Crossett Boys En Tramp
Written by Frank and Eric Crossett to their sisters probably in the 1880s.
To our dear sisters Marcia, Bessie and Eva, these lines are dedicated.
You remember that morning dear girls when we parted.
We left you in sorrow (or was it in bed) ?
And off on the road for employment we started.
Though we
felt quite down hearted twas but little we
said.
Our
destination the Electric City.
They called
it Scranton in days of old.
The home of
the Welch maid bright and pretty,
The
billygoat and the miner bold.
We
found no work in this town of blackness
So we raised
our gripsacks and bid her adieu.
And counted
the ties down the valley
To seek
“green fields and pastures new”.
We
wend our way by many a breaker,
By many a
gloomy calm file.
We’ve eaten
the crackers we got from the baker,
And we’ll
have to get “hand outs” until we “strike ile”.
Arriving
at Pittston that town of black diamonds,
We seek but
in vain for the labor we lack.
We are wet
to the knees and as lame as old “Simon”,
As we turn
to the southward and plod down the track.
But
stop! Shall we walk when the coal trains are numerous
?
The bumpers
are wide and conducters asleep.
The very
idea to our minds seems quite humerous,
So upon a
bumper we stealthily creep.
The
whistle blows twice and the bell rings a warning.
The brakeman
sneaks back to his cozy caboose.
We stick to
the berth ‘til the grey dawn of morning
Sneaks over
the hill like the Devil let loose.
But
ere the bright sun has shinned up the horizon
And tinted
the valley a bright rosy red.
A brakeman
ran over the box cars like “pizen”.
And wildly
he waves his black paw o’er his head.
The
whistle blows shrill and the brakes are down- twisted,
And slowly
but surely we come to a stop.
We are loath
to get off but the brakeman insisted,
So down to
the ground with a dull thud we drop.
We
stand on the side track in deep meditation,
And watch
the coal “jimmies” go by one by one.
Therse
vanishing chances are poor consolation.
We’re
heartily wishing our pilgrimage done.
But
why do we linger in bitter reflection ?
We’re
looking for work and we’re bound to succeed.
While forced
on our minds is this sad reflection.
It’s been a
long time since we’ve had a square feed.
We
advance on our way with these brave resolutions,
And soon
Kingston City appears to our view.
But the
bosses dispel our long cherished delusions
For here as
before we find nothing to do.
To
Wilkes-Barre next like two wandering “Hindoos”,
We seek for
the man that has money to loan.
Our tool box
now graces a pawn broker’s window,
And we’re
off again for a job cutting stone.
And
so we proceed from one town to another.
We hold down
the bumpers our passage to beat
We stick to
each other like brother to brother,
And dodge
round the boxcars our forms to secrete.
The
long shadows creep o’er the dark rolling river,
The jagged
rocks frown from the mountains above.
The December
winds cause us poor tramps to shiver,
And we think
of the dear ones at home that we love.
We
think what we did with our last summer’s wages.
We know how
to use the first money we get.
We think of
the truth handed down from dark ages,
We must
either have grub or go hungry to s__t.
And
thus ruminating we pass through Shickshinney
Bloomsburg,
Dansville, and Northumberland town.
But before
we proceed on our way to Virginia,
We will
spend a few hours in looking around.
For
the hours that we spend we get poor consolation
As we walk
round the town we are hungry and cold.
We try to
explain our true situation,
But remember
the half will never be told.
You
may sit by your fireside and read this effusion,
You may give
us your sympathy deep and sincere,
And we have
no doubt in your chamber’s seclusion
You will
shed for your brothers a sorrowful tear.
But
you cannot know of the hardships and trials
The sad
disappointments and heartless rebuffs
The asking
for work and repeated denials
A poor devil
gets when they have help enough.
But
I fear we are making too sad an impression,
So now we’ll
return to the thread of our tale.
Your pardon
we’ll crave for this doleful digression,
And keep to
our course like a ship under sail.
By
freight and express to our next destination,
The capitol
city of the Keystone State.
At the
Hummelstown quarries and other locations,
We’re about
three months early or ditto too late.
We
curse our bad luck to dad-gusted blank-nation,
While a new
resolution within us is born.
The sweet
sunny south seems our only salvation,
So we take a
free ride in a boxcar of corn.
We
take to this berth like a duck to the water,
And dine off
the cargo and think ourselves rich.
We pass
Christmas eve in these elaborate quarters,
And soon
find ourselves stopped on a Baltimore switch.
T’was
a long dreary night not o’er burdened with
pleasure.
We rise from
our couch with a cold in the head.
Our
innermost cravings we still in a measure
Appeasing
our hunger by eating our bed.
Oh,
Blessed be the fate that has turned our steps hither.
Dame fortune
has smiled on our efforts at last.
When hopes
of success in our hearts seemed to wither,
A job we
obtained and our wanderings are past.
We
are now in a boarding house quite systematic,
And three
times a day we fill up our crop.
And now that
we find that we’re no longer poetic,
We lay down
our pen and suddenly stop.