by Abbie Farwell Brown (1871-1927)
Topped with straw and stuffed with hay;
Balanced tipsily askew,
It grins to scare the crows away.
I saw Him first in that old hat—
It seemed the crown of a king to me.
I liked his careless swagger then;
Lord! He was straight and fine to see.
He courted me in that same coat—
He couldn’t meet it now, I guess.
That gay vest was the one he wore
When I walked bride in my silver dress.
He seemed as proud as I, those days.
I never dreamed, when we were wed,
I’d think the Scarecrow a better man,
With a broom for a spine and a pumpkin head.
Rags and tags of what he seemed,
Mocking me in the field all day.
What can I make a scarecrow of,
To drive the hungry thoughts away?
From Heart of New England, 1920
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