Robert Kirkland Kernighan

(25 April 1854 – 3 November 1926 / Ontario)

Draw Up To The Fire - Poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan

Draw up to the fire, stranger ;
You can't go out on a day like this,
When the drifts are high an the blizzards hiss ;
Yer comfortabler with us, I wis

Stranger, draw up to the fire.

Dinner '11 be ready in half a minute ;
Th old woman 's bilin the half er a ham,
'N thurs turmots, 'n cabbage, 'n taters, 'n jam ;
Load up the stove with hickory, Sam-
Stranger, draw up to the fire.

Jim, hang up the gentleman's overcoat ;
Ye come from the city I see, like 's not
Yer welcome to stay an share what we Ve got.
Mother, what's that bubblin top of the pot?
Dumplins ? Dumplins !

Stranger, draw up to the fire.

Kind o hard weather fer March, ain't it?
I pities the poor folk in town, say I,
With pork, 'n pertaters, 'n coals so high.
Mother, is that custurd er punkin that sorrel pie ?

Punkin? Pimkin !
Stranger, draw up to the fire.


I was warmed and fed in that grand old kitchen ;
They tucked me up as I went away,
And I felt as I drove thro' the winter day,
The heartiest words a man can say

Are, ' Stranger, draw up to the fire.'

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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, May 9, 2012

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