We have songs on many topics,
New and old, beneath the sun,
But, alas, in many cases,
Minstrelsy is overdone;
So I'll sing a song of labor—
Where the muse is rather slack—
And my theme shall be of timber
And the hardy lumberjack.
Now republican traditions
Are so grafted in our bones,
That e'en monarchs of the forest
Must be tumbled from their thrones.
And to raze those ancient strongholds
We have armies of the axe,
Plucky pioneers of progress,
Known to all as lumberjacks.
He may lack the wings of angels
And the sanctity of saints:
If a town's in need of painting
He may furnish all the paints.
Yet he lapses but a moment
And again he hies him back
Close unto the heart of nature,
Does the lonesome lumberjack.
There amid his wild surroundings
And the crooning of the trees,
He finds balm for mind and body
Borne on every passing breeze.
There is something strangely healing
In the magic of the myrrh,
In the odor of the cedar
And the fragrance of the fir!
Grind your axes, O my heroes,
Point your peavies, file your saws;
Let your ropes and chains and cables
Be examined now for flaws.
Fire up the iron donkey,
Till each rivet feels the strain,
Lumberjack has had his outing
And returns to camp again!
There is music in the axe fall
As it sounds upon the ear;
There is music in the sawing
When the dust is flying clear—
Aye, there's music for the lumberjack
Magnificent of sound,
In the crashing of the timber
As it thunders to the ground.
He will never lack for music
While the owl is keeping time
With the ceaseless serenading
Of the frog within the slime.
But the music ever sounding,
With the sweetest of appeals,
Is the ding-dong of the iron gong
That calls him to his meals!
He's a credit to his calling,
To his country and his clan:
There is not a dude among them—
Every lumberjack's a man.
And you'll find him ever cheerful,
In the sunshine or the rain,
From the camps of B. Columbia
To the lumber camps of Maine.
He may show a rough exterior,
But his heart is warm within—
Mark him poring o'er that letter,
Just received from home and kin:
Tears will gather hot and blinding
And he cannot hold them back,
Reading words from distant loved ones
to their absent lumberjack!
'Tis, perchance, a loving message
From a sweetheart far away,
Or a tender admonition
From a mother old and gray.
O, ye lumberjacks, remember,
That wherever ye may roam,
There are anxious hearts awaiting
For an answer "back at home"!
When the sun in golden glory
Hath descended in the west,
They indulge in song and story
Till they seek their bunks for rest:
There to dream of scenes of childhood,
Amid mountain stream or glen,
Till old Sol in morning splendor
Calls them to their tasks again.
Soft and soothing are the voices
As the shades of evening fall,
Stealing gently through the forest—
Brooding calmly over all.
By yon lake a loon is calling
And the night bird answers back,
Keeping vigil o'er the slumbers
Of the weary lumberjack.
O, the lumberjack is loyal
And he'll surely see to it,
In the grind against the Kaiser
That each axe will "do its bit";
He will spruce up for the allies
Till ten thousand airplanes hum,
All to win the war for freedom
And democracy, by gum!
Chorus
Grind your axes, O my heroes,
Point your peavies, file your saws,
Let your ropes and chains and cables
Be examined now for flaws:
Fire up the iron donkey
Till each rivet feels the strain,
Lumberjack will help the Allies
Win the war with ship and plane!
PADDY THE BOOK AGENT
Air
LARRY O'GAFF
——————
The sun rose in splendor one foine summer morning
That marked me first effort at selling a book.
It's rays with soft beauty the landscape adorning
Sint thramps to seek bliss in some cool shady nook.
But no such rethrate the hot moments beguiling
Afforded relief to poor Pathrick O'Reilly,
Who canvassed that day epidermis parboiling
In air that would stifle a Florida cook.
I ambled along wid me pack on me shoulder,
And prayed for a cloud to o'ershadow me path:
Says I to meself, if it doesn't grow cowlder
Poor Pat you'll be afther sure milting to death.
I entered a town an' the first house I came to
Looked much loike O'Grady's, I intered the same to,
And called for the misthress, though troth half ashamed to,
An' sat for a moment to catch at me breath.
Be the council o' Cork I was not long awaiting,
The misthress appeared, looking black as a rook.
"The devil ye are wid yer impertince satin,
Yerself in me kitchen," she said wid a look.
Says I, "How is your rheumatiz, Mrs. O'Grady?"
And then quite politely I asked, "Can ye rade ye
Ould hathen, if not be me troth ye are nady;
Ye want to be afther sure buyin' a book."
She looked quite intint at aich bould handsome fature,
And warm as it was, I could see that she shook.
"O'll tache ye a lesson," she scramed, "Ye vile crature,
Ye cross twixt an ape an' a Bowery street crook!"
She jumped at me troat thin an' would you belave me,
As quick as a wink through the dure did she have me,
And howled as I struck—will her tones ever lave me?—
"The divil fly off wid yerself an' yer book."
I left a square inch of me cheek at O'Grady's,
An' limped wid the rest to the house just fornint.
A winch in the dureway was paling some praties,
Who watched me approach wid a quizzical squint.
Says I wid the best of me Chesterfield graces,
"Good day me fair maid, ain't it hotter than blazes,"
An' coaxingly swate I did ask, "If ye plaze, Miss,
To ordher a piece av me illigant print!"
Thank God for his gifts! this colleen was a daisy,
Who flashed me a glance from her eyes of deep blue;
And smiling so swately said, "Pathrick, go aisy,
I see ye were born where the blarney stone grew."
"O yes, I was born in ould Ireland, God bless ye,
The compliment sure makes me long to caress ye,
And now be me troth I am timpted to press ye
To take all me books an' the book agent too!"
We published the bans then to tell Oi'm not minding,
Our lips did the printing as ach wint to press—
The type was O. K. and O. K. was the binding,
The sthrongest av bonds are two hearts that caress.
The saints be adored for the joys they were sending—
The angels be bless'd on our nuptials attending—
For nothing can aquel in loife till its ending
The gift of a mate loike the wan I possess!
