Song of the Little Old Rocker
By George Plowman
Here I am, dressed out anew,
In nineteen hundred eight.
Not many of my early chums
Can boast of such a fate.
I’ve helped to soothe the restless child
When the fire was burning bright,
With a ruddy blaze and glowing coals,
By the fireplace at night.
I’ve heard the hum of the spinning wheel
As the housewife made it fly,
While she drew the thread out from the roll
And hummed a lullaby.
I’ve watched the reel, reel off the skein
When the spindle full had got
And listened for the little click,
The signal for the knot.
I’ve seen the skein stretched on the swifts
And the swifts go whirling round
As the quillwheel turned the shuttle’s quill
And the yarn on the quill was wound.
I’ve listened to the noisy loom
Beneath a lowly roof,
While the shuttle through the warp would fly
And the lathe bang up the woof.
This all I’ve seen and heard, and more,
I’ve seen the forest wane,
And by the woodman’s axe to fade
Into a fertile plain.
I’ve rocked the babies now grown old
And the babies they have born
And I’ll be rocking babies still
When Gabriel blows his horn.
The different coats that I have had,
To know would be a shocker,
Though now disguised with Japalac,
I’m Lucy’s same old rocker.