The following poem was authored by my grandmother's brother Bramwell Quinton of Charleston, and sent to me by Neal Tremblett. It was printed in The Clarenville Packet, page 18, on September 18, 1980.

Deserted Old Homestead

One evening I wandered not long ago
To the site of a homestead, I once used to know.
As I stood there and gazed on the ravage of time
Memories of years past came into my mind.

Here once lived a family so well known to me
Five boys and three girls, there were all glad to see.
For they were my cousins and how often we'd play
As the summer sun shone on the sweet scented hay.

The father and mother how hard they did work
To carve out that homestead no task did shirk.
For the forest extended right down to the sea
In them pioneer days, oh how hard it must be.

But their dauntless spirit helped them to succeed
And before very long ground was ready for seed.
As I stood there and thought on them days long ago
Of the fun and enjoyment we there used to know.

The fields of potatoes they then used to sow
In fancy I see them when they used to grow.
I can still hear the calves as they bawled load and clear
Each day when for milking the cows would appear.

The horse had its place in them faraway days
For pulling the plough and in winter the sleighs.
The boys helped their father from daylight till dark
The girls helped with housework, they all did their part.

But long years has passed since them days long ago
For the cruel and of time have caused it to be so.
Now lonely you stand as you gaze all around
And think on past years which can never be found.

Not one of that family is living today
From this earth and its troubles they have all passed away.
One son fell in battle on faraway shore
The rest are departed to see home no more.

The trees have encroached on that field once so green
No trace of the fences can nowhere be seen.
That once pleasant home with its children so gay
Has crumbled and vanished as the years passed away.

It's sad to look back on the years that's gone by
And think on kind friend that once gave so much joy.
How lonely the wind as it sighs in the trees
And you feel the low murmur of the soft summer breeze.

There's a giant old pine tree it stands tall and proud
By the edge of a meadow near a brook rippling loud.
If that tree could talk what a record we'd know
Of that deserted old homestead so long long ago!

                Bramwell B. Quinton
                Charleston, B.B.

Above inspired from a visit to a deserted farm at Charleston, B.B.

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Last Modified: Saturday, 19-Jun-1999 19:12:59 NDT