A Poem about Malachi SCOTT

SCOTT, MURRAY, CASE, LEGGET, HUFSTUTTER, NELPER, WELCH, KIRK

Posted By: Joey Stark
Date: 6/14/2006 at 12:17:13

"Jefferson County Republican", Feb. 10, 1911, Pg. 4, Col. 2

Read the reminiscences of Malachi SCOTT in this issue by "Bill" MURRAY, the scribe. It is a quaint production. Page 5.

A SKETCH OF MALACHI AND HIS SHOP
By W. B. MURRAY

In this old town in former years, We knew among the pioneers --
A smith who tried always to do, His work the very best he knew.
The people called him Malachi, His other name they'd pass it by
All kinds of work he'd undertake, And what he tried he'd always make.
"I can't", I never heard him use. I never saw him have the blues,
And when a job was intricate, He never kicked nor made debate;
He'd think, then shuck his coat and vest, And sail right in and do his best.
He's always do with honest pride, The jobs that others turned aside.
He'd point a plow or mend a hoe, And make a crippled thrasher go.
And when he had no proper tool To do a job by common rule,
He'd turn his hand and make one new, That would the job far better do.
He made a rig to work with tread, To swing with power his heavy sledge;
And thus he did his heavy striking -- A grand success, just to his liking.
When wagon tire got loose on rim, He soon would put the wheel in trim,
The tire he did not cut and weld, He had a way that far excelled,
He made himself, a rig to shrink A red-hot tire as quick as wink.
These traits of skill enlarged his trade, While other smiths sat in the shade.
You'd hear his anvil ring all day From early morn till evening gray,
And hear his bellows puff and blow, Which kept the coals in forge aglow,
And when the iron was sizzling hot, He quickly from the fire brought
And then the red-hot scales would fly From every hammer stroke, that's why At (All?) barefoot boys would shy.

His shop was one that Charley Van Had built -- an early blacksmith man --
The frame from white oak trees was hewed And never was again renewed.
And there for sixty years it stood, An old landmark in neighborhood.
At first this shop was painted red; In one decade this color fled.
It never had a coat again; But stood through snow and sleet and rain
And braved this elemental war, Till Malachi had crossed the bar.
I saw his shop a while before He launched his bark from earthly shore.
Decay had claimed the underpin, The roof was patched with scraps of tin, The oak pole rafters bending in,
The sides were warped and leaning out. Decay was plain all round about.
The constant gnawing tooth of time, Had left its daily mark of grime.
Inside the frame was braced and stayed With rods, to make it safe, he said,
Until he laid his hammer down, No more to strike in Fairfield town.
His hands were callous, scarred and sear, By handling iron from year to year.
His wrinkled cheeks were like the tan, A sequence of his forge-wrought span.
His brow was wet with honest sweat, Physique that shocks and knocks had met.
His naked, swarthy hammer arm, Defied the red-hot sparks to harm.
Clean through were holes in floor boards Around the anvil block and forge;
The block was burnt and stood askew, The bellows showed hard usage too;
The lever, black and smooth and bent. With ups and downs its life had spent;
The end where callous hands had gripped Was a native cow-horn tipped.
His forge, a primitive affair, Show'd years of constant wear and tear.
His flue, like Pisa's Leaning Tower, Looked like, might tumble any hour.
His window smoked a dismal hue, A sickly lurid light let through.
The shutter hinges groaned and creaked With every gust of wind that tweaked.
His leather apron, black and old, Bore marks of burning sparks untold.
The big old door now hung awry, Through cracks the wind swept whining by,
Like banshee's doleful death-wail cry; An omen someone soon would die.
I shuddered -- breathed a pent-up sigh, And looked askance at Malachi.
I said, "These freaks are quaint and queer, Old time is on a fierce career, All things are moving toward the bier."
I then remarked, "This shop and you, Must bid quite soon, this world adieu;
Your earthly race is almost run, You both will reach the goal as one;
You're near the end of final lap, And 'neck-and-neck', no sign of gap."
And so it came to pass, the day That Malachi was laid away, The grim old shop was closed for aye.
In ninety-four death set him free, His span was four score years and three.

Now Malachi had five grown sons, And Aaron was the oldest one,
He worked in shop with Malachi; But Aaron would sometimes defy,
The way his father did his work; For Aaron was inclined to shirk.
And when small boys came in to see, Them work the red hot iron, and see
The big old bellows roar; He'd scold and chase them out of door.
To see them round, it make him mad. One day he kicked and cuffed a lad.
His father, for that bit of sport, Had Aaron tried in CASE's court,
And LEGGETT then a new fledged lawyer, Showed up his power as legal warrior.
But Aaron plead his case himself, To save a wad of hard earned pelf
When LEGGETT legal questions plied, Bold Aaron answered back with pride.
He had his father take the stand, And then he spoke with pompous brand:
"What is your name? Now answer straight." "It's Malachi, you bold ingrate."
"Now now back talk. How old are you?" "You know, I'm fifty-one and two."
"What is your occupation now?" "A better smith than you, I vow."
Now all this time old Malachi Was hot, he showed it in his eye.
"Where is your place of business, sir?" -- The old man's bones began to stir.
He leaped from chair on which he "sot" And yelled "Now Aaron, stod (stop?) this rot."
He shook his fist in Aaron's face, And said "You know too well my place.
I know you've not forgot about The many times I've kicked you out."
He used some other words not new, That in this sketch I must eschew.
The squire stopped the family row, And said "You answer questions now."
But Aaron lost, and went to jail, No one would go upon his bail.
Old Malachi was not inclined, To quarrel and fight, or sought to find.
He had a nature frank and free, A kindly way in fair degree.
But when he knew his way was right, He'd hold his place with all his might, E'en though it ended in a fight.
He would not cringe or comprimise, A sycophant he did despise.
He'd argue Scripture with a vim, And anyone who tackled him,
Soon learned he'd read the Holy Book, And in its pages interest took;
But not to learn the saving truth, But more to find some words, forsooth,
With which to meet an argument, Advanced by some bellipotent.
"Soul Sleeper's" views he held unto, While other creeds he did eschew.

I here must introduce a fact That Malachi did help enact.
The time -- The days of Civil War, The people came, from near and far,
To town, to hear the latest news From seat of war, and air their views.
It was the home-guards muster day, A copper-head wrenched away
A musket from a stripling guard; These chaps old Malachi abhorred.
He said "You give that musket back, Or I will land you on your back."
He did, but then began to splutter. He was a "bully" named HUFSTUTTER.
He shook his fist at Malachi And called him Abolition Spy.
"You are the chap I'm looking 'fur', I guess I'll fix you now right 'hur'."
The old man looked him in the eye, And said "Are you prepared to die?"
He did not bluff, not did not "hike" When "bully" made a move to strike,
That good old hammer arm shot out And landed upon his 'snout',
Another knocked him off his feet, And laid him out upon the street.
When he "came to" and looked around, He hear a sly sarcastic sound, "I guess you who's fixed right 'hur'."

Our hero was no partisan, He sought the best for fellow-man.
He was a Abolitionist, Of deepest hue, and soundest test.
He studied Rowen NELPER's book, And lively interest always took,
In freedom of the slave-bound race, Which was, he said, a deep disgrace,
To this, our boasted Government, To Freedom's cause his voice he lent.
He differed from the common herd, He did not break his promised word.
He never took a college course; But possessed a vast resource
Of knowledge of the world's great acts, From which he gleaned to prove his facts,
While upon the anvil wrought, His mind was working out some thought,
With which to clinch some argument, With pessimistic malcontent.
He always looked on brightest side, And stood for truth and right with pride.
He filled a useful place while here, In many ways he had no peer.

He liked to have a wrestling bout For fun, but seldom got laid out.
He proved to be no mean athlete, For those who tried will not forget.
Now Malachi had hinted 'round That he could lay upon the ground
John WELCH, another pioneer, Who was in weight and years his peer.
One day when WELCH was in the shop, He said "Let's have a little flop And see who will come out on top."
WELCH laid him twice upon his back -- "It cannot be I've lost my knack,
We'll try again some other day, I'll turn the scales the other way."
He seldom dropped his daily work, Although sometimes with Eli KIRK
He'd stop and have an hour's lark, On Crow Creek shooting at a mark.

ENVOY
He had a hobby. Who has not? It was his burning daily thought.
His hobby was a constant plea To have the southern slave set free.
When Lincoln signed the great decree, Our hero held a jubilee.
He heard the clanking shackles fall, No more this trodden race to gall.
His bosom swelled with honest pride, -- He'd worked and fought on humane side,
And brainless sneer and jeers defied. Brave deeds! They'll live beyond the tide;
And justly reap enduring fame, And wreathe a halo 'round his name.
In land of everlasting peace, Where sighs and falling tears shall cease,
And love abounds the realm o'er Where clanking chains are heard no more.

*Transcribed for genealogy purposes; I have no relation to the person(s) mentioned.