When the girls have filched your cash,
There is still the hearty ash,
It is waiting at Seboomook for to cheer your
foolish soul.
Ah, you know we love it most; and I give
you this, my toast,
The river driver’s darling, oh, his long ash pole.
We’ve ridden the gorges on rioting logs, and
we’ve always swept safe to the land.
So long as we rode with the spikes in our boots,