You’d hardly ever think, I say,
A-reasonin’ round the usual way,
That here, instead o’ things like these,
Was once a grove of maple trees,
An’ under yon electric lamp
We used to run a sugar camp?
One star-lit night—it seems, you know,
About a year or two ago,
But when you come to count it square
It’s fifty of ’em, I declare—