledges tinkle with the merriment, Of many a clear-toned, happy silver bell.

His wedding bells chime cheerily with delight, A world of happiness their harmonies foretell.

Grim terror fills the startled ear of night, As wild alarm bells ring out the fire's all right.

The tolling of his bells, his iron bells, A groan rung from the rust within their throats.

A world of solemn thought from all compels, As the melancholy Monaco from them floats.

Another hears the chime of Sabbath bells, Each one its creed in soft-toned music tolls.

In tones that swell upon the very air, As sweet as song, as pure as any prayer.

But, who, oh bell, they song has ever praised, Who up to thee, in approving glance has raised.

Tho mak'et the tired mother turn to thee, With thankful heart that, for six hours she's free.

From girlish questions that at times annoy, And from the romping of the noisy boy.

But when your tones ring out that school is o'er, She greets with joy the little ones once more.

Oh, if our ears were made for tongues like them, What precious tales would in thy notes combine.

The six-year-olds come trembling in to school, Eager to know, yet fearful of each rule.

How soon they come to love thy welcome tone, And think their school room is a second home.

Tho' teachers change, or have no time to know, Thou seest how, step by step, they onward go.

Some, quick in learning, easily attain, The ladder's highest round of school-day fame.

Others, by patient prodding, gain the prize, And love it better since they toiled to rise.

They say "tis finished", and, old bell, e'en you, Ring out a sound that to their ears is new.

You tell of sweetest days that never come, But one in life -- and those for them are gone.

No more they'll tread the shady, pleasant walk, Whispering so low in comfidential talk.

For soon thy welcome rings to others still, Who come, their vacant places now to fill.

But other sights, and other feelings too, Than those of thee alone, are brought to view.

From thy high perch, swung free in God's sweet air, Thou hast seen the August school board, dressed with care.

In Sunday garb, becomingly arrayed, At which the teacher's heart sinks, all dismayed.

To think of puzzling questions sure to come, That make the frightened urchins all turn dumb.

Thou hast heard relief breathed out in one deep sigh, When that long hour has wearily passed by.

And they are gone, ne'er to return again, Until more questions crowd their fertile brain.

O, bell ! We love thee for the good thou hast done, The cheer thou wilt give in many years to come.

To tired teachers thou at eve will say, "Leave trouble here and happy go thy way."

At morning, rested, come and find, The trouble gone that thou hast left behind.

And now the Alumni, hear thee once again, A strange sweet memory of days long past,

Which time for some, Perhaps may be the last.

Ring out, oh bell ! In tones so sweet and clear, nine times a day and nine months in the year.

That all who obey thy summons, all may feel, A pleasure thrill them, from thy merry peal.


Miss Schlabach was the daughter of Prof. C. E. Schlabach 




By Mary Runyon-Hanshew
Published by the International Poetry Society   2001 
Our family tree grows tall and wide,
Spreading across the country side.
Its branches are strong,
Each growing its own way,
But its roots are deep,
And forever will stay.
It sheds its leaves, one at a time,
But new buds come,
And that's alsways a sign.
That a tree cannot die,
It grows on forever,
Surviving the winds and stormy weather.
Each branch a family,
Each leaf a heart,
Of the tree of a family,
That will not part.

Going Home

By Richard Runyon

Class of 1972


It is said you cannot go home again, After you have been so long away.

I will notice few familiar sights, As we carry you home this day.

Though the memories are all that's left, We will not let them part,

The joy that once resided here, Still lives with in our heart.

The weeds now cover the fields, Where once we loved the game.

With us the thoughts are still alive, But we know things aren't the same.

Time has not stood still here, The changes we can tell,

The church we were married in, No longer tolls a bell.

The hallowed halls where once we walked, And learned to read and write,

Have been reduced to ashes, And buried out of sight.

The house that you grew up in, Stands empty but for the ghost.

Yet the gardens you had planted, Survived their latest host.

The thoughts of home have followed us, Though we were far away.

The joyful memories all will return, As we carry you home this day.


A Dream at Twilight


Blanche Hagaman Melvin

I'm sitting alone in the twilight, And my thoughts come thronging along,

And they fill my soul will the music, Of a beautiful, beautiful song.

That song to my heart is far better, Than any I'll evermore hear,

The song that is simple and childlike, The song that is kindly and dear.

This one not set to music, the music of my old heart is all,

But it sounds far sweeter than any, That down on my spirit doth fall.

This the sound, yet the sound of sweet voices, I hear them as years long gone by,

And I think that those dear days are ended, And a great tear falls from my eye.

Every school day morning those children, Came early with book  and with slate,

Hurrying along so quickly, For fear that they might be too late.

Yes, I hear them approaching the school house, Their sweet voices fall on the air,

And me thinks they are asking each other, I wonder if teacher is there?

A few more steps they have traveled, And their sweet little faces I see,

Then they quietly enter the school room, and say good morning to me.

Soon the time will come for their study, And their faces are bright with joy,

As they quickly take their places, Each dear little girl and boy.

How eager their faces turn toward me, As they drink in the knowledge I give,

As I teach them the things they are seeking, And the beautiful way to live.

All day long they are striving, Each hard little lesson to do,

And their dear little brains grow weary, And the day is no longer new.

This evening, their tasks are completed, And their work is put neatly away,

Then they quietly pass from the school room, Leaving me at the close of the day.

They are gone, and I am left lonely, and I think o'er the day that is past,

While the children are tripping lightly toward home, Their work being done at last.

This is only a dream at twilight, Those days forever have flown,

Those children have drifted from, And I am left all alone.

I live in the past with those dear ones, Tho now I am feeble and white,

And me thinks I can still see them, In the glow of the morning light.

Blanche Hagaman Melvin was a school teacher for 33 years in Livingston County, IL. She was born Dec. 31, 1880 at rural Chatsworth, IL., and died September 29, 1974 at the age of 93. She was the daughter of John and Margaret S. Carver Hagaman. She married James R. Melvin in Chatsworth, IL., on October 1, 1913, and after they were married they lived in Pleasant Ridge Township, IL.


Below are verses written by the Class of 1940
Booklet was named
"Best Ballads of the Boisterous Beginners"
I do not know what year they were written, so we do not know their age at the time, but I would guess they were pretty young. Some are pretty gloomy, and some are funny. I think they must have been given some phrases  or themes they were to use in their poems. Judge them only as words from your ancestors.  

The Night of The Storms
By Rose Johnson

The weather was cold that night
Twas the night that the storms were here
That a richman's daughter went toward town
The night was dark and drear.

The weather it was wondrous cold
And still 'twas getting colder
This daughter stopped from going toward town
And sat upon a boulder.

Out by the rock she had come that night
Her true love for to see
He had promised to take her away that night
His blushing bride to be.

She wrote a note to her father there
And then she placed it near
And when her father read the note
Oh, he began to fear.

"Oh I fear my daughter is lost," he said,
"Come help me find my child."
We followed after silently 
The night became more wild.

The air was getting colder still
The night was dark and drear
He said, "I know I've lost my child,
I cannot find her here."

As they rounded the boulders I heard his talk
"She's gone, she's gone, I say."
A few steps farther he stopped and gasped
For there his daughter lay.

He mourned and wept and called her name
"I'm a changed man, can't you see?
I'm sorry I acted the way I did,
Oh, daughter, speak to me."
The grass grows green above them now
They were buried upon the crest
He father died of a broken heart
And so did all the rest.

My Dog
By Jerome Rebholz

I have a little dog name Jip,
Who likes to chase stray cats,
H chases them up a tall tree,
Although that cat kills rats.

Oh, Jippy is my little dog,
With fur that's brown and white,
He chases cats and kills the rats,
No, he never will bite.

Oh, Jippy is that little dog,
That barks, and hows, and growls,
He is three years old now, by gee,
And sleeps while the wild wind howls.

Johnny Boy
By Maxine Trauring

John was a sailor boy
And he went out to sea
His mother was so very sad
So were his sisters three.

"I'll be home in a year, Mother,
A year and just one day."
Johnny never came home again
At sea he did stay.

Alas, he could not return home
Because the ship did sink
His mother was so very sad
Of poison, she did drink.

When she lay a-dying there
These are the words she said
"Johnny boy, was my pride and joy,
And now I know his is dead."

A Gloomy Day
By Donald Gerdes

It was a dark and gloomy day,
And the snow fell dismally
Mother said "My dear sweet boy
Do bring some coal to me."

The drifts were deep and cold and wide
So I answered lazily
My Dad is strong, his shoulders broad
Let him get it for thee.

Three Brothers
By Beulah Wilson

'Twas in a cottage near the hills
There dwelled bold brothers three
To satisfy their wondering minds
They all went out to sea.

They sailed about the deep blue sea
The sailed with all the crew
When one dark night, a storm came up,
The wind, it furiously blew.

The lightening flashed, the thunder crashed,
The rain poured hard and fast
The ship did sink beneath the brink
And few were saved at last.

Now one of these three bold brothers
Did go down in the sea,
The other two and part of the crew
Were saved, and scattered free.

Then seven years had passed by slow
Two men did meet one day
They fell in love with one fair maid
'Twas Landon and McGay.

Landon did mount on a milk-white steed
McGay on a dapple gray
With brightly shining armour clad
They lightly rode away.

They had not gone a mile but one,
When they began their fight
O'er that fair maid loved by them both
It was a terrible sight.

McGay fell first in the battle
Landon had done the deed,
And he had slain his fair brother
Landon had taken the lead.

"Oh what have I done fair brother
What have I done to thee"
"Ye have won the fair maiden,
And won the battle with me."

McGay he died at the dawn of day
Landon by his sword and dart,
The fair young maiden love by them both
She died of a broken heart.

No title
By Raymond McEvoy

There was a very old maid
She had sisters three
The sisters wanted to marry
But they could not you see.

One day an old man came around
He asked her to marry in May
She thought and thought and then she said
"I guess it will be OK".

Now this man was from Boston town
He was happy you see
Because he just had bought an Austin
That lasted till '43.

My Algebra
By Margie Ribordy

I hate to do my Algebra
It's such a terrible pain
I study and study every night
But do not make much gain.

I dream of X's plain and squared
Till I must call on Pa
He works and toils but all in vain
And then he says "O,pshaw".

Ballad of the King of Siding
By Dorothy Jean Herr

'Twas on a dark and gloomy night
When three men came a-riding
They stopped before a castle great
Where lived the King of Siding.

And up into his room they crept
Where now he lay a-sleepin,
They robbed and took him prisoner,
And left his wife a-weepin.

The servants found the queen at dawn
He hands and feet were bound
She told them how they took the king
And never made a sound.

They sent brave heralds far and near
And brave knights everywhere
But no trace of they king was found
Tho they searched with great care.
But finally they found the king
In a lonely nearby cave
Said he, "I'm very glad you came
For its is food I crave."

The Lover's Stroll
By Nora Napier

There lived a fair young maiden gay
And she had sisters three
A handsome young knight from yon countree
He came her lover to be.

They went for a walk in the pale moon light
And their hearts were full of glee
While the Nightingale was singing his best
As he sat up in a tree.

When sudddenly now from far away
A noise they heard - the band
Louder, and louder, the noise it came
For they spied a robbers band.

The cruel monsters their lives would take
And a a robber fired the gun
The two brave hearts went away beyond
Never more to see the sun.

Princess Kate's Fate
By Essie Janet Woodruff

There was a young knight in armour bright
Who wanted to find a bride
He search almost vainly through hill and dale
And so sailed out on the tide.

He sailed to a castle near the shore
Went through the gates to King Tate,
And asked for the princess's milk white hand
When down came Princess Kate.

Prettier maids than Princess Kate were never seen,
And many a man had wooed her.
The answers they got were all the same
But this knight was her ardent suitor.

The lovers went then for a moonlight walk
And a spy Kate killed her knight
And then Princess Kate fled through the gate
She died of a broken heart that night.

By Louise Gutzwiler

Pauline ruled as goddess of spring,
The world was happy and gay.
Pluto appeared from his underworld
Stole the poor goddess away.

He crowned her his queen
She long for her earth above
She knew it was lonely and cold
And that it needed her love.

"Oh, let me return to the earth,
For six months out of the year,
I promise that I will come back and spend,
The rest of my time back here.

We have springtime and summer so gay,
Pauline rules the earth then,
When it is snowy and forlorn and cold,
We know she is with Pluto again.

Spotty, My Pony
By Marguerite Derr

I had a little pony named Spotty
And he had legs but three,
And every time I went to the barn
He always came running to me.

I gave him plenty of water
Also hay and oats in the morn,
Whenever I went to feed him
He always stepped on my corn.

I often rode him to pasture
To get the horses and cattle,
But when he got spunky,
I gave him a good paddle.

He slept in his very own stall
Right next to the old cow
I also put a dog with him
That often at him did growl.

One day as I went to the barn
With a bucket of corn for him
Alas, I found him stretched out
And sang a little hymn.

So next day I dug a little grave
And over her placed a stone
Every day I went to the spot
Where I made many a moan.
She lived to be seven years old
But still she wasn't so old
She must have had too much to eat,
Is what the doctor told.

By Raymond Sleeth

There was a boy, his name was Arthur,
He likes to drink cold tea
He loves to go with his maiden fair,
His maiden's name is Bee.

One night he took her to a dance,
When up started a banished man,
He's taken the first sister by her hand
And he's turned her round and made her stand.

The Three Sailor Boys
By Ada Rosendahl

Three jolly sailor boys were sailing
With a doomed and sinful crew,
Who cared not what happened to them
And their sins they did not rue.

It is the unforgotten night in April
While all the sailors are asleep,
That a furious, rumbling storm arose
On the ocean dark and deep.
As the sailors slumber peacefully on,
Throughout all their happy dreams,
A strange, serious, threatening danger,
Threatens them all, it seems.

The jolly sailors three, are dreaming
Happy thoughts of their home,
That is so far away across the sea,
Vowing they never more would roam.

The youngest sailor boy still dreams,
Throughout the storm's terrible fury.
Seeming to dream of his home,
And how homeward he would hurry.

The next youngest was dreaming too,
Of home and all its treasures dear,
Of how his true love had promised,
To wait for him a a day and a year.

The oldest was dreaming also,
Of home so very far away,
Of his brothers proud and brave,
And his mother and sister gay.

While the wild waves dash and roar
With many a furious motion,
A sailor crew and three sailor boys,
Are slumbering on the floor of the ocean.

By Harold Finefield

There was a boy by the name of Joe
He like to be a sailor.
He jumped into a boat and rowed
Out to his ship "The Sailor.

It took seven days for his return
But little Joe did not,
Because he was so much concerned
With his sleeping on the death cot.

He called then for his sisters three
And when they gathered around him,
He said, "Velvet may have my ship to sail,
My horse to my darling Bim.

But for her the one who poisoned me
I'll give her hell and fire
But be sure to throw her into the sea
For I am dying for the good sire.

By Robert Milstead

Sir Galahad was a gallant knight
A gallant knight was he,
He mounted on his dapple gray steed
And bravely he rod o'er the lee.
'Twas on this day he met his pride
An angel fair was she.
He asked to to be his loving bride
She said his bride she'd be.

Queen Victoria
By Janice Daniels

Victoria was a pretty queen
Who was very sad.
Although she was the best ever seen,
She never could pick up a lad.

One day there came a great stranger
Who seemed to want to linger
He said he was so bad a ranger
That guns he wanted to finger.

The Man of Quebec
By Arthur Sterrenberg

There once was a man from Quebec
Who wanted to be king of his land
But now he will no longer rule
For he's resting underneath the sand.

His country is now being ruled
Like he would have it to be
And now only his memories stand
He's deep in the beautiful sea.

Beating France
By Frank Kaiser

Oh, the game was played on Sunday
In Kaiser's own back yard
With Kaiser playing halfback
And Garrity playing guard.

Now Kaiser made a touchdown
That beat the team from France
The people in the grandstands
All went into a trance.

My Car
By William Norbits

I used to have a car
It was a Model T
It would only go so far
And the rest was left to me.

It would only go so fast
And that was very slow
I burnt a gallon of gas
Every mile, or so.

To me my Model T
Was the best car I know
Because it too me
Everywhere I'd go.

Just the same, I sold her
A month or so ago
To an old farmer
That I didn't know

McGreader's Fate
By Joe McGuire

Sand McGreader was out in a boat
The boat turned over and rolled on its back
Sandy fell in and tried to float
And Sandy's remains came home in a hack.

His mothers she wept, his father he cried
His family all wept for him.
All save his own sweet young bride
For she knew not it happened, hanging these on the limb.

His bride was found there before sunset
She had said there was nothing to live for
So she would share with the fate that he met
And now there are two wreaths of flowers, hanging from their cottage door.

New Poems are added as they are discovered, so be sure to check back.