David Airth
~Poetic Pioneer ~

Verses written by *David AIRTH,
son of Sgt Henry Airth

*BACKWOOD DAYS*

I often think on backwood days,
When scrimp o' meat and scant o'claes,
Wi' naught but tawtees, meal or maize
To fill the wame.
And hard it was the funds to raise
To get the same.

Nae houses then wi' stoves to warm,
But open shanties, like a barn,
While roun' the fire they did a' swarm,
Like hiving bees;
The auld folks whiles would spin a yarn,
The bairns to please.

They could na knit at night, nor spin,
The `oo' was scarce, the light was dim -
Sometimes they'd join a sang to sing,
To pass the time,
Until the shanty wa's would ring
Wi' ranting rhyme.

I've seen the youngsters sair put tae
Wi' hackit feet and legs sae blae -
As through frost and snaw frae day tae day,
They limpt and ran;
And aft for them my heart was wae
When night was cam.

As roun' the chumbly they did creep -
Tired wi' their fun they fell asleep;
But soon were roused to wash their feet,
And sent to bed;
Puir things how they would sab and greet,
Wi' hearts like lead.

How parents for their weans did then,
Folks little nowadays do ken,
To clad them a' frae stern to stem,
Was nae sma' task,
And how they could provide for them,
You weel might ask.

For luxuries they had to want,
They werna fashed wi' folk o' rank;
Nae Trust and Loan nor Merchants Bank
To draw upon;
Yet aye got something I' their thank
To help them on.

I mind it weel, the times were tough,
While folks could hardly get enough,
And what they got was poor and rough,
To make a living;
But for their work they took such stuff
As they were given.

No flouring mills were near to them,
Where they their wheat and corn could send,
Yet tried a' schemes to serve the end,
Wi' patients wills,
They ground a' that they needed then
In coffee mills.

A toilsome job it was at night,
To shell the corn and grind it right -
And poke the fire to raise a light
So they might see;
Each took his turn wi' a' his might,
Baith big an' wee.

For a' their little wants and needs,
They carried on their backs like steeds,
And implements for planting seeds
That they did grow;
The cultivator for the weeds
Then was the hoe.

Nae mowers then to cut the hay,
Nor reapers down the wheat to lay,
Where one could sit the live long day
And tune his whistle,
A kind o' work, or rather play,
That needs no gristle.

Oh, neighbors! They were neighbors then,
Though shy to borrow, free to lend,
Weal ane anithers wants did ken
In times o' need,
In turns their lads and lassies send
To plant the seed.

But men were honest in those days;
Their actions spoke their loudest praise,
They scorned a' mean deceitful ways
To gain their ends,
Nor money would they beg or raise
To ruin friends.

Those pioneers o' whom I write,
Their forms are bent, their heads are white,
And others gone to mansions bright
Beyond the sky.
Where all, I hope, will reunite
With them on high.