John Greenleaf Whittier (1807–1892). The Poetical Works in Four Volumes. 1892.
Poems Subjective and ReminiscentAbram Morrison
’M
Haunt an old man’s memory still,
Drollest, quaintest of them all,
With a boy’s laugh I recall
Good old Abram Morrison.
Ground and rumbled by Po Hill,
And the old red school-house stood
Midway in the Powow’s flood,
Here dwelt Abram Morrison.
Bear-Hill, Lion’s Mouth and Pond,
Marvellous to our tough old stock,
Chips o’ the Anglo-Saxon block,
Seemed the Celtic Morrison.
Only knew the Yankee drawl,
Never brogue was heard till when,
Foremost of his countrymen,
Hither came Friend Morrison;
Kin of his had well withstood
Pope and King with pike and ball
Under Derry’s leaguered wall,
As became the Morrisons.
With his household and his goods,
Never was it clearly told
How within our quiet fold
Came to be a Morrison.
That the Quaker he forgot,
When, to think of battles won,
And the red-coats on the run,
Laughed aloud Friend Morrison.
Bore his sires their family tree,
On the rugged boughs of it
Grafting Irish mirth and wit,
And the brogue of Morrison.
Blundering like an Irishman,
But with canny shrewdness lent
By his far-off Scotch descent,
Such was Abram Morrison.
Rode his cherished pig on wheels,
And to all who came to see:
“Aisier for the pig an’ me,
Sure it is,” said Morrison.
With a humor quite his own,
Of our sober-stepping ways,
Speech and look and cautious phrase,
Slow to learn was Morrison.
Of a country strange and old,
Where the fairies danced till dawn,
And the goblin Leprecaun
Looked, we thought, like Morrison.
Witch and troll and second sight
Whispered still where Stornoway
Looks across its stormy bay,
Once the home of Morrisons.
Of the Powow’s winding ways;
And our straggling village took
City grandeur to the look
Of its poet Morrison.
On the saddle-bags of Fame,
That they bring not to our time
One poor couplet of the rhyme
Made by Abram Morrison!
Rattled down our one-horse chaise,
Through the blossomed apple-boughs
To the old, brown meeting-house,
There was Abram Morrison.
Peered the queer old face of him;
And with Irish jauntiness
Swung the coat-tails of the dress
Worn by Abram Morrison.
Leaning o’er the elders’ seat,
Mingling with a solemn drone,
Celtic accents all his own,
Rises Abram Morrison.
Dear young friends, to sight and show,
Don’t run after elephants,
Learned pigs and presidents
And the likes!” said Morrison.
Simple, child-like, innocent,
Heaven forgive the half-checked smile
Of our careless boyhood, while
Listening to Friend Morrison!
Truth may speak in simplest phrase;
That the man is not the less
For quaint ways and home-spun dress,
Thanks to Abram Morrison!
Come the needed homilies,
With no lofty argument
Is the fitting message sent,
Through such lips as Morrison’s.
Powow keeps to Merrimac,
While Po Hill is still on guard,
Looking land and ocean ward,
They shall tell of Morrison!
We are wiser now, perhaps,
But we miss our streets amid
Something which the past has hid,
Lost with Abram Morrison.
Characters of that old year!
Now the many are as one;
Broken is the mould that run
Men like Abram Morrison.