DRIVIN’ THE STAGE

Drivin’ the stage,

Oh, drivin’ the stage,

With the wind fairly peelin’ your hide with its

aidge!

Jest got to git through with the’Nited States

mail

For the contract provisions don’t have the

word “Fail.”

So it’s out and tread drifts while the snow

howls and sifts

For a dollar a trip—and no extrys—no gifts.

For them star-route contractors they figger it

fine

And take it right out of the chaps on the line.

They set in an office and rake in their slice

While the drivers are tusslin’ the snow and the

ice.

It may howl, it may yowl, it may snow, it may

blow

But that’Nited States mail, wal, it jest has to

go.

So it’s out and unhitch, leave the pung where

it’s stuck,

Lo’d the bags on the hosses and then, durn ye,

huck!

And it’s waller and struggle, walk stun’-walls

and rails

For they don’t stand no foolin’—them’Nited

States mails.

And at last when ye git there, jest tuckered

and beat,

And sling in the bags and crowd up to the

heat,

The gang round the stove they don’t give ye

no praise

But set there and toast themselves’side of the

blaze;

And ev’ry old, wobble-shanked son of a gun

Sets up there and tells ye how he would have

done!

—If there’s any one job gives your temper an

aidge,

It’s drivin’ the stage,

—It’s drivin’ the stage.