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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420430" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Abram Morrison</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Midst the men and things which will<br>Haunt an old man's memory still,<br>Drollest, quaintest of them all,<br>With a boy's laugh I recall<br>Good old Abram Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When the Grist and Rolling Mill<br>Ground and rumbled by Po Hill,<br>And the old red school-house stood<br>Midway in the Powow's flood,<br>Here dwelt Abram Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From the Beach to far beyond<br>Bear-Hill, Lion's Mouth and Pond,<br>Marvellous to our tough old stock,<br>Chips o' the Anglo-Saxon block,<br>Seemed the Celtic Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mudknock, Balmawhistle, all<br>Only knew the Yankee drawl,<br>Never brogue was heard till when,<br>Foremost of his countrymen,<br>Hither came Friend Morrison;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yankee born, of alien blood,<br>Kin of his had well withstood<br>Pope and King with pike and ball<br>Under Derry's leaguered wall,<br>As became the Morrisons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Wandering down from Nutfield woods<br>With his household and his goods,<br>Never was it clearly told<br>How within our quiet fold<br>Came to be a Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once a soldier, blame him not<br>That the Quaker he forgot,<br>When, to think of battles won,<br>And the red-coats on the run,<br>Laughed aloud Friend Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">From gray Lewis over sea<br>Bore his sires their family tree,<br>On the rugged boughs of it<br>Grafting Irish mirth and wit,<br>And the brogue of Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Half a genius, quick to plan,<br>Blundering like an Irishman,<br>But with canny shrewdness lent<br>By his far-off Scotch descent,<br>Such was Abram Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Back and forth to daily meals,<br>Rode his cherished pig on wheels,<br>And to all who came to see<br>'Aisier for the pig an' me,<br>Sure it is,' said Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Simple-hearted, boy o'er-grown,<br>With a humor quite his own,<br>Of our sober-stepping ways,<br>Speech and look and cautious phrase,<br>Slow to learn was Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Much we loved his stories told<br>Of a country strange and old,<br>Where the fairies danced till dawn,<br>And the goblin Leprecaun<br>Looked, we thought, like Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or wild tales of feud and fight,<br>Witch and troll and second sight<br>Whispered still where Stornoway<br>Looks across its stormy bay,<br>Once the home of Morrisons.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">First was he to sing the praise<br>Of the Powow's winding ways;<br>And our straggling village took<br>City grandeur to the look<br>Of its poet Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All his words have perished. Shame<br>On the saddle-bags of Fame,<br>That they bring not to our time<br>One poor couplet of the rhyme<br>Made by Abram Morrison!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When, on calm and fair First Days,<br>Rattled down our one-horse chaise,<br>Through the blossomed apple-boughs<br>To the old, brown meeting-house,<br>There was Abram Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Underneath his hat's broad brim<br>Peered the queer old face of him;<br>And with Irish jauntiness<br>Swung the coat-tails of the dress<br>Worn by Abram Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Still, in memory, on his feet,<br>Leaning o'er the elders' seat,<br>Mingling with a solemn drone,<br>Celtic accents all his own,<br>Rises Abram Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Don't,' he's pleading, 'don't ye go,<br>Dear young friends, to sight and show,<br>Don't run after elephants,<br>Learned pigs and presidents<br>And the likes!' said Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">On his well-worn theme intent,<br>Simple, child-like, innocent,<br>Heaven forgive the half-checked smile<br>Of our careless boyhood, while<br>Listening to Friend Morrison!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">We have learned in later days<br>Truth may speak in simplest phrase;<br>That the man is not the less<br>For quaint ways and home-spun dress,<br>Thanks to Abram Morrison!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not to pander nor to please<br>Come the needed homilies,<br>With no lofty argument<br>Is the fitting message sent,<br>Through such lips as Morrison's.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Dead and gone! But while its track<br>Powow keeps to Merrimac,<br>While Po Hill is still on guard,<br>Looking land and ocean ward,<br>They shall tell of Morrison!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">After half a century's lapse,<br>We are wiser now, perhaps,<br>But we miss our streets amid<br>Something which the past has hid,<br>Lost with Abram Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gone forever with the queer<br>Characters of that old year<br>Now the many are as one;<br>Broken is the mould that run<br>Men like Abram Morrison.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420430" data-title="Abram Morrison de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="'Midst the men and things which will
Haunt an old man's memory still,
Drollest, quaintest of them all,
With a boy's laugh I recall
Good old Abram Morrison.

When the Grist and Rolling Mill
Ground and rumbled by Po Hill,
And the old red school-hous..."></div>
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