Old Christmas Morning
“Where you coming from, Lomey Carter,
So airly over the snow?
And what’s them pretties you got in your hand,
And where you aiming to go?
“Step in, Honey: Old Christmas morning
I ain’t got nothing much;
Maybe a bite of sweetness and corn bread,
A little ham meat and such,
“But come in, Honey! Sally Anne Barton’s
Hungering after your face.
Wait till I light my candle up:
Set down! There’s your old place.
Now where you been so airly this morning?”
“Graveyard, Sally Anne.
Up by the trace in the salt lick meadows
Where Taulbe kilt my man.”
“Taulbe ain’t to home this morning . . .
I can’t scratch up a light:
Dampness gets on the heads of the matches;
But I’ll blow up the embers bright.”
“Needn’t trouble. I won’t be stopping:
Going a long ways still.”
“You didn’t see nothing, Lomey Carter,
Up on the graveyard hill?”
“What should I see there, Sally Anne Barton?”
“Well, sperits do walk last night.
There were an elder bush a-blooming
While the moon still give some light.”
“Yes, elder bushes, they bloom, Old Christmas,
And critters kneel down in their straw.
Anything else up in the graveyard?
One thing more I saw:
I saw my man with his head all bleeding
Where Taulbe’s shot went through.”
” What did he say?” ” He stooped and kissed me.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Said, Lord Jesus forguv your Taulbe;
But he told me another word;
He said it soft when he stooped and kissed me.
That were the last I heard.”
“Taulbe ain’t to home this morning.”
“I know that, Sally Anne,
For I kilt him, coming down through the meadow
Where Taulbe kilt my man.
“I met him upon the meadow trace
When the moon were fainting fast,
And I had my dead man’s rifle gun
And kilt him as he come past.”
“But I heard two shots.” “‘Twas his was second:
He shot me ‘fore be died:
You’ll find us at daybreak, Sally Anne Barton:
I’m laying there dead at his side.”
—Roy Helton 1885-1977
The poem by Helton reminds me of the many ballads associated with Appalachia. If you’d like to know more about the tradition of Old Christmas go here.
And if you’re interested in learning more about the meaning of the poem you can visit this page.
Last night’s video: My Appalachia , A Memoir 11.
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Being Catholic, we celebrate ‘old Christmas’ as Epiphany; the day the wise men reached the manger & offered their gifts of Gold, Frankincense, & Myrhh. We had a special mass this weekend and the churches are still decorated for Christmas. In our family we leave the tree up past this holiday, whereas most around us throw the tree to the curb the 26th. We actually don’t put our tree up until maybe the 22nd of December so we are not really sick of it by then. (This year I did take it down before Epiphany because our new puppy learned he could drink out of the base & kept tearing the popcorn/ornaments off.) I also move our wise men & camel, in the nativity scene, to the manger on Old Christmas morning. We had a beautiful message in Church about how the shepherds, being the first to arrive, represent the lowly, poor, outcast, downtrodden & the Magi bring up the rear of the procession to Christ. The magi represent the ‘outsiders’, the non-Jewish, being that the message of Christ was for all. We don’t give any gifts on Old Christmas, but we are still in celebratory mood. We still have the decorations, music, special Masses, and catching up with friends that we were too busy to see yet. I keep trying to get my extended family to do our xmas gathering this weekend instead, because it would relieve some of the stress on the 25th. No-go, even though the 6th is also my baby brother’s birthday & we could just celebrate it all (my younger daughter’s b-day is the 27th).
Thanks Tipper, never heard this before, really enjoyed it.
Love this poem! I love the old-timey words and the surprise ending. Thank you for sharing.
Another great blog, Tipper! Thank you, and thank Wallace for news about ‘stumpie’.
Old Christmas is (I think it still is) celebrated by the old Outer Bankers. They have a tradition of Old Buck. I’ll leave to all of you to look it up.
Thank you so much for the Old Christmas purdy of this gem of literature! I so enjoyed reading about the background and Mr. Helton.
Folks mak’ their bogies, gods, an’ deils
In likeness o’ themsels!
A man jeest sees an’ hears an’ feels
What in his ain min’ dwells.
Here’s an Ulster Scot Ghost poem Tipper in response.
Heard ye nae tell o’ Stumpies Brae?
Sit doon, sit doon, young freen,
I’ll mak yer flesh tae creep the day,
An’ yer hair tae stan’ on enn.
Young man it’s hard to strive wi’ sin,
An’ the hardest strife o’ a’
Is where the greed o’ gain creeps in,
An’ drives God’s grace awa’.
Oh, it’s quick tae do, but it’s lang tae rue,
When the punishment comes at last.
And we would give the world tae undo,
The deed that’s done an’ past.
Over yon strip of meadow land,
An’ o’er the burnie bright,
Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand,
Around yon gables white?
I mind it weel in my younger days,
The story yet was rife:
There dwelt within that lonely place,
A farmer an’ his wife.
They sat the-gither all alone,
Ane blessed Autumn night.
When the trees without, and hedge,
and stone,
Were white in the sweet moonlight.
The boys an’ girls were gone doon all
A wee till the blacksmith’s wake;
There pass’d ane onby the window small,
An’ guv the door a shake.
The man he up an’ open’d the door –
When he had spoken a bit.
A pedlar man stepped into the floor,
Doon he tumbled the pack he bore,
Right heavy pack was it.
“Gude save us aa,” says the wife,
wi’ a smile,
“But yours is a thrivin’ trade.”
“Aye, aye, I’ve wandered mony a mile,
An’ plenty have I made.”
The man sat on by the dull fire flame,
When the pedlar went to rest;
Close till his ear the Devil came,
An’ slipp’d intil his breast.
He look’d at his wife by the dim fire light,
And she was as bad as he –
“Could we no murder thon man the night?”
“Aye, could we, ready,” quo’ she.
He took the pickaxe without a word,
Whence it stood ahint the door;
As he pass’d in, the sleeper stirr’d,
That never waken’d more.
“He’s deid!” says the auld man, comin’ back –
“What o’ the corp, my dear?”
“We’ll bury him snug in his ain bit pack,
Niver ye mind for the loss of the sack,
I’ve ta’en oot a’ the gear.”
“The pack’s owre short by twa guid span.”
“What’ll we do?” quo’ he.
“Och, you’re a doited, unthoughtfu’ man;
We’ll cut him aff at the knee.”
They shortened the corp an’ they pack’d
him tight,
Wi’ his legs in a pickle hay;
Over the burn in the sweet moonlight,
They carried him till this brae.
They shovell’d a hole right speedily,
They laid him on his back –
“A right pair are ye,” quo’ the PEDLAR,
quo’ he,
Sitting bolt upright in the pack.
“Ye think ye’ve laid me snugly here,
An’ none shall know my station.
But I’ll haunt ye far, an’ I’ll haunt ye near,
Father an’ son, wi’ terror an’ fear
Til the nineteenth generation.”
The twa were sittin’ the verra next night,
When the dog began to cower.
And they knew by the pale blue fire light,
That the Evil One had power.
It had stricken nine, jist nine o’ the clock,
The hour when the man lay dead;
There came to the outer door a knock,
And a heavy, heavy tread.
The old man’s head swam round an’ round,
The woman’s blood ‘gan freeze,
For it was not a natural sound,
But like some ane stumpin’ o’er the ground
An the banes o’ his twa bare knees.
And through the door, like a sough of air,
And stump, stump, round the twa.
Wi’ his bloody head, and his knee banes bare
They’d maist ha’e died of awe!
The wife’s black locks e’er morn grew white,
They say, as the mountain snaws,
The man was as straight as a staff that night,
But he stooped when the morning rose.
Still, year an’ day, as the clock struck nine,
The hour when they did the sin,
The wee bit dog began to whine,
An’ the gaist came clatterin’ in.
Ae night there was a fearfu’ flood –
Three days the skies had pour’d;
And white wi’ foam, an’ black wi’ mud
The burn in fury roar’d.
Quo’ she, “Gude man, ye need na’ turn,
Sae pale in the dim fire light.
The Stumpie canna cross the burn,
He’ll no’ be here the night.
For it’s o’er the bank, an’ it’s o’er the linn,
And it’s up to the meadow ridge -”
“Aye,” quo’ the Stumpie, hirplin’ in.
And he gie’d the wife a slap on the chin,
“But I cam’ roun’ by the bridge.”
And stump, stump, stump to his plays again,
And o’er the stools and chairs;
Ye’d surely hae thought ten women an’ men,
Were dancing there in pairs.
They sold their gear, and o’er the sea,
To a foreign land they went,
O’er the sea – but wha can flee,
His appointed punishment?
The ship swam o’er the water clear,
Wi’ the help o’ the eastern breeze,
But the verra first sound in guilty fear,
O’er the wide, smooth deck, that fell on
their ear,
Was the tappin’ o’ them twa knees.
In the woods of wild America,
Their weary feet they set;
But the Stumpie was there the first, they say,
And he haunted them on to their dying day,
And he follows their children yet.
I haud ye, niver the voice of blood
Call’d from the earth in vain;
And never has crime won worldly good,
But it brought its after-pain.
This is the story of Stumpie’s Brae,
An’ the murderers’ fearfu’ fate.
Young man, yer face is turned that way,
Ye’ll be gangin’ the night that gate.
Ye’ll ken it weel, through the few fir trees,
The house where they wont to dwell,
Gin ye meet ane there, as daylight flees,
Stumpin’ aboot on the banes o’ his knees
It’ll jist be Stumpie himsel’.
Wallace-thank you for sharing that one! 🙂
I really enjoyed this poem a lot! I never dreamed Taulbe would get his, much less poor old Lomey. I liked the air of spirits added to like the berry blooming in winter on a moonlit night. It was just wonderful!!!
Sounds like Doc Watson to me!
I wonder if Old Christmas is what inspired the song “On the Twelfth Day of Christmas”. Sure makes me ponder the meaning of that song now, also. I knew that the calendar changed but didn’t know it was relatively recent – and about the riots for the people who thought they lost days. I once read a story of early pioneers getting rid of a teacher that had turned out to be a witch – she had showed pictures of creatures living in their water that were too small to be seen. Actually she had let the kids looks through a microscope to see ‘germs’ and told them to wash their hands before eating so they wouldn’t get sick. Ignorance and unwillingness to learn new ways may have been bliss, but evidently it is the cause of many horrible outcomes, also. I think the real birth of Jesus was in the summer during the census as they wouldn’t have made people travel during the cold winters to go to their required town to be counted.
Thank you for posting this poem and the additional information. Reading about counting the “twelve days of Christmas” and watching for animal behavior in regard to weather signs made me wonder if the song, “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, with reference to so many animals, might have some basis in this old tradition. I will be looking for more of Mr. Helton’s poetry.
Oh my that was good!
Tipper, thanks so much for this post. The poem is wonderful and I was so surprised to see it was from a contemporary author. I had assumed that this was a much older ballad like Barbry Allen. I am so glad you included the link to an article about this poem. Since Mr. Helton was referred to as a novelist and poet, I hope to find some of his other works. Has this been set to music? If not, maybe your musically talented family could take this on. I’d love to hear it sung in a minor key with that “high, lonesome” sound.
What an interesting poem/ballad. I went back and read about the author and the story behind it, and it sure says a lot! Also, my aunt, my mother’s sister would never take her Christmas tree down until after old Christmas. I now have a better understanding about old Christmas. Thank you, Tipper, for sharing with us. Fixing to go back and catch last night’s reading. Have a great day all!!
Thanks for sharing! Enjoyed poem and information on link.
Tipper, what a great read! Thank you for including links for the intriguing poem and Old Christmas. More please!
That’s an interesting poem. And thanks for the reference to the meaning. What stood out to me was that the two women were still friends after all the killing. In some places that would lead to more bloodshed. I’ve had something similar happen to me in the last couple of years, not killing but forgiveness and friendship. Thanks again for sharing. This was a new poem for me but one I enjoyed.
I agree with Miss Cindy. It does seem eery and it does seem like old poems and ballads seem to be about or relating to death, or hardship of some kind. Not all, but most the ones I heard seem too.
My grandmama called our toys “play purties”.
It’s been a good long while since I heard that term, Old Christmas. It was celebrated every year on January 6 which is when the Magi arrived to visit the Christ Child. It’s also been years since I heard that song, too. Good memories.
Mr. Helton did a remarkable job. Without knowing about him, one would assume it was an old ballad going back to possibly the late 1700’s. It has the same kind of structure as the witch tales my steps grandpa told; a meeting, an eerie middle and a surprise ending.
That poem gave me chills. It sounds like it could have easily been a Louvin Brothers song.
my grandma always said not to wash clothes and hang them out on Old Christmas. A cousin of mine told me this. She lived across the creek from her and Grandma came over and told her to take down the clothes when she saw her hanging them out.
Wow, Tipper! Thank you so much for sharing this. It’s beautiful. Sad, but so beautifully written. I’ve never heard of this writer before, so I appreciate the introduction to his work and the page that explains it. I am looking forward to exploring that page some more when I have a few moments. My friend in Italy was celebrating Epiphany yesterday, gathering a basket of candies to hand out to children around her town. I’m not familiar with Old Christmas, though. This post brought a lot of new questions to mind, and I am excited and anxious to learn more. Happy new year, and many hugs. -Valeri
Good one! I might need to share that one too.
I will be finding out more about this tale and others like it. it makes you feel there is a story behind the story and I want to know what it is.
Tipper–The poem’s a new one to me, but it’s an eerie delight. Right now I’m wrapping up a sort of binge-reading of books by an Appalachian author of yesteryear, John Fox, Jr.
Jim Casada
I remember my grandparents referring to a toy or plaything as a “purty”….or “pretty”
Wow, nice reading this morning Tipper! Read both the links too, helped me understand! Funny story for ya (or frustratin story for me,) about Old Christmas. Yesterday my husband and I headed out early to drive an hour away (one way,) to a highly populated Amish town here in Central Illinois. To eat at our favorite Amish restaurant and to go to all the Amish shops (we usually go here once or twice a year) only to find out……yep, everything was closed up tight!! I was so frustrated, bc of the long drive, the fact that we had no good place to eat (except fast food) and the fact that I wasn’t gonna get to go to all the Amish antique shops……bc of Old Christmas!!! No postings on the doors said “CLOSED TO CELEBRATE OLD CHRISTMAS” or anything (they just simply said Closed Today Only) but we asked around and the towns ppl said “all the Amish celebrate Old Christmas.” We eventually found a good pizza place for dinner (noon meal) and….. the one furniture shop, I REALLY want to go to (about 5miles down the road,) was indeed open (I guess it’s no longer Amish own, yet it has all Amish made furniture) so Old Christmas didn’t spoil all of my day …..and it was highly enjoyable passing all the horse and buggies loaded up with the whole family, travelin on the roads, way more than usual.
The only time I ever heard the word pretty or actually “purdy” referring to a reward was from my dear grandmother. She would encourage good behavior or help from the children by the promise of a “purdy” if we performed some small chore. It was usually something so ordinary that children nowadays might scoff at the offering. It may be a tiny toy from a cracker jack box or most often a colorful piece of orange slice candy. But what a memory it left for all of us! She was born in 1899, and in her rather short life we children learned firsthand so much about the very old ways. My sis recalls watching her teach young neighbors soap making. That is such an interesting poem, and I agree it is typical of the story line of the old Appalachian ballads. The most accurate and best compliment I can give you, Tipper, is that you have great depth.
An eery poem to say the least! Seems like most of those old poems/ballads are about tragic death!
Cool poem, gonna have to keep this one. Stay well and warm you guys.