For there ain’t no calkerlatin’ how you’ll run a
All we want’s our Oldtown peavies, when our
An’ we’ll herd ’em through the wildest stream
An’ the drouth is a-chasin’ the rear o’ the drive.
Foller down, foller down with your peavies on
For the herd that runs ahead of us goes loafin’
They know they’re off to market, an’ they dread
An’ you’ve got to go and welt ’em, though the
For they balk on Depsconneagon when a sixty-
Ev’ry eddy stands a-ready for to swing ’em in a
An’ ev’ry rock is chock-a-block with jack-strawed
Ontil you’ve got the devil’s job to try and turn
But our goadstick is the peavy, an’ our cant-dog
That’ll worry ’em an’ hurry ’em an’ rush ’em,
Oh, the drouth is right behind us, but we’ve
An’ we’ll beat the sun in heaven in the race for
It’s dark in the camp, and the woods outside
The weirdest of all wood-sounds, by the way,
Is a cook’s queer cadence at break of day:
The grub is on the table, boys, the coffee’s on
The swagon’s hotter’n Tophet and I swear ’twill
There’s whiskers on the gingerbread, the biskit
I’ve got molasses sinkers made from mother’s
--Oh, I’ve got molasses sinkers built around
They’ll make you think of home and friends and
The beans come out a-roarin’ when I boosted
Don’t jolly me about your smells of Araby the
--Jus’ take a snuff of ground-baked beans all
The grub is on the table, boys, hurroop, hurroop,
Come, tumble out, git on a move! Good Lord,
Rise up and shine, my gentle lambs, surround
Or else you’ll git the sun’s ha-ha from over
And if the timer heaves a growl and docks you
Jus’ blame your own durn lazy luck--don’t
For ev’ry man who’s et my cream-of-tartar bis-
The cook of this ’ere camp, by smut, ’s the
The duffle is packed, and the babies are smacked,
And she’s done it up brown in a-loading me
--Just about a month of Sundays and you’ll
Now look ye, ye towzled-haired son of a gun,
Be good to your mother or you’ll see some
When your daddy comes down on the drive in
And fetches a withe with a hornetty sting.
Ha! ha! you young rascal, you’d rather have
Well, be a good baby and pa’ll fetch you some.
Yes, mother, you’re right, it does seem kinder
And it’s tough that I have to pack dunnage and
For the big timber wrassle at Chamberlain lake.
But folks are a-waiting for lumber and boards,