Who got no cuddling in Comfort’s lap.
You’ll scarcely follow me when I sing
Of the rasping buck-saw’s dancing spring,
For the rugged rhythm is fashioned for
The ear that remembers ur-r rick, ur-r raw.
Ur-r raw, ur-r rick.
Ur-r raw, ur-r rick!
We pecked at our mountain stick by stick.
Our dad was a man who was mighty good
In getting the women-folks lots of wood.