Ef You Don’t Watch Out!
Anne Hills sings the poems of James Whitcomb Riley
Lyrics: James Whitcomb Riley (1849-1916), adapt. by Anne Hills
Melodies: Anne Hills
For a printable version of the lyrics, click HERE.
Musicians
Vocals, guitar, banjo, slide whistle, garden weasel: Anne Hills
Piano, mandolin, guitar, bass: Scott Petito
Violin: Sara Milanovich
Concertina, Accordion: Cindy Mangsen
Melodeon: Peter Vitalone
Percussion: Sam Zuchinni
Additional vocals on tracks 2,3,7 & 8: Cindy Mangsen & Priscilla Herdman
The Songs
1. A Voice from the Farm
2. Little Orphant Annie
3. When the Frost is on the Punkin
4. The Raggedy Man
5. The Lugubrious Whing-Whang
6. The Little Coat
7. Lullaby
8. Nine Little Goblins
9. Down on Wriggle Crick
10. There Was a Cherry Tree
All songs copyrighted © 2007 Anne Hills / Raven Heart Music / ASCAP
A VOICE FROM THE FARM
It is my dream to have you here with me,
Out of the heated city’s dust and din
Here where the colts have room to gambol in,
And kine to graze, in clover to the knee.
I want to see your wan face happily
Lit with the wholesome smiles that have not been
In use since the old games you used to win
When we pitched horseshoes: And I want to be
At utter loaf with you in this dim land
Of grove and meadow, while crickets make
Our own talk tedious, and the bat wields
His bulky flight, as we cease converse and
In the dusk like velvet smoothly take
Our way toward home across the dewy fields.
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LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE
The character of Little Orphant Annie was modeled after Mary Alice Smith who lived with the Riley family in 1863.
Little Orphant Annie’s come to our house to stay,
An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ brush the crumbs away,
An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep,
An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, an’ earn her board-an’-keep;
An’ all us other childern, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an’ has the mostest fun
A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ‘at Annie tells about,
An’ the Gobble-uns ‘at gits you
Ef you don’t watch out!
Onc’t they was a little boy wouldn’t say his prayers –
So when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An’ when they turn’t the kivvers down, he wasn’t there at all!
An’ they seeked him in the rafter-room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press,
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an’ ever’wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found was thist his pants an’ roundabout:
An’ the gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you don’t watch out!
An’ one time a little girl ‘ud allus laugh an’ grin,
An’ make fun of ever’ one, an’ all her blood an’ kin;
An’ onc’t, when they was "company," an’ ole folks was there,
She mocked ‘em an’ shocked ‘em, an’ said she didn’t care!
An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ turn’t to run an’ hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things (shadders) a-standin’ by her side,
An’ they snatched her through the ceilin’ ‘fore she knowed what she’s about!
An’ the gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you don’t watch out!
An’ little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An’ the lamp-wick sputters, an’ the wind goes woo-oo!
An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ the moon is gray,
An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all squenched away,—
You better mind yer parents, an’ yer teachers fond an’ dear,
An’ churish them ‘at loves you, an’ dry the orphant’s tear,
An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ‘at clusters all about,
Er the gobble-uns’ll git you
Ef you don’t watch out!
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WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
One of Riley’s best-loved poems.
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,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, 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 atmosfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here –
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms 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 –
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;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below – the clover over-head! –
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!
Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too; –
I don’t know how to tell it – but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me –
I’d want to ‘commodate ’em – all the whole-indurin’ flock –
When the frost is on the punkin’ and the fodder’s in the shock!
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THE RAGGEDY MAN
O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ‘em hay;
An’ he opens the shed – an’ we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An’ nen – ef our hired girl says he can –
He milks the cow fer ’Lizbuth Ann.
Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W’y, the Raggedy Man – he’s ist so good
He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood
An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,
An’ does most things ‘at boys can’t do! –
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me
An’ nother ‘n’, too, fer ’Lizbuth Ann,
An’ nother’n’, too, fer the Raggedy Man.
Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An’ the Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An’ tells ‘em ef I be good sometimes:
Knows ‘bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,
An’ Squidgicum-Squees ‘at swallers therselves!
An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me a hole ‘at the Wunks is got
‘At lives ‘way deep in the ground,
An’ can turn into me, er ’Lizbuth Ann
Aint he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
An’ wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late,
An’ pigs ist root’ thue the garden-gate,
He ‘tend like the pigs uz bears an’ said,
“Old Bear-shooter’ll shoot ‘em dead!”
An’ race’ and chase’ ‘em, an’ they’d ist run
When he pint his hoe at ‘em like it’s a gun
An’ go “Bang! – Bang!” nen ‘tend he stan’
He’s an’ old Bear-shooter Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man – one time when he wuz
Makin’ a little bow-’n’-orry fer me,
Says, “When you’re big like your Pa is,
Air you go’ to keep a fine store like his –
An’ be a rich merchunt – an’ wear fine clothes?
Er’ what air you go’ to be, goodness knows?”
An’ nen he laughed at ’Lizbuth Ann an’ I says
“’M go’ to be a Raggedy Man!
I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
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THE LUGUBRIOUS WHING-WHANG
The rhyme o’ the Raggedy Man’s ‘at’s best
Is Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs,
‘Cause that-un’s the strangest of all o’ the rest,
An’ the worst to learn, an’ the last one guessed,
An’ the funniest one, an’ the foolishest.
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs.
I don’t know what in the world it means
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
An’ nen when I tell him I don’t, he leans
Like he was a-grindin’ on some machines
An’ says: Ef I don’t, w’y, i don’t know beans!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Out on the margin of Moonshine Land,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Out where the Whing-Whang loves to stand,
Writing his name with his tail in the sand,
And swiping it out with his oogerish hand;
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Is it the gibber of Gungs or Keeks?
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Or what is the sound that the Whing-Whang seeks?
Crouching low by the winding creeks
And holding his breath for weeks and weeks!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
Aroint him him the wraithiest of wraithly things!
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
‘Tis a fair Whing-Whangess, with phosphor rings,
And bridal-jewels of fangs and stings;
And she sits and as sadly and softly sings
As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings,
Tickle me Dear,
Tickle me here,
Tickle me, Love, in these Lonesome Ribs!
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THE LITTLE COAT
“In all genuine poetry there is a poignant quality that strikes to the center of the human heart, and quivers there and thrills us through and through with gentler emotions, higher purposes and yearnings to be better than we are.” JWR
Roundabout - a jacket worn by boys, sailors and others (U.S.) -- From the 1886 Webster’s Dictionary
Here’s his ragged “roundabout” ...
Turn the pockets inside-out:
See; his penknife lost to use,
Rusted shut with apple juice;
Here, with marbles, top and string
Is his deadly “devil’s sling,”
With its rubber, limp at last
As the sparrows of the past!
Beeswax-buckles-leatherstraps
Bullets (BBs), and a box of caps
Not a thing of (at) all, I guess,
But betrays some waywardness
(E’en these tickets, blue and red,
For the Bible-verses said
Such as this his mem’ry kept
“Jesus wept.”)
Here’s a fishing hook-and-line,
Tangled up with wire and twine,
And dead angle-worms, and some
Slugs of lead and chewing gum,
Blent with scents that can but come
From the oil of rhodium,
Here-a soiled, yet dainty note,
That some little sweetheart wrote,
Dotting – “Vine grows round the stump,”
And “My sweetest sugar lump!”
Wrapped in this – a padlock key
Where he’s filed a touch hole-see!
(And some powder in a quill
Corked up with a liver pill;
And a spongy little chunk
Of “punk.”)
Here’s the little coat – but O!
Where is he we’ve censored so!
Don’t you hear us calling dear?
Back! come back, and never fear
You may wander where you will,
Over orchard, field and hill;
You may kill (hunt) the birds, or do
Anything that pleases you!
Ah, this empty coat of his!
Every tatter worth a kiss;
Every stain as pure instead
As the white stars overhead:
And the pockets – homes were they
Of the little hands that play
Now no more – but, absent, thus
Beckon us!
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LULLABY
The maple strews the embers of its leaves (baby-bye)
O’er the laggard swallows nestled ‘neath the eaves; (baby-bye)
The moody cricket falters in its cry–Baby-bye!
And the lid of night is falling o’er the sky–Baby-bye!
The lid of night is falling o’er the sky!
The rose is lying pallid, and the cup (baby-bye)
Of the frosted calla-lily folded up; (baby-bye)
And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh–Baby-bye!
O’er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie–Baby-bye!
O’er the sleeping blooms of summer where they lie!
Yet, baby--O, my Baby for your sake (baby-bye)
This heart of mine is ever wide awake, (baby-bye)
And my love may never droop a drowsy eye–Baby-bye!
Till your own are wet above me when I die–Baby-bye!
Till your own are wet above me when I die.
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NINE LITTLE GOBLINS
They all climbed up on the high board fence
Nine little Goblins with green-glass eyes
Nine little Goblins that had no sense
And couldn’t tell coppers from cold mince pies;
And they all climbed up on the fence and sat
And I asked them what they were staring at.
And the first one said, as he scratched his head
With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear
And rasped its claws on his hair so red
This is what this little arm is fer
And he scratched and stared and the next one said
How on earth do you scratch your head?
And he laughed like a screech of a rusty hinge
Laughed and laughed til his face turned black;
And when he choked, with a final twinge
Of his stifling laughter, he thunped his back
With a fist that grew on the end of his tail
Till his breath came back to his lips so pale.
And the third little Goblin leered round at me
And there were no lids on his eyes at all
And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he,
“What is the style of your socks this fall?”
And he clapped his hands – and I sighed to see
That he had hands where his feet should be.
Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim,
Bowed his head, and I saw him slip
His eyebrows off, as I looked at him,
And then he moaned in remorseful pain,
“Would, Ah, would I’d me brows again.”
And then the whole of the Goblin band
Rocked on the fence-top to and fro,
And clung, in a long row hand in hand,
Singing the songs that they used to know
Singing the songs that their grandsire
Sung in the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue.
And ever they kept their green-glass eyes
Fixed on me with a stony stare
Till my own grew glazed with dread surmise
And I felt the heart in my breast snap to,
As you’ve heard the lid of a snuff box do.
And they sang “You’re asleep! There is no board-fence,
And never a Goblin with green glass eyes!
‘Tis only a vision the mind invents,
After a supper of cold mince pies
And you’re doomed to dream this way, they said
And you sha’n’t wake up till your clean plum dead.
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DOWN ON WRIGGLE CRICK
“Best time to kill a hog’s when he’s fat.” -- Old Saw
Mostly, folks is law abidin’down on Wriggle Crick
Seein’ they’s no squire residin’ in our baileywick;
No grand juries, suppeenies, Ner no vested rights to pick
Out yer man, jerk up and jail ef he’s outragin’ Wriggle Crick!
Wriggle Crick hain’t got no lawin’, ner no suits to beat
Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin’ like a County-seat;
Hain’t no waitin’ round fer verdicks, ner non-gittin’ witness-fees;
Ner no thiefs ‘at gits “new hearin’s” by some lawyer slick as grease!
Wriggle Crick’s leadin’ spirit is old Johnts Culwell
Keeps post-office, and right near it owns what’s called “The Grand Hotel”
(Warehouse now) - buys wheat and ships it; gits out ties and trades in stock,
And knows all the high-toned drummers ‘Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk.
Last year comes along a feller – sharper ‘an a lance
Stove pipe hat and silk umbreller and a boughten all-wool pants
Tinkerin’ of clocks and watches, says a trial’s all he want
And rents out the tavern office next to Uncle Johnts.
Well, he tacked up his k’dentials and got down to biz
Captured Johnts by cuttin’ stenchils fer them old wheat-sacks o’ his
Fixed his clock, in the post-office – painted fer him, clean and slick
‘Crost his safe in gold leaf letters “J. Culwell’s, Wriggle Crick.”
Any kind o’ job you keered to resk him with and bring,
He’d fix fer you – jes’ appeared to turn his hand to anything!
Rings, er earbobs, er umbrellers – glue a cheer or chany doll,
W’y of all the beatin’ fellers He jes’ beat ‘em all!
Made his friends, but wouldn’t stop there – One mistake he learnt,
That was sleepin’ in his shop there – and one Sunday night it burnt!
Come in one o’ jes’ a sweepin’ all the whole town high and dry
And that feller, when they waked him, suffocatin’, mighty nigh!
Johnts he drug him from the buildin’, he’pless – ‘peared to be
And the women and the childern drenchin’ him with sympathy!
But I noticed Johnts helt on him with a’ extry lovin’ grip,
And the men-folks gathered round him in most warmest pardnership!
That’s the whole mess, grease-and-dopin’! Johnts’s safe was saved
But the lock was found sprang open, and the inside caved.
Was no trial – ner no jury – ner no judge – ner courthouse – click
Circumstances alters cases down on Wriggle Crick!
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THERE WAS A CHERRY TREE
There was a cherry tree. It’s bloomy snows
Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
No more its airy visions of pure joy
As when you were a boy.
There was a cherry tree. The Bluejay set
His blue against its white – O blue as jet
He seemed there then! – but now – Whoever knew
He was so pale a blue.
There was a cherry tree – Our child-eyes saw
The miracle – Its pure white snows did thaw
Into crimson fruitage, far too sweet
But for a boy to eat.
There was a cherry tree, give thanks and joy!
There was a bloom of snow – There was a boy
There was a Bluejay of the realest blue
And fruit for both of you.
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