Twas a morning late in August on the farm upon the hill, When Mrs. Smith, the busy housewife, put the Deacon through his drill; Said she, "You're going to church this morning, now listen here to me - When the service is over you'll invite the gang to tea." Well, we went to church as usual had lots of time to spare, So I asked the congregation and a lot that wasn't there. Then I hurried home to help a bit and put around the spoons, Dusted the teacups with my handkerchief and peeled the mush-a-roons. When they came, "Now," said the Lady, "and it won't do any harm, For I know they'll all enjoy it. We'll have supper in the barn." I didn't say a single word, but looked up into the skies - Then, "I think," said I, "You'll have trouble with the flies." But now I am well fifty and two things I always shun, One's the business end of hornets and the other's women's tongues. Yet at last the meal was ready and the company sat around, But as they filled their faces we all heard a funny sound. At first it sounded like the wind and then an awful roar; And in less than half a minute, yes, the flies were at the door; There were flies from Abyshogan; there were flies from down the Gulf; And I would not have believed it had I not been there myself. They were there the size of hornets, they were there the size of bees, Bred in Bob MacIvor's whiskers for he wore them to his knees! First they gaggled Charlie Betcher, lugged him out behind the barn, But on close examination, found they'd done the boy no harm. Then a bunch got in the butter and got as you'd suppose, And they wiped their greasy fingers right on Mrs. Glassess's nose. Next the flies up in the rafters, like a cold November's haze Made a dart down to the table straight into the mayonnaise. Nellie Betcher got the fly swat; she waved it good and high - Yes, she landed about a dozen in the middle of a pie! The flies from Abyshogan, getting home before it was dark, As they sauntered down the table, tipped their hats to Mrs. Mark. There was Anna, there was Elsie, there was Henry, slim and tall, Poked their fingers through the doughnuts and they ate them flies and all! Well at last the meal was ended; to the house we did proceed, And our conversation drifted to the days of J. O. Reid. Though he has long since departed and he's left this world of woe, Yet of all your funny people there was none compared with Joe. So we talked the old times over until the hour grew very late, When we heard the chugging of a car, 'Twas Harry at the gate. He tucked them in around to take them to their homes Leaving everything as quiet as we were left alone. Frank Smith, 1937
From: Lore of North Cumberland, by Harry R. Brown
Publication Mo. 9, North Cumberland Historical Society (NCHS)
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