Robert Kirkland Kernighan
Butchin Hogs A Farm Idyl - Poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan
They are choppin up the kindlin, an they're fillin up the
The folks hev et thur breakfusts before the break of
Dad is at the grindstone a sharpenin up his metal,
And I Ve me ancient pants on we 're butchin hogs
We 've built a royal gibbet,
Each carcass to exhibit ;
They 'll soon be strung upon it hark ! listen to their toon !
They 'r makin loud appealin,
An most tremendous squealin,
Fur they 've bin starved, a-purpose, since yistiddy at noon.
We 're shuvin in the kindlin to make the water scald ;
The vat is tilted nicely in the middle of the yard,
And in the handy cook-house the wimmen is installed ;
They've scoured the copper kittle fer tryin out the lard.
The nails in all the passages
Air stripped fer hangin sassages,
An best uv all, an lucky, we Ve got a bran-new moon !
The pigs air hungry feelin
No wonder that they 'r squealin,
Fer they 've bin starved, a-purpose, since yistiddy at noon.
Now everything is ready : ole dad takes up the axe ;
We move upon the pig-pen with sleeves rolled up and
The piggies see us coming, his chops each porker smacks :
Of buttermilk for breakfast each one of them has hopes.
Alas ! no more they 'll fill
Themselves with choicest swill,
Fer soon upon the grocery stoop on high they 'll hold
their legs ;
An they '11 be biled with greens,
Likewise be baked with beans,
Assisted by the poultry, they will furnish ham and eggs.
An now the yells of piggy rend the chill December air ;
We dump him from the pig sty, and souse him with a
We slam him on the platform and strip him of his hair,
An all the yard is full of steam, 'n smoke, 'n hair, 'n
The girls is all excited,
When the carcass it is ' kited,'
And daddy slits its abdomen with strong an stiddy arm ;
An when the night completes it,
There is no job that beats it
This killin fat December hogs upon the dear old farm.
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