A vice that gets worse as I get older.....

My love of old-fashioned sentimental light verse 🙂

Thanksgiving
(Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959)

Gettin‰Ûª together to smile an‰Ûª rejoice,
An‰Ûª eatin‰Ûª an‰Ûª laughin‰Ûª with folks of your choice;
An‰Ûª kissin‰Ûª the girls an‰Ûª declarin‰Ûª that they
Are growin‰Ûª more beautiful day after day;
Chattin‰Ûª an‰Ûª braggin‰Ûª a bit with the men,
Buildin‰Ûª the old family circle again;
Livin‰Ûª the wholesome an‰Ûª old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother‰Ûªs a little bit grayer, that‰Ûªs all.
Father‰Ûªs a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an‰Ûª to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin‰Ûª our stories as women an‰Ûª men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we‰Ûªre grateful an‰Ûª glad to be there.
Home from the east land an‰Ûª home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an‰Ûª best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We‰Ûªve come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an‰Ûª be frank,
Forgettin‰Ûª position an‰Ûª station an‰Ûª rank.

Give me the end of the year an‰Ûª its fun
When most of the plannin‰Ûª an‰Ûª toilin‰Ûª is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin‰Ûª with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An‰Ûª I‰Ûªll put soul in my Thanksgivin‰Ûª prayers.

An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving
(Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959)

It may be I am getting old and like too much to dwell
Upon the days of bygone years, the days I loved so well;
But thinking of them now I wish somehow that I could know
A simple old Thanksgiving Day, like those of long ago,
When all the family gathered round a table richly spread,
With little Jamie at the foot and grandpa at the head,
The youngest of us all to greet the oldest with a smile,
With mother running in and out and laughing all the while.

It may be I'm old-fashioned, but it seems to me to-day
We're too much bent on having fun to take the time to pray;
Each little family grows up with fashions of its own;
It lives within a world itself and wants to be alone.
It has its special pleasures, its circle, too, of friends;
There are no get-together days; each one his journey wends,
Pursuing what he likes the best in his particular way,
Letting the others do the same upon Thanksgiving Day.

I like the olden way the best, when relatives were glad
To meet the way they used to do when I was but a lad;
The old home was a rendezvous for all our kith and kin,
And whether living far or near they all came trooping in
With shouts of "Hello, daddy!" as they fairly stormed the place
And made a rush for mother, who would stop to wipe her face
Upon her gingham apron before she kissed them all,
Hugging them proudly to her breast, the grownups and the small.

Then laughter rang throughout the home, and, Oh, the jokes they told;
From Boston, Frank brought new ones, but father sprang the old;
All afternoon we chatted, telling what we hoped to do,
The struggles we were making and the hardships we'd gone through;
We gathered round the fireside. How fast the hours would fly--
It seemed before we'd settled down 'twas time to say good-bye.
Those were the glad Thanksgivings, the old-time families knew
When relatives could still be friends and every heart was true.

The Pumpkin
BY JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored,
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin,‰ÛÓour lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!