An’ your icin’ an’ cussin’ will fail.
The eaves are a-drippin’ at midnight
An’ out of the south comes a sob;
You kin talk about loss
All you like, Mister Boss,
But Spring has got back on the job.
You kin rave all you like of the timber
Thet lays in the woods at the stump,
You kin swear you will haul
Ev’ry stick of it all