Curious Crockers of Barnstable: Frederick William Crocker (1809-1863)

By Jeffrey D. Crocker

Few people today realize that the village of Barnstable was once home to a remarkably talented nineteenth-century poet, one who has largely been forgotten. I first learned of him some years ago when my family discovered a leather-bound, handwritten journal of poetry in my grandfather’s attic. The volume contained nearly a hundred poems and bore the date of 1840. Its author was listed as F. W. Crocker. 

Curious to learn more, I searched the archives of the Barnstable Patriot newspaper at the Sturgis Library, where I discovered that he was Frederick William Crocker (1809–1863), the son of Sheriff David and Rachel (Bacon) Crocker, who lived at the corner of Bow Lane and Hyannis Road. Born Frederick Joseph Crocker, he later legally changed his name to Frederick William Crocker. The poetry preserved in this journal is both witty and remarkably accomplished; one contemporary observer even described his work as being “of high literary merit.” Today, his poetry journal is preserved at the Sturgis Library.

I will share one such fun poem so you can appreciate his work:

To the Church Going Flies

Written after having been grievously annoyed at church by swarms of hungry flies:

What seek ye now, insatiate flies?

Will nothing else content ye?

But thus to gorge upon my blood?

The Parson says “repent ye”,

To everyone that’s now in church

And surely you’re included

For you would think it rather tough,

To be from Heaven excluded.

Have ye a conscience as calm as mine,

That ye can sleep in sermon?

Although I doubt it very much,

Ye only can determine.

I know that spiritual food

Is difficult to fat on,

And so is all this fine display

Of muslin and of satin.

But then ye need not me devour,

And cruelly torment me,

For better food without the door,

Is certainly more plenty;

And have ye no respect at all

For churches and for Sunday?

But that ye bite and buzz the same

As ye would do on Monday?

For shame, for shame, be circumspect,

And harken to the preaching,

Array yourselves upon the rails

And list the Parson’s teaching.

And when the Psalm is given out,

Why e’en set up a buzzing,

Twice drown the organ’s shrillest notes,

And lull to sleep the dozing.

Suppose that it should chance to be,

The day of the communion,

And the discourse, as would be fit,

Concerning Christian union?

You surely are too pious flies,

The bread the wine to ravage,

And shrink I know from doing things

So impious and savage.

Why is it not then just as bad,

A worshiper to bother?

If you reflect, you’ll find it is,

As criminal as no other.

That maiden in the satin hat

And she with shawl of scarlet

Why don’t you let them both alone,

You noisy little varlet.

Doubtless they’d make a deacon of

The old blue bottle fellow,

Or else his friend there in a suit,

Of green turned up with yellow

Did they not buzz in meeting so

Before the congregation,

As maternally to injure

Their chance for such a station.

I say again, be circumspect,

And sit ye down in quiet,

You’ll like that way of doing things,

If only once you’d try it.

And when good people come to church,

Don’t stare so in their faces,

Nor leave your round black cards

Upon their furbelows and laces.