The Buckwheat Cake

The winter days are comin’,

     They’ll git here by an’ by;

An’ then we’ll all be wishin’

     ‘Twuz long about July.

But they’s a silver linin’

     To help us stand the shock;

When frost is on the shingles

     The buckwheats are in stock.

It’s hard to git up mornin’s

     When ev’rything is bleak;

Jack Frost is in the bedroom

     To give your toes a tweak.

You blame the winter weather

     An’ want to strike the clock;

But frost is on the shingles

     An' buckwheats are in stock.

You know thet in the kitchen

     Behind the smould’ring range

There is an old stone pitcher

     That may look passin’ strange,

You know that in the pitcher

     That’s had a goodly knock

There is the buckwheat raisin’s,

     That make the griddle stock.

An' so you face the music

     An' hustle down below

An' git the fire a-drawin’

     An’ dance a heel an’ toe!

O, tain’t so bad in winter

     When mother, in her frock,

Is round the stove a-fryin’

     The buckwheat griddle stock.

Oct. 18, ‘10