When da frost is on the punkin & da fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck & gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock
And the clackin’ of the guineys, & the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, & goes to feed the stock,
When da frost is on the punkin & da fodder’s in the shock.
They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over & the coolin’ fall is here
Course we miss the flowers, & the blossums on the trees,
The mumble of the hummin’ birds & buzzin’ of the bees;
The air’s so appetizin’ & the landscape thru the haze
Of a crisp & sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock
When da frost is on the punkin & da fodder’s in the shock.
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
The raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries, kinda’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, & the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below, the clover over-head
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When da frost is on the punkin & da fodder’s in the shock!
Then your apples all is gethered, & the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red & yeller heaps;
Your cider-makin’s over, & your wimmen folk is through
With their mince & apple-butter, &
theyr souse and saussage, too
I don’t know how to tell it, but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, & they’d call around on me
I’d want to ’commodate ’em, all the whole-indurin’ flock
When frost is on the punkin & da fodder’s in the shock!
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