He hears the sighing, in his sleep, of cedars by his door.
THE IRISH
Fer forty-odd year I have followed the timber
From the crooked St. Croix to the rollin’ Cloquet,
An’ there ain’t any camp thet you yaps kin remember
Thet I haven’t seen in my lumberin’ day.
I’ve skidded with roundheads who’d only come over,
With hunyacks I’ve swamped it fer many a mile;
But the time thet I felt I was livin’ in clover
Was bunkin’ with lads from the Emerald Isle.