EPHRUM WADE’S STAND-BY IN HAYING
Ephram Wade sat down in the shade
And took off his haymaker hat, which he laid
On a tussock of grass; and he pulled out the
plug
That jealously gagged the old iron-stone jug.
And cocking his jug on his elbow he rigged
A sort of a “horse-up,” you know, and he
swigged
A pint of hard cider or so at a crack,
And set down the jug with a satisfied smack.
“Aha!” said he, “that grows the hair on ye,
bub,
My rule durin’ hayin’s more cider, less grub.
I take it, sah, wholly to stiddy my nerves,
And up in the stow hole I pitch ’em some
curves
On a drink of straight cider, in harnsomer shape
Than a feller could do on the juice of the grape.
Some new folderinos come ’long every day,
All sorts of new jiggers to help git yer hay.
Improvements on cutter bars, hoss forks, and
rakes,
And tedders and spreaders and all of them fakes.
But all of their patents ain’t fixed it so yit
That hayin’ is done without git-up and git.
If ye want the right stuff, sah, to take up the
slack,
The stuff to put buckram right inter yer back,
The stuff that will limber and ile up yer j’ints,
Just trot out some cider and drink it by pints.
It ain’t got no patents—it helps you make hay
As it helped out our dads in their old-fashioned
way.
Molasses and ginger and water won’t do,
’Twill irrigate some, but it won’t see ye through.
And ice water’ll chill ye, and skim milk is durn
Mean stuff any place, sah, except in a churn.
I’m a temperate man as a general rule,
—The man who gits bit by the adder’s a fool,—
But when it comes hayin’ and folks have to strain,
I tell you, old cider’s a stand-by in Maine.”
Then Ephrum Wade reclined in the shade
And patiently gazed on the hay while it “made.”