Campfire Poems

[OldGreyEagle]

Recently at a winter camp out, I recited the "Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot. The kids loved it. It was a sharp departure from the normal campfire fare. I think another poem that would do well would be Stephen Vincent Benet's "Ballad of William Sycamore". Does anyone have any other favorite poems or songs that do well as verse that would work for a campfire?

[berkshirescouter]

I keep thinking something by Poe might be intresting. but 'Nevermore'

[eisely]

"The Cremation of Sam MaGee" by Robert Service

[FScouter]

"The Cremation of Sam McGee" is a fun poem and perfect for a winter camp. Any of the Jack London short stories are good. "The Law of Life" would be good to illustrate what might happen to a straggler on the trail.

"To Build a Fire" is all about the importance of staying dry, and the difficulties of building a fire.

[OldGreyEagle]

The Cremation of Sam McGee will be perfect for Klondike. Thank you Eisley et al. Great Suggesitons and I will look into all of them

[le Voyageur]

The prelude to Stephen Vincent Benet's "Western Star".

...a small example

 

"Oh, paint your wagons with "Pike's Peak or Bust!"

 

Pack up the fiddle, rosin up the bow,

 

Vamoose, skedaddle, mosey, hit the grit!

 

(We pick our words, like nuggets, for the shine,

 

And, where they didn't fit, we make them fit,

 

Whittling a language out of birch and pine.)

 

We're off for Californ-iay

 

We're off down the wild O-hi-o!

 

And every girl on Natchez bluff

 

Will cry as we go by-o!"

[slontwovvy]

There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold....Gotta love Sam McGee.

 

The Raven by Poe

The Road less traveled by Frost

Some poetry by walt whitman, possibly The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls or somesuch thing.

[Dedicated Dad]

The Wise Old Owl

Author Unknown

 

 

A wise old owl sat in an oak,

The more he heard the less he spoke;

The less he spoke the more he heard.

Why aren't you like that wise old bird?

 

Freedom Isn't Free

I watched the flag pass by one day.

It fluttered in the breeze

A young soldier saluted it, and then

He stood at ease.

I looked at him in uniform

So young, so tall, so proud

With hair cut square and eyes alert

He'd stand out in any crowd.

I thought how many men like him

Had fallen through the years.

How many died on foreign soil?

How many mothers' tears?

How many Pilots' planes shot down?

How many foxholes were soldiers' graves?

No Freedom isn't free

 

I heard the sound of taps one night,

When everything was still.

I listened to the bugler play

And felt a sudden chill.

I wondered just how many times

That taps had meant "Amen"

When a flag had draped a coffin

of a brother or a friend.

I thought of all the children,

Of the mothers and the wives,

Of fathers, sons and husbands

With interrupted lives.

I thought about a graveyard at the

bottom of the sea

Of unmarked graves in Arlington.....

No -- Freedom isn't free!!

 

...Author Unknown

 

 

Paul Revere's Ride

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 

Listen my children and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--

One if by land, and two if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The Somerset, British man-of-war;

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon like a prison bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street

Wanders and watches, with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers,

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade,--

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,

Where the river widens to meet the bay,--

A line of black that bends and floats

On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse's side,

Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle girth;

But mostly he watched with eager search

The belfry tower of the Old North Church,

As it rose above the graves on the hill,

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders that skirt its edge,

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer's dog,

And felt the damp of the river fog,

That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadow brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read

How the British Regulars fired and fled,---

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farmyard wall,

Chasing the redcoats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,---

A cry of defiance, and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo for evermore!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

 

 

 

 

[Dedicated Dad]

 

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost

 

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth; 5

 

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same, 10

 

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back. 15

 

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference. 20

 

 

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT

Dylan Thomas

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

 

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 

 

 

 

 

[sctmom]

Found this online:

 

I Hear America Singing

by Walt Whitman

 

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,

Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,

The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand

singing on the steamboat deck,

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,

The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or

at noon intermission or at sundown,

The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of

the girl sewing or washing,

Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,

The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows,

robust, friendly,

Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

 

[sctmom]

A link to some poems online, lots of classics including some Rudyard Kipling.

 

www.everypoet.com

 

 

I also recently bought a small paperback book called "Classic Poems to Read Aloud".

 

Ah, memories of having to memorize "Annabell Lee" by Poe in 10th grade English.

My sweet, sweet Annabell Lee

 

[Dedicated Dad]

O Captain! My Captain!

by Walt Whitman

 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weatherd every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise upfor you the flag is flungfor you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbond wreathsfor you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

The arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

Youve fallen cold and dead.

 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchord safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won:

Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

 

 

[slontwovvy]

Here's a good one an old commissioner friend of mine once gave me...not sure who wrote it.

 

At Days End

Is anybody happier because you

Passed his way?

Does anyone remember that you

spoke to him today?

 

The day is almost over, and its

Toiling time is through;

Is there anyone to utter now a

kindly word of you?

 

Can you say tonight, in parting,

With the day thats slipping fast,

That you helped a single brother

Of the many that you passed?

 

Is a single heart rejoicing over

What you did or said;

Does the man whose hopes were

Fading, now with courage,

Look ahead?

 

Did you waste the day or lose it?

Was it well or sorely spent?

Did you leave a trail of kindness,

Or a scar of discontent?

 

As you close your eyes in slumber,

Do you think that God will say

You have earned one more

tomorrow by the work you

did today?

 

[slontwovvy]

It works especially well with Scout Vespers or similar songs.

[sctmom]

If

by Rudyard Kipling

 

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,

Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

 

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;

If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster

And treat those two imposters just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,

And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

 

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breath a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";

 

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -

Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,

And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!