“There’s some poor lads will never lift a peavey-hook again,
Nor hear the trees crack wid the frost, nor feel a warm spring rain.
’Twas fallin’ timber, rowlin’ logs that handed them their time;
It was their luck to get it so—it may be yours or mine.
“But break the rollways out, me lads, an’ let the big sticks slide,
For one man killed within the woods ten’s drownded on the drive.
So make yer sowls before ye take the nearest way to town
While the lads that be’s in Heaven watch the drive go down-n-n.
“When the drive starts dow-un, when the drive starts down,
Oh, it’s every lad in Heaven he wud swop his golden crown
For a peavey stick again, an’ a soakin’ April rain,
An’ to birl a log beneath him as he drives the river down-n-n.”
“Oh, I don’t like that verse,” protested Miss Garwood. “It’s sad, fatalistic, reckless—anything and everything it shouldn’t be. I thought shanty songs were more cheerful.”
“Some of ’em are cheerful enough,” said Crooks, winking at Joe, who had the grace to blush.
“But most describe the lingering deaths of true lovers,” said Jack. “A shantyman requires sentiment or murder, and preferably both, in his music. Dad, sing us ‘The Fate of Lovely May.’”
“I will not,” Crooks refused. “It has five hundred verses, more or less. I’m going to bed. You can lose sleep if you want to.”
“Don’t take that hint, Joe,” laughed Jack. “You’re not company.”
“Hint nothing,” said Crooks. “Jack knows it wasn’t.”
“I’m a business man now,” said Joe. “I feel it my duty to set an example to frivolous young people.”
“Come around often, the way you used to,” said Jack.
Miss Garwood, obviously, could not second the invitation in words: but much can be expressed by a pair of blue eyes. Joe felt that, unless he was an absolute dub at interpreting such things, his visits would not be unwelcome to her.