| |
| WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder ’s in the shock, | |
| And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock, | |
| And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens, | |
| And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; | |
| O it ’s then ’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best, | 5 |
| With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, | |
| As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, | |
| When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder ’s in the shock. | |
| |
| They ’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere | |
| When the heat of summer ’s over and the coolin’ fall is here— | 10 |
| Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, | |
| And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees; | |
| But the air ’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze | |
| Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days | |
| Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock— | 15 |
| When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder ’s in the shock. | |
| |
| The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, | |
| And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; | |
| The stubble in the furries—kindo’ lonesome-like, but still | |
| A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; | 20 |
| The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; | |
| The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!— | |
| O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock, | |
| When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder ’s in the shock. | |
| |
