Many people wrote poetry for The Mailboat newsletter from 1990-92, including Jerry Barton of Harkers Island, N.C. He was best known as an electronics manufacturer who specialized in fish scopes, sextants and other “electronic gadgetry.”
But Jerry Barton also had a way with words. Here’s his “only slightly altered” version of this famous “Down East” dialect Christmas poem, which is preserved in the archives at the Core Sound Waterfowl Museum & Heritage Center on Harkers Island.
Twas the night a’fore Christmas and bright shone the moon, the e only thing stirring was a pot of stewed loon.
The windows were open to air out the place, as for lurking Game Wardens, there was nary a trace.
The roar of an outboard
fell on my ear, to get caught with a loon
quite filled me with fear.
I looked out the window,
what frightened me more were two running lights
headin’ right for my shore.
Who comes to my doorstep
from out of the sea? With my pot full of loon,
I am all set to flee.
The engine choked off;
there was a yell and a thump, it was jolly old Santa
a’ground on a lump.
He pulled on his waders
and stepped off his boat, Next thing he knew, the
water’s up to his throat.
He muttered and grumbled, and I swear that he swore, as he staggered and stumbled out onto the shore.
His sack full of goodies
and gifts for our fun was loaded with water and
weighed near a ton.
He came toward my cottage
to leave off the presents And trod on a nest with
two sleeping pheasants.
They flew from their nest
with a thunder of wings, he fell on his rump and
broke half of his things.
He got to his feet and
dragging his sack, he limped to the landing,
not looking back.
He sputtered and fussed
on the way to his skiff, He hardly could board it
’cause he was so stiff.
The last thing a heard as
he hove out of sight, “hain’t I bin punished
and mommicked this night!”
I wish he had stayed and not left so soon, for I’d a fix him some dodgers and a mess-a stewed loon.
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