THE LYRIC OF THE BUCK-SAW
Ur-r rick, ur-r raw,
Ur-r rick, ur-r raw!
Have you buckled your back to an old buck-saw?
Have you doubled your knee on a knotty stick
And bobbed to the tune of ur-r raw, ur-r rick?
Have you sawed till your eye-balls goggled and
popped,
Till your heart seemed lead and your breath was
stopped?
Have you yeaked her up and yawked her down,
—As doleful a lad as there was in town?
If so, we can talk of the back-bent woe
That followed the youngsters of long ago.
Ah, urban chap, with your anthracite,
Pass on, for you cannot fathom, quite,
The talk that I make with this other chap
Who got no cuddling in Comfort’s lap.
You’ll scarcely follow me when I sing
Of the rasping buck-saw’s dancing spring,
For the rugged rhythm is fashioned for
The ear that remembers ur-r rick, ur-r raw.
Ur-r raw, ur-r rick.
Ur-r raw, ur-r rick!
We pecked at our mountain stick by stick.
Our dad was a man who was mighty good
In getting the women-folks lots of wood.
And as soon as sledding came on to stay
Jack got all work and he got no play.
For daily the ox-sleds creaked and crawked
Till the yard was full and the buck-saws talked.
’Twas rugged toil and we humped our backs,
But we scarce kept pace with dad’s big axe.
There were bitter mornings of “ten below,”
There were days of bluster and days of snow,
But with double mittens, a big wool scarf,
And coon-skin ear-laps, we used to laugh
At the fussiest blast old Boreas shrieked,
And the nippingest pinches Jack Frost tweaked,
We were warm as the blade of the yanking saw
That steamed to the tune of ur-r rick, ur-r raw!
Ur-r raw, ur-r rick,
Ur-r raw, ur-r rick!
Ho, men at the desks, there, dull and sick!
You slap your hands to your stiff old backs
At thought of the days of the saw and axe;
And you press your palms to an aching brow,
And shiver to think of a saw-buck now.
But ah, old fellows, you can’t deny
You hanker a bit for the times gone by,
When the toil of the tasks that filled the day
Made bright by contrast our bits of play.
Oh, grateful the hour at set of sun,
When the tea was hot, and the biscuits “done;”
When chocking his axe in the chopping-block,
Dad sung, u Knock off, boys, five o’clock.”
Now tell me truly, ye wearied men,
Are you ever as happy as you were then,
When you straightened your toil-bent, weary
backs
At the welcome plop of dad’s old axe?
And tell me truly, can you forget
The sight of the table that mother set,
When dropping the saws in the twilight gloom,
We trooped to the cheer of the dear fore-room,
And there in the red shade’s mellow light
Made feast with a grand good appetite?
—Made feast at the sweet old homespun board
On the plum preserves and the “crab jell” stored
For demands like these; and made great holes
In the heaps of the cream o’ tartar rolls?
Ah, gusto! fickle and faint above
The savory viands you used to love,
What wouldn’t you give for the sharp-set tang
That followed those days when the steel teeth
sang?
—For zest was as keen as the bright, swift saw
When you humped to the tune of ur-r rick,
ur-r raw?