’BOARD FOR THE ALLEGASH”
A hundred miles through the wilds of Maine
You soon may ride on a railroad train.
Some Yankee hustlers have planned the scheme
To take the place of the tote-road team.
They have the charter, the grit and cash
To stretch their tracks to the Allegash.
Along the length of the forest route
The woodland creatures will hear the hoot
Of the bullgine’s whistle, where up to now
The big bull moose has called his cow.
And old Katahdin’s long fin-back
Will echo loud with the clickity-clack
Of wheels that merrily clatter and clash
Through the sylvan wastes toward the Allegash.
Sing hey! for the route to Churchill Lake,
But oh, for the chap who twists the brake.
His buckskin gloves will save the wear
On his good stout palms, you know, but where
Will he find relief when his throat is lame
With the wrench of a yard-long Indian name?
’Tis something, friend, of a lingual trick
To say “Seboois” and “Wassataquoick,”
“Lunksoos,” is tame and “Nesourdneheunk,”
But what do you say to a verbal chunk
To chew at once of the size of this:
“Pok-um-kes-wango-mok-kessis”?
I don’t believe’twould phase a man
To bellow out “Lah-kah-hegan
His windpipe scarcely would get a crook
By spouting forth, “Pong-kwahemook,”
And even “Pata-quon-gamis”
Is easy. But just look at this:
Ah, where is he who wouldn’t run
From “Ap-mo-jenen-ma-ganun”?
E’en “Umbazookskus” scratches some,
But doesn’t this just strike you dumb?
“Nahma-juns-kwon-ahgamoc”?
Just think of having that to sock
Athwart the palpitating air
Straight at a frightened passengaire.
Hot bearings can be swabbed with oil,
And busted culverts yield to toil,
One can replace a broken rail
But larynxes are not on sale.
So, while it’s hey for Churchill Lake
It’s oh, for the chap who twists the brake.