I’ve stood in the stow-hole and “tread” on the
load,
And waltzed with a bush scythe and worked
on the road,
But somehow or other the language won’t
spring
When prowess of muscle I venture to sing.
But when I am piping of “resting” or fun
Or lauding the time after chores are all done,
Why, somehow—why, blame it, as sure as