When I saddle the pale horse, to take my last ride,To the home ranch, over the Great Divide,Will I find the trail blazed all the way,A place to camp, at the close of day?Will the trail be smooth, and the weather fair?(For no one has ever come back from there)But the good book says, if we shoot square,"Have no fear of the trails over there!"An unseen hand guides the pale horse straight,O'er the summit height, to the home ranch gate,Where we all must meet the Boss Supreme,And all will be one pleasant dream.No herding of dogies on frost night,Or wild stampede in the morning's light.No cinching of saddles, or shipping of steers.No sorrow or trouble or bitter tears.But the sun will shine, and cool breezes blow,Over a range ever free from snow;And for those who lived as He who diedTo save us riders—that Great DivideWill be only a foothill, so very low;That on its summit sweet flowers do grow,And the trail itself will be smooth all the way,With a place to camp at the close of day.When at last I reach that Home Ranch gate,Peter will say, "You sure shot straight,"And the gate will open for me, I know,Saying, "Pull off your saddle, and let him go!"THE SNOWSTORMThe snow has started falling,'Tis falling o'er mountain and plain,The trees bend under their burden,Shake free, and are draped again.While I sit here safe in my cabinWhere all is cozy and warm,I can peer into the future,And view the woods after the storm.I can see the deer seeking the low-lands,In search of their daily food,I can see the hunter's eyes glisten,For he knows that the tracking is good.The lion dogs leap in their kennels,There is barking and wagging of tails,The hunter examines his snow-shoes,And dreams of "kills" and of trails.The bear trails lead far up the mountainWhere the cliffs are rugged and steep,And there is some cave in the ledges,They're beginning their winter's sleep.They will sleep till the wild geese awaken them,As they take their Northern flight,Then again they will seek the hill-sidesWhere the sun shines clear and bright.Now the wild geese honk as they leave us,Followed close by wind-driven snow;They are telling all of us trappers,But, of course, all us trappers knowThat whenever the wild geese go homing,It is time that our traps are set;—Snow, I have been waiting for you!You are a welcome visitor—you bet.SILENT VOICES OF THE NIGHTWhen the shades of evening gather,And night's curtain's dropping low,And the stars they dot the heavensWith their candles, all aglow;—Then to me there come the voicesOn each cool and fragrant breeze,Stealing in from every quarter,Creeping through among the trees.And these voices, ever silent,Scarcely heard, their steps so light;Yet, to me are ever welcome;Silent voices of the night.When within the noisy city,With its surging, busy crowd,The voices keep a-calling,And they seem to call so loud.I can hear them pleading, coaxing,And to me they call so plain,And they have the self-same message,"Yes, we want you back again."Voices of my little camp-fire,Voices of the woods and hills,Voices from the snow-capped mountains,Voices from the crystal-rills;And I ever hear them calling,'Till I feel like taking flight,Back to where the voices whisper,—Silent voices of the night.Oh! those voices, how I love them!Whether near or far away,And they ask me not to leave them,"Won't you please come back and stay?""Come and we will try to please you,"Calling from their wildwood home,"Yes, my loved ones, I am coming,And from you no more will roam."THE PACK TRAINDid you hear that far off tinkleIn the canyon far below?Listen! can't you hear it?It is ringing very slow.'Tis the bell upon the lead-mare,As she's winding up the trail,Guiding all the other horses,Hitched to one another's tail.They are headed for the camps,Where they've lately made a find;And the pack trains are all busyCarrying grubstake to the mine.Every horse is heavy loaded;Ask me how that I can tell?That is easy for the packer,'Tis the tinkle of the bell.Away back in the eightiesWhen they made the Wild Horse strike;—We were in there with a pack train,Me and old Pack Saddle Mike.Mike could throw more knots and hitchesThan an expert sailor's crew,Was a wizard with a lash-rope,Knew what every horse could do.Well, we packed for them there miners,'Till the weather got so coldIt would freeze the lash-ropes solid,And 'twas hard to make them hold;It was hard to cinch a saddle,Harder still to cinch a pack,But the cold we never heeded;We were making piles of "jack."We left camp one frosty morning,Started for our winter range;Two hard days to reach the summit,Then the weather took a change,Hurled the snow into our faces,Cut our eyes like broken glass,And we had to stop the horses,While the snow fell thick and fast.For two days we held the horsesOn that mountain in the snow,While the mercury was flirtingClose to forty or more below.Well, we had to shoot the horses,Better far that, than let them die,Made us snow-shoes from the saddlesAnd climbed o'er the summit high.When at last we reached the ranches,Almost dead from wind and snow;Mike took down with the pneumonia,And the next day had to go.While he lay upon his pillow,All his body racked with pain,He'd keep talking of his horses,Calling each one by its name.Then he called me to his bedside,And he said, "I'm going to ride,And I know I'll find the horsesOver on the other side."MOONLIGHTWhen the moon has climbed the heavens,And the sun has gone to rest,And the evening shadows gather,That's the time I love the best.Seated by our little camp-fire,In the forest dark and tall,With the silence all around us,Save the roar of water-fall—Then the deer steal in the meadows,Velvet shod, so still are they,While among the waving grass-topsSpotted fawns are there at play.Then to me there comes a memory,Of the days, now past and gone,When my life was just in blossom,I was young and life was dawn.When I roamed the virgin forest,Just as free as birds that fly,With the moonbeams for a candle,And my cover was the sky.Still the moon shines just as brightly,And the stars are just as clear,But I see I'm growing olderLike the ending of the year.Frost is gathering on my temple,Soon my hair will be like snow,But His will we all must followAnd some day we all must go.Yet, I'm ever, ever hopingThat upon those shores of gold,We will have the self-same moonlightAs we had in the days of old.MY DREAMI dreamed of a beautiful forestThat lies back in the hills,With lakes of crystal clearnessAnd such noisy mountain rills.Where there are no trails of trappers,Where the game unchallenged roam—Could I only find that forest,That's the place I'd call my home.There were beaver, lynx and marten,Elk so stately, and so tall,And such sunlit open hillsides,And such lovely water-fall.There was deep grass in the meadows,There were breezes, sweet and cool,There were trout, so lazy, swimmingIn each clear and crystal pool.There the birds were singing sweetlyTheir sweet, yet plaintive song,That told me of God's great wondersThere among their happy throng.There were deer-trails, without number,Bear-tracks everywhere were seen,And the squirrels were never silentIn those forests dark and green.There the wild ducks they were nesting,There the loon called on the pond,There the snow-caps rose to sky-lineIn the distance far beyond.Then I was suddenly wakened,Grabbed by the shoulder so hard,"Roll out now, breakfast is ready!"It was Jack, my "bunkie" and "pard."THE OLD FRYING PANYou may talk of your broilers, both single and double,Your roasters and toasters, they're all lots of trouble;But when out in the hills, just find if you can,Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.Over a campfire you don't need a stove,Out in the hills, the place we all love,Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,With many the thanks to the old frying pan.When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,I know old epicures would look, with a frownAt the meal set before me; dispute it who can,With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;Was dish e'er invented like the old frying pan?Many a miner, in the good days of old,Way back in the foothills a-searching for goldDeep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.There's been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurryUsed no other iron, but why should they worry,For many and many and many the brand,That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.So your praises I'll shout, both far, wide and high,That you're the best dish, till the day that I die;Why, there's many a woman "cleaned up" on her manWith no other club but the old frying pan.THE RAINY DAYThe hills are smothered in a fog,The sky is somber-grey,The rain is coming in a mist,A cheerless rainy day.To me the trees are weeping,With their branches drooping low,Their tears are steady falling,With heavy drops, yet slow.The birds they all are silent,And not one sweet silvery note,Re-echoes through the forest,From our feathered songster's throat.Not one thing to break the silence,Save the rain-drops as they fall,As I watch the clouds roll onward,Or climb the mountain wall.And somehow I feel so happy,Though the world seems full of pain,So I let my gaze go farther,When the sun will shine again.The trees and flowers and grasses,They will all the fresher seem,And the laughter will be louderFrom the rippling mountain stream.The birds will sing far sweeterThan they did in days gone by,The air will be the fresher,And of bluer tint the sky.We all do love the sunshine,We love the moonlight, too,We also love the twilight,And the falling of the dew;But I never growl or grumble,Only this I wish to say;—That this world would be a desertWithout you, oh! Rainy Day!THE STREAMLETTell me little streamlet,As you onward flow;Why in such a hurry,Whither do you go?The stream slowed up a momentWithin the alder's shade;"I go to join my brothers,And of us are rivers made.We water the hills and meadows,We turn the mills' great wheel,We carry logs to the mill-dam,Where they're cut by teeth of steel.We furnish power for the motorThat pulls the railroad train;And after they have used our power,It is given back again.So you see we enjoy working,That's why we laugh all day,For when one's heart is in one's work,Why! work is greatest play!And growing broader and deeper,We carry ships on our breasts,'Till at last we reach the ocean,And there we have time to rest."ED ENDERS' GRAVEWhen old Ed Enders first took ill,'Twas first a fever and then a chill,His respiration was very weak,Throat so clogged he could scarcely speak.The doctors prescribed all kinds of dopeAnd hotwater bottles, but had no hope.Then old Bill Wallace and old Hank Lee,And old Dad Lyons got on a spree;And when half full old Bill did cry,And says, "Old Ed is about to die.I ain't no doctor, I can't shoot pills,I've never prescribed for no one's illsBut I do believe we can pull Ed through,If you all will help me;—I mean you two.If old Ed dies, just stop and think,He will never buy us another drink!He has the money in that there claim,If we let him die it will be a shame.Old Ed is a feller no one can ride,He will always take the other side.If you say no, why he'll say 'yes'Just to be contrary up to the last.So now we'll try old Ed to save,—A committee of three to pick his grave.As we can't agree where to make his bed,We will have to leave it to poor old Ed.""It will work," says Dad, with a tear in his eye,"And I for one am ready to try."Then up spoke Hank, "This ain't no joke,Fill up the glasses and then we'll smoke."So the three went down to Old Ed's room,Faces as solemn as any tomb.Old Ed says, "Boys, I'm on my way!"Bill says, "You'll never see the day,And as we were idle, and time to save,We've been picking a place to dig your grave.Now Hank wants to plant you in the shade,Where the trail climbs up that steepest grade,For you hunted the shade when the sun was hot,And the land is worthless in that there spot.But Dad wants you laid on that sunny slope,There's a hole all ready in that old stope.You hunted the sun when the weather was cold,And he wants you planted in that old hole.But I says, 'Boys, it is my wish,To plant him where he liked to fish;For he always fished at the same old hole,Too lazy to walk and carry his pole.'Now Ed, we as a committee of three,Will leave it to you, we can't agree."Old Ed looked up from his bed of pain,Looked at them over and over again.What he said to them won't do to tell,At least he said, "You can go to hell!You won't find the likes wherever you roam,Rake the hot place over with a fine-tooth comb.Such a bunch as you,—right here I swear,Pick what you damn please, I won't be there."Now listen, dear folks, I am here to tell,In just three days old Ed got well.SPRINGTIMEWhen sun begins to melt the snowAnd the birds commence to sing,And the days are getting longer,Then we know 'tis surely spring.It is then you get a fever,But your temp'ture does not raise,It's a kind of lazy feelingOn those balmy warm spring days.And it starts your mind to working,While your thoughts commence to stray,To the hills and lakes and rivers,And green woodlands far away.And it makes you feel so drowsyThat you long to go to sleep,Out beneath some tall green pine tree,Where the shadows cool and deepJust seem to be a-calling,While the stream beneath the hillIs chuckling with glad laughter,And I seem to hear it still.'Tis then memory breaks its halterAnd stampedes and starts to go,Till it stops in childhood's pastureIn the days of long ago;Where the birds were all a-singing,Songs so rare and pure and sweet,Squirrel's chatter in the tree-tops,—Flowers blooming at your feet.Then the city seems a prison,While brick walls like prison bars,Seem to reach clear up to heaven,Till they mingle with the stars.Still I do not call a doctor,For he cannot ease, I know,Any longings for the wildwoodOf the days of long ago.THE CALL OF NATUREMy traps are getting rustyHere upon my cabin wall;The leaves are turning golden,'Tis already early fall.My snow-shoes need repairing,And so does my canoe;My dogs are begging, coaxing,And there's just one thing to do.I'll have to quit this cruising,And a-looking over land,And lay aside my compass,They can get another man.For a section-line can't hold me,I despise a "bearing" tree,When I hear the wild geese honking,And I know they're calling me.I'll go back into the mountains,Back of Uncle Sam's survey,Where the only line's a trap-line,And I'm going there to stay;Where the only trails are game-trails,Where the moose unchallenged roam,There I'll build for me a cabinAnd I'll call that cabin "home."In the wildest, greenest forest,That no man has come to spoil,With his sawmills and his railroads,And his many slaves of toil—Where the streams are not polluted,Stopped by dams of mine or mill,Where everything is Nature'sAnd the rush of life is still.So I'll send my resignation,And I know the Boss will say,"Won't you stay until the winter,And of course, we'll raise your pay."But no salary can hold me,I have heard that line before;—So here's good-bye to cruisingFrom today for evermore.MY REQUESTWhen I leave this old dreary worldTo cross to the Great Unknown;Don't bury me in a costly tombOr raise a shaft of stone—But lay me on some hill-side,Mid the forest that I love;Where the wild flowers bloom around meAnd the eagle soars above:With an ancient ledge above me,One that is all moss-grown;These words inscribed upon it,"He is one of Nature's own.One who loved the forest,One who loved the hills,Although his soul has taken flight,His foot-steps echo still."MEMORY'S CAMP-FIRECome with me to the forest tall,And spend a few of autumn days,And study nature at first hand,Learn how they lived in early days.Take up your pack and rod and gun,And once again to seek the wild,Leave all your sorrows far behind,And be as carefree as a child.Then memory's camp-fire kindle brightAnd as you feel its friendly blaze,Just let your mind go back o'er timeTo happy scenes of early days.When you yourself were but a childThat roamed at will the woodland o'er;Oh! how your heart did exultant leapAlways new country to explore.Then take your gun from memory's rackWhich for many moons has forgotten hungAnd see if you again can sing,The songs that for years, you've left unsung.Then tell some tale of early daysOf when you hunted in the glade,Or when you caught the bear asleep,Or lured the trout from the alder shade.And as each spark arises highFrom this camp-fire's golden light,The moon will shed its yellow raysOn distant snow-caps clear and bright.And should these lines make you recallSome happy days 'neath skies so fair,To me this little camp-fire smokeWill be sweet incense on the air.
When I saddle the pale horse, to take my last ride,To the home ranch, over the Great Divide,Will I find the trail blazed all the way,A place to camp, at the close of day?Will the trail be smooth, and the weather fair?(For no one has ever come back from there)But the good book says, if we shoot square,"Have no fear of the trails over there!"An unseen hand guides the pale horse straight,O'er the summit height, to the home ranch gate,Where we all must meet the Boss Supreme,And all will be one pleasant dream.No herding of dogies on frost night,Or wild stampede in the morning's light.No cinching of saddles, or shipping of steers.No sorrow or trouble or bitter tears.But the sun will shine, and cool breezes blow,Over a range ever free from snow;And for those who lived as He who diedTo save us riders—that Great DivideWill be only a foothill, so very low;That on its summit sweet flowers do grow,And the trail itself will be smooth all the way,With a place to camp at the close of day.When at last I reach that Home Ranch gate,Peter will say, "You sure shot straight,"And the gate will open for me, I know,Saying, "Pull off your saddle, and let him go!"
When I saddle the pale horse, to take my last ride,To the home ranch, over the Great Divide,Will I find the trail blazed all the way,A place to camp, at the close of day?
When I saddle the pale horse, to take my last ride,
To the home ranch, over the Great Divide,
Will I find the trail blazed all the way,
A place to camp, at the close of day?
Will the trail be smooth, and the weather fair?(For no one has ever come back from there)But the good book says, if we shoot square,"Have no fear of the trails over there!"
Will the trail be smooth, and the weather fair?
(For no one has ever come back from there)
But the good book says, if we shoot square,
"Have no fear of the trails over there!"
An unseen hand guides the pale horse straight,O'er the summit height, to the home ranch gate,Where we all must meet the Boss Supreme,And all will be one pleasant dream.
An unseen hand guides the pale horse straight,
O'er the summit height, to the home ranch gate,
Where we all must meet the Boss Supreme,
And all will be one pleasant dream.
No herding of dogies on frost night,Or wild stampede in the morning's light.No cinching of saddles, or shipping of steers.No sorrow or trouble or bitter tears.
No herding of dogies on frost night,
Or wild stampede in the morning's light.
No cinching of saddles, or shipping of steers.
No sorrow or trouble or bitter tears.
But the sun will shine, and cool breezes blow,Over a range ever free from snow;And for those who lived as He who diedTo save us riders—that Great Divide
But the sun will shine, and cool breezes blow,
Over a range ever free from snow;
And for those who lived as He who died
To save us riders—that Great Divide
Will be only a foothill, so very low;That on its summit sweet flowers do grow,And the trail itself will be smooth all the way,With a place to camp at the close of day.
Will be only a foothill, so very low;
That on its summit sweet flowers do grow,
And the trail itself will be smooth all the way,
With a place to camp at the close of day.
When at last I reach that Home Ranch gate,Peter will say, "You sure shot straight,"And the gate will open for me, I know,Saying, "Pull off your saddle, and let him go!"
When at last I reach that Home Ranch gate,
Peter will say, "You sure shot straight,"
And the gate will open for me, I know,
Saying, "Pull off your saddle, and let him go!"
THE SNOWSTORM
The snow has started falling,'Tis falling o'er mountain and plain,The trees bend under their burden,Shake free, and are draped again.While I sit here safe in my cabinWhere all is cozy and warm,I can peer into the future,And view the woods after the storm.I can see the deer seeking the low-lands,In search of their daily food,I can see the hunter's eyes glisten,For he knows that the tracking is good.The lion dogs leap in their kennels,There is barking and wagging of tails,The hunter examines his snow-shoes,And dreams of "kills" and of trails.The bear trails lead far up the mountainWhere the cliffs are rugged and steep,And there is some cave in the ledges,They're beginning their winter's sleep.They will sleep till the wild geese awaken them,As they take their Northern flight,Then again they will seek the hill-sidesWhere the sun shines clear and bright.Now the wild geese honk as they leave us,Followed close by wind-driven snow;They are telling all of us trappers,But, of course, all us trappers knowThat whenever the wild geese go homing,It is time that our traps are set;—Snow, I have been waiting for you!You are a welcome visitor—you bet.
The snow has started falling,'Tis falling o'er mountain and plain,The trees bend under their burden,Shake free, and are draped again.
The snow has started falling,
'Tis falling o'er mountain and plain,
'Tis falling o'er mountain and plain,
The trees bend under their burden,
Shake free, and are draped again.
Shake free, and are draped again.
While I sit here safe in my cabinWhere all is cozy and warm,I can peer into the future,And view the woods after the storm.
While I sit here safe in my cabin
Where all is cozy and warm,
Where all is cozy and warm,
I can peer into the future,
And view the woods after the storm.
And view the woods after the storm.
I can see the deer seeking the low-lands,In search of their daily food,I can see the hunter's eyes glisten,For he knows that the tracking is good.
I can see the deer seeking the low-lands,
In search of their daily food,
In search of their daily food,
I can see the hunter's eyes glisten,
For he knows that the tracking is good.
For he knows that the tracking is good.
The lion dogs leap in their kennels,There is barking and wagging of tails,The hunter examines his snow-shoes,And dreams of "kills" and of trails.
The lion dogs leap in their kennels,
There is barking and wagging of tails,
There is barking and wagging of tails,
The hunter examines his snow-shoes,
And dreams of "kills" and of trails.
And dreams of "kills" and of trails.
The bear trails lead far up the mountainWhere the cliffs are rugged and steep,And there is some cave in the ledges,They're beginning their winter's sleep.
The bear trails lead far up the mountain
Where the cliffs are rugged and steep,
Where the cliffs are rugged and steep,
And there is some cave in the ledges,
They're beginning their winter's sleep.
They're beginning their winter's sleep.
They will sleep till the wild geese awaken them,As they take their Northern flight,Then again they will seek the hill-sidesWhere the sun shines clear and bright.
They will sleep till the wild geese awaken them,
As they take their Northern flight,
As they take their Northern flight,
Then again they will seek the hill-sides
Where the sun shines clear and bright.
Where the sun shines clear and bright.
Now the wild geese honk as they leave us,Followed close by wind-driven snow;They are telling all of us trappers,But, of course, all us trappers know
Now the wild geese honk as they leave us,
Followed close by wind-driven snow;
Followed close by wind-driven snow;
They are telling all of us trappers,
But, of course, all us trappers know
But, of course, all us trappers know
That whenever the wild geese go homing,It is time that our traps are set;—Snow, I have been waiting for you!You are a welcome visitor—you bet.
That whenever the wild geese go homing,
It is time that our traps are set;—
It is time that our traps are set;—
Snow, I have been waiting for you!
You are a welcome visitor—you bet.
You are a welcome visitor—you bet.
SILENT VOICES OF THE NIGHT
When the shades of evening gather,And night's curtain's dropping low,And the stars they dot the heavensWith their candles, all aglow;—Then to me there come the voicesOn each cool and fragrant breeze,Stealing in from every quarter,Creeping through among the trees.And these voices, ever silent,Scarcely heard, their steps so light;Yet, to me are ever welcome;Silent voices of the night.When within the noisy city,With its surging, busy crowd,The voices keep a-calling,And they seem to call so loud.I can hear them pleading, coaxing,And to me they call so plain,And they have the self-same message,"Yes, we want you back again."Voices of my little camp-fire,Voices of the woods and hills,Voices from the snow-capped mountains,Voices from the crystal-rills;And I ever hear them calling,'Till I feel like taking flight,Back to where the voices whisper,—Silent voices of the night.Oh! those voices, how I love them!Whether near or far away,And they ask me not to leave them,"Won't you please come back and stay?""Come and we will try to please you,"Calling from their wildwood home,"Yes, my loved ones, I am coming,And from you no more will roam."
When the shades of evening gather,And night's curtain's dropping low,And the stars they dot the heavensWith their candles, all aglow;—
When the shades of evening gather,
And night's curtain's dropping low,
And night's curtain's dropping low,
And the stars they dot the heavens
With their candles, all aglow;—
With their candles, all aglow;—
Then to me there come the voicesOn each cool and fragrant breeze,Stealing in from every quarter,Creeping through among the trees.
Then to me there come the voices
On each cool and fragrant breeze,
On each cool and fragrant breeze,
Stealing in from every quarter,
Creeping through among the trees.
Creeping through among the trees.
And these voices, ever silent,Scarcely heard, their steps so light;Yet, to me are ever welcome;Silent voices of the night.
And these voices, ever silent,
Scarcely heard, their steps so light;
Scarcely heard, their steps so light;
Yet, to me are ever welcome;
Silent voices of the night.
Silent voices of the night.
When within the noisy city,With its surging, busy crowd,The voices keep a-calling,And they seem to call so loud.
When within the noisy city,
With its surging, busy crowd,
With its surging, busy crowd,
The voices keep a-calling,
And they seem to call so loud.
And they seem to call so loud.
I can hear them pleading, coaxing,And to me they call so plain,And they have the self-same message,"Yes, we want you back again."
I can hear them pleading, coaxing,
And to me they call so plain,
And to me they call so plain,
And they have the self-same message,
"Yes, we want you back again."
"Yes, we want you back again."
Voices of my little camp-fire,Voices of the woods and hills,Voices from the snow-capped mountains,Voices from the crystal-rills;
Voices of my little camp-fire,
Voices of the woods and hills,
Voices of the woods and hills,
Voices from the snow-capped mountains,
Voices from the crystal-rills;
Voices from the crystal-rills;
And I ever hear them calling,'Till I feel like taking flight,Back to where the voices whisper,—Silent voices of the night.
And I ever hear them calling,
'Till I feel like taking flight,
'Till I feel like taking flight,
Back to where the voices whisper,—
Silent voices of the night.
Silent voices of the night.
Silent voices of the night.
Oh! those voices, how I love them!Whether near or far away,And they ask me not to leave them,"Won't you please come back and stay?"
Oh! those voices, how I love them!
Whether near or far away,
Whether near or far away,
And they ask me not to leave them,
"Won't you please come back and stay?"
"Won't you please come back and stay?"
"Come and we will try to please you,"Calling from their wildwood home,"Yes, my loved ones, I am coming,And from you no more will roam."
"Come and we will try to please you,"
Calling from their wildwood home,
Calling from their wildwood home,
"Yes, my loved ones, I am coming,
And from you no more will roam."
And from you no more will roam."
THE PACK TRAIN
Did you hear that far off tinkleIn the canyon far below?Listen! can't you hear it?It is ringing very slow.'Tis the bell upon the lead-mare,As she's winding up the trail,Guiding all the other horses,Hitched to one another's tail.They are headed for the camps,Where they've lately made a find;And the pack trains are all busyCarrying grubstake to the mine.Every horse is heavy loaded;Ask me how that I can tell?That is easy for the packer,'Tis the tinkle of the bell.Away back in the eightiesWhen they made the Wild Horse strike;—We were in there with a pack train,Me and old Pack Saddle Mike.Mike could throw more knots and hitchesThan an expert sailor's crew,Was a wizard with a lash-rope,Knew what every horse could do.Well, we packed for them there miners,'Till the weather got so coldIt would freeze the lash-ropes solid,And 'twas hard to make them hold;It was hard to cinch a saddle,Harder still to cinch a pack,But the cold we never heeded;We were making piles of "jack."We left camp one frosty morning,Started for our winter range;Two hard days to reach the summit,Then the weather took a change,Hurled the snow into our faces,Cut our eyes like broken glass,And we had to stop the horses,While the snow fell thick and fast.For two days we held the horsesOn that mountain in the snow,While the mercury was flirtingClose to forty or more below.Well, we had to shoot the horses,Better far that, than let them die,Made us snow-shoes from the saddlesAnd climbed o'er the summit high.When at last we reached the ranches,Almost dead from wind and snow;Mike took down with the pneumonia,And the next day had to go.While he lay upon his pillow,All his body racked with pain,He'd keep talking of his horses,Calling each one by its name.Then he called me to his bedside,And he said, "I'm going to ride,And I know I'll find the horsesOver on the other side."
Did you hear that far off tinkleIn the canyon far below?Listen! can't you hear it?It is ringing very slow.
Did you hear that far off tinkle
In the canyon far below?
In the canyon far below?
Listen! can't you hear it?
It is ringing very slow.
It is ringing very slow.
'Tis the bell upon the lead-mare,As she's winding up the trail,Guiding all the other horses,Hitched to one another's tail.
'Tis the bell upon the lead-mare,
As she's winding up the trail,
As she's winding up the trail,
Guiding all the other horses,
Hitched to one another's tail.
Hitched to one another's tail.
They are headed for the camps,Where they've lately made a find;And the pack trains are all busyCarrying grubstake to the mine.
They are headed for the camps,
Where they've lately made a find;
Where they've lately made a find;
And the pack trains are all busy
Carrying grubstake to the mine.
Carrying grubstake to the mine.
Every horse is heavy loaded;Ask me how that I can tell?That is easy for the packer,'Tis the tinkle of the bell.
Every horse is heavy loaded;
Ask me how that I can tell?
Ask me how that I can tell?
That is easy for the packer,
'Tis the tinkle of the bell.
'Tis the tinkle of the bell.
Away back in the eightiesWhen they made the Wild Horse strike;—We were in there with a pack train,Me and old Pack Saddle Mike.
Away back in the eighties
When they made the Wild Horse strike;—
When they made the Wild Horse strike;—
We were in there with a pack train,
Me and old Pack Saddle Mike.
Me and old Pack Saddle Mike.
Mike could throw more knots and hitchesThan an expert sailor's crew,Was a wizard with a lash-rope,Knew what every horse could do.
Mike could throw more knots and hitches
Than an expert sailor's crew,
Than an expert sailor's crew,
Was a wizard with a lash-rope,
Knew what every horse could do.
Knew what every horse could do.
Well, we packed for them there miners,'Till the weather got so coldIt would freeze the lash-ropes solid,And 'twas hard to make them hold;
Well, we packed for them there miners,
'Till the weather got so cold
'Till the weather got so cold
It would freeze the lash-ropes solid,
And 'twas hard to make them hold;
And 'twas hard to make them hold;
It was hard to cinch a saddle,Harder still to cinch a pack,But the cold we never heeded;We were making piles of "jack."
It was hard to cinch a saddle,
Harder still to cinch a pack,
Harder still to cinch a pack,
But the cold we never heeded;
We were making piles of "jack."
We were making piles of "jack."
We left camp one frosty morning,Started for our winter range;Two hard days to reach the summit,Then the weather took a change,
We left camp one frosty morning,
Started for our winter range;
Started for our winter range;
Two hard days to reach the summit,
Then the weather took a change,
Then the weather took a change,
Hurled the snow into our faces,Cut our eyes like broken glass,And we had to stop the horses,While the snow fell thick and fast.
Hurled the snow into our faces,
Cut our eyes like broken glass,
Cut our eyes like broken glass,
And we had to stop the horses,
While the snow fell thick and fast.
While the snow fell thick and fast.
For two days we held the horsesOn that mountain in the snow,While the mercury was flirtingClose to forty or more below.
For two days we held the horses
On that mountain in the snow,
On that mountain in the snow,
While the mercury was flirting
Close to forty or more below.
Close to forty or more below.
Well, we had to shoot the horses,Better far that, than let them die,Made us snow-shoes from the saddlesAnd climbed o'er the summit high.
Well, we had to shoot the horses,
Better far that, than let them die,
Better far that, than let them die,
Made us snow-shoes from the saddles
And climbed o'er the summit high.
And climbed o'er the summit high.
When at last we reached the ranches,Almost dead from wind and snow;Mike took down with the pneumonia,And the next day had to go.
When at last we reached the ranches,
Almost dead from wind and snow;
Almost dead from wind and snow;
Mike took down with the pneumonia,
And the next day had to go.
And the next day had to go.
While he lay upon his pillow,All his body racked with pain,He'd keep talking of his horses,Calling each one by its name.
While he lay upon his pillow,
All his body racked with pain,
All his body racked with pain,
He'd keep talking of his horses,
Calling each one by its name.
Calling each one by its name.
Then he called me to his bedside,And he said, "I'm going to ride,And I know I'll find the horsesOver on the other side."
Then he called me to his bedside,
And he said, "I'm going to ride,
And he said, "I'm going to ride,
And I know I'll find the horses
Over on the other side."
Over on the other side."
MOONLIGHT
When the moon has climbed the heavens,And the sun has gone to rest,And the evening shadows gather,That's the time I love the best.Seated by our little camp-fire,In the forest dark and tall,With the silence all around us,Save the roar of water-fall—Then the deer steal in the meadows,Velvet shod, so still are they,While among the waving grass-topsSpotted fawns are there at play.Then to me there comes a memory,Of the days, now past and gone,When my life was just in blossom,I was young and life was dawn.When I roamed the virgin forest,Just as free as birds that fly,With the moonbeams for a candle,And my cover was the sky.Still the moon shines just as brightly,And the stars are just as clear,But I see I'm growing olderLike the ending of the year.Frost is gathering on my temple,Soon my hair will be like snow,But His will we all must followAnd some day we all must go.Yet, I'm ever, ever hopingThat upon those shores of gold,We will have the self-same moonlightAs we had in the days of old.
When the moon has climbed the heavens,And the sun has gone to rest,And the evening shadows gather,That's the time I love the best.
When the moon has climbed the heavens,
And the sun has gone to rest,
And the sun has gone to rest,
And the evening shadows gather,
That's the time I love the best.
That's the time I love the best.
Seated by our little camp-fire,In the forest dark and tall,With the silence all around us,Save the roar of water-fall—
Seated by our little camp-fire,
In the forest dark and tall,
In the forest dark and tall,
With the silence all around us,
Save the roar of water-fall—
Save the roar of water-fall—
Then the deer steal in the meadows,Velvet shod, so still are they,While among the waving grass-topsSpotted fawns are there at play.
Then the deer steal in the meadows,
Velvet shod, so still are they,
Velvet shod, so still are they,
While among the waving grass-tops
Spotted fawns are there at play.
Spotted fawns are there at play.
Then to me there comes a memory,Of the days, now past and gone,When my life was just in blossom,I was young and life was dawn.
Then to me there comes a memory,
Of the days, now past and gone,
Of the days, now past and gone,
When my life was just in blossom,
I was young and life was dawn.
I was young and life was dawn.
When I roamed the virgin forest,Just as free as birds that fly,With the moonbeams for a candle,And my cover was the sky.
When I roamed the virgin forest,
Just as free as birds that fly,
Just as free as birds that fly,
With the moonbeams for a candle,
And my cover was the sky.
And my cover was the sky.
Still the moon shines just as brightly,And the stars are just as clear,But I see I'm growing olderLike the ending of the year.
Still the moon shines just as brightly,
And the stars are just as clear,
And the stars are just as clear,
But I see I'm growing older
Like the ending of the year.
Like the ending of the year.
Frost is gathering on my temple,Soon my hair will be like snow,But His will we all must followAnd some day we all must go.
Frost is gathering on my temple,
Soon my hair will be like snow,
Soon my hair will be like snow,
But His will we all must follow
And some day we all must go.
And some day we all must go.
Yet, I'm ever, ever hopingThat upon those shores of gold,We will have the self-same moonlightAs we had in the days of old.
Yet, I'm ever, ever hoping
That upon those shores of gold,
That upon those shores of gold,
We will have the self-same moonlight
As we had in the days of old.
As we had in the days of old.
MY DREAM
I dreamed of a beautiful forestThat lies back in the hills,With lakes of crystal clearnessAnd such noisy mountain rills.Where there are no trails of trappers,Where the game unchallenged roam—Could I only find that forest,That's the place I'd call my home.There were beaver, lynx and marten,Elk so stately, and so tall,And such sunlit open hillsides,And such lovely water-fall.There was deep grass in the meadows,There were breezes, sweet and cool,There were trout, so lazy, swimmingIn each clear and crystal pool.There the birds were singing sweetlyTheir sweet, yet plaintive song,That told me of God's great wondersThere among their happy throng.There were deer-trails, without number,Bear-tracks everywhere were seen,And the squirrels were never silentIn those forests dark and green.There the wild ducks they were nesting,There the loon called on the pond,There the snow-caps rose to sky-lineIn the distance far beyond.Then I was suddenly wakened,Grabbed by the shoulder so hard,"Roll out now, breakfast is ready!"It was Jack, my "bunkie" and "pard."
I dreamed of a beautiful forestThat lies back in the hills,With lakes of crystal clearnessAnd such noisy mountain rills.
I dreamed of a beautiful forest
That lies back in the hills,
That lies back in the hills,
With lakes of crystal clearness
And such noisy mountain rills.
And such noisy mountain rills.
Where there are no trails of trappers,Where the game unchallenged roam—Could I only find that forest,That's the place I'd call my home.
Where there are no trails of trappers,
Where the game unchallenged roam—
Where the game unchallenged roam—
Could I only find that forest,
That's the place I'd call my home.
That's the place I'd call my home.
There were beaver, lynx and marten,Elk so stately, and so tall,And such sunlit open hillsides,And such lovely water-fall.
There were beaver, lynx and marten,
Elk so stately, and so tall,
Elk so stately, and so tall,
And such sunlit open hillsides,
And such lovely water-fall.
And such lovely water-fall.
There was deep grass in the meadows,There were breezes, sweet and cool,There were trout, so lazy, swimmingIn each clear and crystal pool.
There was deep grass in the meadows,
There were breezes, sweet and cool,
There were breezes, sweet and cool,
There were trout, so lazy, swimming
In each clear and crystal pool.
In each clear and crystal pool.
There the birds were singing sweetlyTheir sweet, yet plaintive song,That told me of God's great wondersThere among their happy throng.
There the birds were singing sweetly
Their sweet, yet plaintive song,
Their sweet, yet plaintive song,
That told me of God's great wonders
There among their happy throng.
There among their happy throng.
There were deer-trails, without number,Bear-tracks everywhere were seen,And the squirrels were never silentIn those forests dark and green.
There were deer-trails, without number,
Bear-tracks everywhere were seen,
Bear-tracks everywhere were seen,
And the squirrels were never silent
In those forests dark and green.
In those forests dark and green.
There the wild ducks they were nesting,There the loon called on the pond,There the snow-caps rose to sky-lineIn the distance far beyond.
There the wild ducks they were nesting,
There the loon called on the pond,
There the loon called on the pond,
There the snow-caps rose to sky-line
In the distance far beyond.
In the distance far beyond.
Then I was suddenly wakened,Grabbed by the shoulder so hard,"Roll out now, breakfast is ready!"It was Jack, my "bunkie" and "pard."
Then I was suddenly wakened,
Grabbed by the shoulder so hard,
Grabbed by the shoulder so hard,
"Roll out now, breakfast is ready!"
It was Jack, my "bunkie" and "pard."
It was Jack, my "bunkie" and "pard."
THE OLD FRYING PAN
You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,Your roasters and toasters, they're all lots of trouble;But when out in the hills, just find if you can,Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.Over a campfire you don't need a stove,Out in the hills, the place we all love,Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,With many the thanks to the old frying pan.When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,I know old epicures would look, with a frownAt the meal set before me; dispute it who can,With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;Was dish e'er invented like the old frying pan?Many a miner, in the good days of old,Way back in the foothills a-searching for goldDeep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.There's been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurryUsed no other iron, but why should they worry,For many and many and many the brand,That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.So your praises I'll shout, both far, wide and high,That you're the best dish, till the day that I die;Why, there's many a woman "cleaned up" on her manWith no other club but the old frying pan.
You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,Your roasters and toasters, they're all lots of trouble;But when out in the hills, just find if you can,Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.
You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,
Your roasters and toasters, they're all lots of trouble;
But when out in the hills, just find if you can,
Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.
Over a campfire you don't need a stove,Out in the hills, the place we all love,Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,With many the thanks to the old frying pan.
Over a campfire you don't need a stove,
Out in the hills, the place we all love,
Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,
With many the thanks to the old frying pan.
When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,I know old epicures would look, with a frownAt the meal set before me; dispute it who can,With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.
When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,
I know old epicures would look, with a frown
At the meal set before me; dispute it who can,
With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.
With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;Was dish e'er invented like the old frying pan?
With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,
Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,
You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;
Was dish e'er invented like the old frying pan?
Many a miner, in the good days of old,Way back in the foothills a-searching for goldDeep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.
Many a miner, in the good days of old,
Way back in the foothills a-searching for gold
Deep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,
Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.
There's been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurryUsed no other iron, but why should they worry,For many and many and many the brand,That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.
There's been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurry
Used no other iron, but why should they worry,
For many and many and many the brand,
That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.
So your praises I'll shout, both far, wide and high,That you're the best dish, till the day that I die;Why, there's many a woman "cleaned up" on her manWith no other club but the old frying pan.
So your praises I'll shout, both far, wide and high,
That you're the best dish, till the day that I die;
Why, there's many a woman "cleaned up" on her man
With no other club but the old frying pan.
THE RAINY DAY
The hills are smothered in a fog,The sky is somber-grey,The rain is coming in a mist,A cheerless rainy day.To me the trees are weeping,With their branches drooping low,Their tears are steady falling,With heavy drops, yet slow.The birds they all are silent,And not one sweet silvery note,Re-echoes through the forest,From our feathered songster's throat.Not one thing to break the silence,Save the rain-drops as they fall,As I watch the clouds roll onward,Or climb the mountain wall.And somehow I feel so happy,Though the world seems full of pain,So I let my gaze go farther,When the sun will shine again.The trees and flowers and grasses,They will all the fresher seem,And the laughter will be louderFrom the rippling mountain stream.The birds will sing far sweeterThan they did in days gone by,The air will be the fresher,And of bluer tint the sky.We all do love the sunshine,We love the moonlight, too,We also love the twilight,And the falling of the dew;But I never growl or grumble,Only this I wish to say;—That this world would be a desertWithout you, oh! Rainy Day!
The hills are smothered in a fog,The sky is somber-grey,The rain is coming in a mist,A cheerless rainy day.
The hills are smothered in a fog,
The sky is somber-grey,
The sky is somber-grey,
The rain is coming in a mist,
A cheerless rainy day.
A cheerless rainy day.
To me the trees are weeping,With their branches drooping low,Their tears are steady falling,With heavy drops, yet slow.
To me the trees are weeping,
With their branches drooping low,
With their branches drooping low,
Their tears are steady falling,
With heavy drops, yet slow.
With heavy drops, yet slow.
The birds they all are silent,And not one sweet silvery note,Re-echoes through the forest,From our feathered songster's throat.
The birds they all are silent,
And not one sweet silvery note,
And not one sweet silvery note,
Re-echoes through the forest,
From our feathered songster's throat.
From our feathered songster's throat.
Not one thing to break the silence,Save the rain-drops as they fall,As I watch the clouds roll onward,Or climb the mountain wall.
Not one thing to break the silence,
Save the rain-drops as they fall,
Save the rain-drops as they fall,
As I watch the clouds roll onward,
Or climb the mountain wall.
Or climb the mountain wall.
And somehow I feel so happy,Though the world seems full of pain,So I let my gaze go farther,When the sun will shine again.
And somehow I feel so happy,
Though the world seems full of pain,
Though the world seems full of pain,
So I let my gaze go farther,
When the sun will shine again.
When the sun will shine again.
The trees and flowers and grasses,They will all the fresher seem,And the laughter will be louderFrom the rippling mountain stream.
The trees and flowers and grasses,
They will all the fresher seem,
They will all the fresher seem,
And the laughter will be louder
From the rippling mountain stream.
From the rippling mountain stream.
The birds will sing far sweeterThan they did in days gone by,The air will be the fresher,And of bluer tint the sky.
The birds will sing far sweeter
Than they did in days gone by,
Than they did in days gone by,
The air will be the fresher,
And of bluer tint the sky.
And of bluer tint the sky.
We all do love the sunshine,We love the moonlight, too,We also love the twilight,And the falling of the dew;
We all do love the sunshine,
We love the moonlight, too,
We love the moonlight, too,
We also love the twilight,
And the falling of the dew;
And the falling of the dew;
But I never growl or grumble,Only this I wish to say;—That this world would be a desertWithout you, oh! Rainy Day!
But I never growl or grumble,
Only this I wish to say;—
Only this I wish to say;—
That this world would be a desert
Without you, oh! Rainy Day!
Without you, oh! Rainy Day!
THE STREAMLET
Tell me little streamlet,As you onward flow;Why in such a hurry,Whither do you go?The stream slowed up a momentWithin the alder's shade;"I go to join my brothers,And of us are rivers made.We water the hills and meadows,We turn the mills' great wheel,We carry logs to the mill-dam,Where they're cut by teeth of steel.We furnish power for the motorThat pulls the railroad train;And after they have used our power,It is given back again.So you see we enjoy working,That's why we laugh all day,For when one's heart is in one's work,Why! work is greatest play!And growing broader and deeper,We carry ships on our breasts,'Till at last we reach the ocean,And there we have time to rest."
Tell me little streamlet,As you onward flow;Why in such a hurry,Whither do you go?
Tell me little streamlet,
As you onward flow;
As you onward flow;
Why in such a hurry,
Whither do you go?
Whither do you go?
The stream slowed up a momentWithin the alder's shade;"I go to join my brothers,And of us are rivers made.
The stream slowed up a moment
Within the alder's shade;
Within the alder's shade;
"I go to join my brothers,
And of us are rivers made.
And of us are rivers made.
We water the hills and meadows,We turn the mills' great wheel,We carry logs to the mill-dam,Where they're cut by teeth of steel.
We water the hills and meadows,
We turn the mills' great wheel,
We turn the mills' great wheel,
We carry logs to the mill-dam,
Where they're cut by teeth of steel.
Where they're cut by teeth of steel.
We furnish power for the motorThat pulls the railroad train;And after they have used our power,It is given back again.
We furnish power for the motor
That pulls the railroad train;
That pulls the railroad train;
And after they have used our power,
It is given back again.
It is given back again.
So you see we enjoy working,That's why we laugh all day,For when one's heart is in one's work,Why! work is greatest play!
So you see we enjoy working,
That's why we laugh all day,
That's why we laugh all day,
For when one's heart is in one's work,
Why! work is greatest play!
Why! work is greatest play!
And growing broader and deeper,We carry ships on our breasts,'Till at last we reach the ocean,And there we have time to rest."
And growing broader and deeper,
We carry ships on our breasts,
We carry ships on our breasts,
'Till at last we reach the ocean,
And there we have time to rest."
And there we have time to rest."
ED ENDERS' GRAVE
When old Ed Enders first took ill,'Twas first a fever and then a chill,His respiration was very weak,Throat so clogged he could scarcely speak.The doctors prescribed all kinds of dopeAnd hotwater bottles, but had no hope.Then old Bill Wallace and old Hank Lee,And old Dad Lyons got on a spree;And when half full old Bill did cry,And says, "Old Ed is about to die.I ain't no doctor, I can't shoot pills,I've never prescribed for no one's illsBut I do believe we can pull Ed through,If you all will help me;—I mean you two.If old Ed dies, just stop and think,He will never buy us another drink!He has the money in that there claim,If we let him die it will be a shame.Old Ed is a feller no one can ride,He will always take the other side.If you say no, why he'll say 'yes'Just to be contrary up to the last.So now we'll try old Ed to save,—A committee of three to pick his grave.As we can't agree where to make his bed,We will have to leave it to poor old Ed.""It will work," says Dad, with a tear in his eye,"And I for one am ready to try."Then up spoke Hank, "This ain't no joke,Fill up the glasses and then we'll smoke."So the three went down to Old Ed's room,Faces as solemn as any tomb.Old Ed says, "Boys, I'm on my way!"Bill says, "You'll never see the day,And as we were idle, and time to save,We've been picking a place to dig your grave.Now Hank wants to plant you in the shade,Where the trail climbs up that steepest grade,For you hunted the shade when the sun was hot,And the land is worthless in that there spot.But Dad wants you laid on that sunny slope,There's a hole all ready in that old stope.You hunted the sun when the weather was cold,And he wants you planted in that old hole.But I says, 'Boys, it is my wish,To plant him where he liked to fish;For he always fished at the same old hole,Too lazy to walk and carry his pole.'Now Ed, we as a committee of three,Will leave it to you, we can't agree."Old Ed looked up from his bed of pain,Looked at them over and over again.What he said to them won't do to tell,At least he said, "You can go to hell!You won't find the likes wherever you roam,Rake the hot place over with a fine-tooth comb.Such a bunch as you,—right here I swear,Pick what you damn please, I won't be there."Now listen, dear folks, I am here to tell,In just three days old Ed got well.
When old Ed Enders first took ill,'Twas first a fever and then a chill,His respiration was very weak,Throat so clogged he could scarcely speak.
When old Ed Enders first took ill,
'Twas first a fever and then a chill,
His respiration was very weak,
Throat so clogged he could scarcely speak.
The doctors prescribed all kinds of dopeAnd hotwater bottles, but had no hope.Then old Bill Wallace and old Hank Lee,And old Dad Lyons got on a spree;
The doctors prescribed all kinds of dope
And hotwater bottles, but had no hope.
Then old Bill Wallace and old Hank Lee,
And old Dad Lyons got on a spree;
And when half full old Bill did cry,And says, "Old Ed is about to die.I ain't no doctor, I can't shoot pills,I've never prescribed for no one's ills
And when half full old Bill did cry,
And says, "Old Ed is about to die.
I ain't no doctor, I can't shoot pills,
I've never prescribed for no one's ills
But I do believe we can pull Ed through,If you all will help me;—I mean you two.If old Ed dies, just stop and think,He will never buy us another drink!
But I do believe we can pull Ed through,
If you all will help me;—I mean you two.
If old Ed dies, just stop and think,
He will never buy us another drink!
He has the money in that there claim,If we let him die it will be a shame.Old Ed is a feller no one can ride,He will always take the other side.
He has the money in that there claim,
If we let him die it will be a shame.
Old Ed is a feller no one can ride,
He will always take the other side.
If you say no, why he'll say 'yes'Just to be contrary up to the last.So now we'll try old Ed to save,—A committee of three to pick his grave.
If you say no, why he'll say 'yes'
Just to be contrary up to the last.
So now we'll try old Ed to save,—
A committee of three to pick his grave.
As we can't agree where to make his bed,We will have to leave it to poor old Ed.""It will work," says Dad, with a tear in his eye,"And I for one am ready to try."
As we can't agree where to make his bed,
We will have to leave it to poor old Ed."
"It will work," says Dad, with a tear in his eye,
"And I for one am ready to try."
Then up spoke Hank, "This ain't no joke,Fill up the glasses and then we'll smoke."So the three went down to Old Ed's room,Faces as solemn as any tomb.
Then up spoke Hank, "This ain't no joke,
Fill up the glasses and then we'll smoke."
So the three went down to Old Ed's room,
Faces as solemn as any tomb.
Old Ed says, "Boys, I'm on my way!"Bill says, "You'll never see the day,And as we were idle, and time to save,We've been picking a place to dig your grave.
Old Ed says, "Boys, I'm on my way!"
Bill says, "You'll never see the day,
And as we were idle, and time to save,
We've been picking a place to dig your grave.
Now Hank wants to plant you in the shade,Where the trail climbs up that steepest grade,For you hunted the shade when the sun was hot,And the land is worthless in that there spot.
Now Hank wants to plant you in the shade,
Where the trail climbs up that steepest grade,
For you hunted the shade when the sun was hot,
And the land is worthless in that there spot.
But Dad wants you laid on that sunny slope,There's a hole all ready in that old stope.You hunted the sun when the weather was cold,And he wants you planted in that old hole.
But Dad wants you laid on that sunny slope,
There's a hole all ready in that old stope.
You hunted the sun when the weather was cold,
And he wants you planted in that old hole.
But I says, 'Boys, it is my wish,To plant him where he liked to fish;For he always fished at the same old hole,Too lazy to walk and carry his pole.'
But I says, 'Boys, it is my wish,
To plant him where he liked to fish;
For he always fished at the same old hole,
Too lazy to walk and carry his pole.'
Now Ed, we as a committee of three,Will leave it to you, we can't agree."Old Ed looked up from his bed of pain,Looked at them over and over again.
Now Ed, we as a committee of three,
Will leave it to you, we can't agree."
Old Ed looked up from his bed of pain,
Looked at them over and over again.
What he said to them won't do to tell,At least he said, "You can go to hell!You won't find the likes wherever you roam,Rake the hot place over with a fine-tooth comb.
What he said to them won't do to tell,
At least he said, "You can go to hell!
You won't find the likes wherever you roam,
Rake the hot place over with a fine-tooth comb.
Such a bunch as you,—right here I swear,Pick what you damn please, I won't be there."Now listen, dear folks, I am here to tell,In just three days old Ed got well.
Such a bunch as you,—right here I swear,
Pick what you damn please, I won't be there."
Now listen, dear folks, I am here to tell,
In just three days old Ed got well.
SPRINGTIME
When sun begins to melt the snowAnd the birds commence to sing,And the days are getting longer,Then we know 'tis surely spring.It is then you get a fever,But your temp'ture does not raise,It's a kind of lazy feelingOn those balmy warm spring days.And it starts your mind to working,While your thoughts commence to stray,To the hills and lakes and rivers,And green woodlands far away.And it makes you feel so drowsyThat you long to go to sleep,Out beneath some tall green pine tree,Where the shadows cool and deepJust seem to be a-calling,While the stream beneath the hillIs chuckling with glad laughter,And I seem to hear it still.'Tis then memory breaks its halterAnd stampedes and starts to go,Till it stops in childhood's pastureIn the days of long ago;Where the birds were all a-singing,Songs so rare and pure and sweet,Squirrel's chatter in the tree-tops,—Flowers blooming at your feet.Then the city seems a prison,While brick walls like prison bars,Seem to reach clear up to heaven,Till they mingle with the stars.Still I do not call a doctor,For he cannot ease, I know,Any longings for the wildwoodOf the days of long ago.
When sun begins to melt the snowAnd the birds commence to sing,And the days are getting longer,Then we know 'tis surely spring.
When sun begins to melt the snow
And the birds commence to sing,
And the birds commence to sing,
And the days are getting longer,
Then we know 'tis surely spring.
Then we know 'tis surely spring.
It is then you get a fever,But your temp'ture does not raise,It's a kind of lazy feelingOn those balmy warm spring days.
It is then you get a fever,
But your temp'ture does not raise,
But your temp'ture does not raise,
It's a kind of lazy feeling
On those balmy warm spring days.
On those balmy warm spring days.
And it starts your mind to working,While your thoughts commence to stray,To the hills and lakes and rivers,And green woodlands far away.
And it starts your mind to working,
While your thoughts commence to stray,
While your thoughts commence to stray,
To the hills and lakes and rivers,
And green woodlands far away.
And green woodlands far away.
And it makes you feel so drowsyThat you long to go to sleep,Out beneath some tall green pine tree,Where the shadows cool and deep
And it makes you feel so drowsy
That you long to go to sleep,
That you long to go to sleep,
Out beneath some tall green pine tree,
Where the shadows cool and deep
Where the shadows cool and deep
Just seem to be a-calling,While the stream beneath the hillIs chuckling with glad laughter,And I seem to hear it still.
Just seem to be a-calling,
While the stream beneath the hill
While the stream beneath the hill
Is chuckling with glad laughter,
And I seem to hear it still.
And I seem to hear it still.
'Tis then memory breaks its halterAnd stampedes and starts to go,Till it stops in childhood's pastureIn the days of long ago;
'Tis then memory breaks its halter
And stampedes and starts to go,
And stampedes and starts to go,
Till it stops in childhood's pasture
In the days of long ago;
In the days of long ago;
Where the birds were all a-singing,Songs so rare and pure and sweet,Squirrel's chatter in the tree-tops,—Flowers blooming at your feet.
Where the birds were all a-singing,
Songs so rare and pure and sweet,
Songs so rare and pure and sweet,
Squirrel's chatter in the tree-tops,—
Flowers blooming at your feet.
Flowers blooming at your feet.
Then the city seems a prison,While brick walls like prison bars,Seem to reach clear up to heaven,Till they mingle with the stars.
Then the city seems a prison,
While brick walls like prison bars,
While brick walls like prison bars,
Seem to reach clear up to heaven,
Till they mingle with the stars.
Till they mingle with the stars.
Still I do not call a doctor,For he cannot ease, I know,Any longings for the wildwoodOf the days of long ago.
Still I do not call a doctor,
For he cannot ease, I know,
For he cannot ease, I know,
Any longings for the wildwood
Of the days of long ago.
Of the days of long ago.
THE CALL OF NATURE
My traps are getting rustyHere upon my cabin wall;The leaves are turning golden,'Tis already early fall.My snow-shoes need repairing,And so does my canoe;My dogs are begging, coaxing,And there's just one thing to do.I'll have to quit this cruising,And a-looking over land,And lay aside my compass,They can get another man.For a section-line can't hold me,I despise a "bearing" tree,When I hear the wild geese honking,And I know they're calling me.I'll go back into the mountains,Back of Uncle Sam's survey,Where the only line's a trap-line,And I'm going there to stay;Where the only trails are game-trails,Where the moose unchallenged roam,There I'll build for me a cabinAnd I'll call that cabin "home."In the wildest, greenest forest,That no man has come to spoil,With his sawmills and his railroads,And his many slaves of toil—Where the streams are not polluted,Stopped by dams of mine or mill,Where everything is Nature'sAnd the rush of life is still.So I'll send my resignation,And I know the Boss will say,"Won't you stay until the winter,And of course, we'll raise your pay."But no salary can hold me,I have heard that line before;—So here's good-bye to cruisingFrom today for evermore.
My traps are getting rustyHere upon my cabin wall;The leaves are turning golden,'Tis already early fall.
My traps are getting rusty
Here upon my cabin wall;
Here upon my cabin wall;
The leaves are turning golden,
'Tis already early fall.
'Tis already early fall.
My snow-shoes need repairing,And so does my canoe;My dogs are begging, coaxing,And there's just one thing to do.
My snow-shoes need repairing,
And so does my canoe;
And so does my canoe;
My dogs are begging, coaxing,
And there's just one thing to do.
And there's just one thing to do.
I'll have to quit this cruising,And a-looking over land,And lay aside my compass,They can get another man.
I'll have to quit this cruising,
And a-looking over land,
And a-looking over land,
And lay aside my compass,
They can get another man.
They can get another man.
For a section-line can't hold me,I despise a "bearing" tree,When I hear the wild geese honking,And I know they're calling me.
For a section-line can't hold me,
I despise a "bearing" tree,
I despise a "bearing" tree,
When I hear the wild geese honking,
And I know they're calling me.
And I know they're calling me.
I'll go back into the mountains,Back of Uncle Sam's survey,Where the only line's a trap-line,And I'm going there to stay;
I'll go back into the mountains,
Back of Uncle Sam's survey,
Back of Uncle Sam's survey,
Where the only line's a trap-line,
And I'm going there to stay;
And I'm going there to stay;
Where the only trails are game-trails,Where the moose unchallenged roam,There I'll build for me a cabinAnd I'll call that cabin "home."
Where the only trails are game-trails,
Where the moose unchallenged roam,
Where the moose unchallenged roam,
There I'll build for me a cabin
And I'll call that cabin "home."
And I'll call that cabin "home."
In the wildest, greenest forest,That no man has come to spoil,With his sawmills and his railroads,And his many slaves of toil—
In the wildest, greenest forest,
That no man has come to spoil,
That no man has come to spoil,
With his sawmills and his railroads,
And his many slaves of toil—
And his many slaves of toil—
Where the streams are not polluted,Stopped by dams of mine or mill,Where everything is Nature'sAnd the rush of life is still.
Where the streams are not polluted,
Stopped by dams of mine or mill,
Stopped by dams of mine or mill,
Where everything is Nature's
And the rush of life is still.
And the rush of life is still.
So I'll send my resignation,And I know the Boss will say,"Won't you stay until the winter,And of course, we'll raise your pay."
So I'll send my resignation,
And I know the Boss will say,
And I know the Boss will say,
"Won't you stay until the winter,
And of course, we'll raise your pay."
And of course, we'll raise your pay."
But no salary can hold me,I have heard that line before;—So here's good-bye to cruisingFrom today for evermore.
But no salary can hold me,
I have heard that line before;—
I have heard that line before;—
So here's good-bye to cruising
From today for evermore.
From today for evermore.
MY REQUEST
When I leave this old dreary worldTo cross to the Great Unknown;Don't bury me in a costly tombOr raise a shaft of stone—But lay me on some hill-side,Mid the forest that I love;Where the wild flowers bloom around meAnd the eagle soars above:With an ancient ledge above me,One that is all moss-grown;These words inscribed upon it,"He is one of Nature's own.One who loved the forest,One who loved the hills,Although his soul has taken flight,His foot-steps echo still."
When I leave this old dreary worldTo cross to the Great Unknown;Don't bury me in a costly tombOr raise a shaft of stone—
When I leave this old dreary world
To cross to the Great Unknown;
To cross to the Great Unknown;
Don't bury me in a costly tomb
Or raise a shaft of stone—
Or raise a shaft of stone—
But lay me on some hill-side,Mid the forest that I love;Where the wild flowers bloom around meAnd the eagle soars above:
But lay me on some hill-side,
Mid the forest that I love;
Mid the forest that I love;
Where the wild flowers bloom around me
And the eagle soars above:
And the eagle soars above:
With an ancient ledge above me,One that is all moss-grown;These words inscribed upon it,"He is one of Nature's own.
With an ancient ledge above me,
One that is all moss-grown;
One that is all moss-grown;
These words inscribed upon it,
"He is one of Nature's own.
"He is one of Nature's own.
One who loved the forest,One who loved the hills,Although his soul has taken flight,His foot-steps echo still."
One who loved the forest,
One who loved the hills,
One who loved the hills,
Although his soul has taken flight,
His foot-steps echo still."
His foot-steps echo still."
MEMORY'S CAMP-FIRE
Come with me to the forest tall,And spend a few of autumn days,And study nature at first hand,Learn how they lived in early days.Take up your pack and rod and gun,And once again to seek the wild,Leave all your sorrows far behind,And be as carefree as a child.Then memory's camp-fire kindle brightAnd as you feel its friendly blaze,Just let your mind go back o'er timeTo happy scenes of early days.When you yourself were but a childThat roamed at will the woodland o'er;Oh! how your heart did exultant leapAlways new country to explore.Then take your gun from memory's rackWhich for many moons has forgotten hungAnd see if you again can sing,The songs that for years, you've left unsung.Then tell some tale of early daysOf when you hunted in the glade,Or when you caught the bear asleep,Or lured the trout from the alder shade.And as each spark arises highFrom this camp-fire's golden light,The moon will shed its yellow raysOn distant snow-caps clear and bright.And should these lines make you recallSome happy days 'neath skies so fair,To me this little camp-fire smokeWill be sweet incense on the air.
Come with me to the forest tall,And spend a few of autumn days,And study nature at first hand,Learn how they lived in early days.Take up your pack and rod and gun,And once again to seek the wild,Leave all your sorrows far behind,And be as carefree as a child.
Come with me to the forest tall,
And spend a few of autumn days,
And spend a few of autumn days,
And study nature at first hand,
Learn how they lived in early days.
Learn how they lived in early days.
Take up your pack and rod and gun,
And once again to seek the wild,
And once again to seek the wild,
Leave all your sorrows far behind,
And be as carefree as a child.
And be as carefree as a child.
Then memory's camp-fire kindle brightAnd as you feel its friendly blaze,Just let your mind go back o'er timeTo happy scenes of early days.When you yourself were but a childThat roamed at will the woodland o'er;Oh! how your heart did exultant leapAlways new country to explore.
Then memory's camp-fire kindle bright
And as you feel its friendly blaze,
And as you feel its friendly blaze,
Just let your mind go back o'er time
To happy scenes of early days.
To happy scenes of early days.
When you yourself were but a child
That roamed at will the woodland o'er;
That roamed at will the woodland o'er;
Oh! how your heart did exultant leap
Always new country to explore.
Always new country to explore.
Then take your gun from memory's rackWhich for many moons has forgotten hungAnd see if you again can sing,The songs that for years, you've left unsung.Then tell some tale of early daysOf when you hunted in the glade,Or when you caught the bear asleep,Or lured the trout from the alder shade.
Then take your gun from memory's rack
Which for many moons has forgotten hung
Which for many moons has forgotten hung
And see if you again can sing,
The songs that for years, you've left unsung.
The songs that for years, you've left unsung.
Then tell some tale of early days
Of when you hunted in the glade,
Of when you hunted in the glade,
Or when you caught the bear asleep,
Or lured the trout from the alder shade.
Or lured the trout from the alder shade.
And as each spark arises highFrom this camp-fire's golden light,The moon will shed its yellow raysOn distant snow-caps clear and bright.And should these lines make you recallSome happy days 'neath skies so fair,To me this little camp-fire smokeWill be sweet incense on the air.
And as each spark arises high
From this camp-fire's golden light,
From this camp-fire's golden light,
The moon will shed its yellow rays
On distant snow-caps clear and bright.
On distant snow-caps clear and bright.
And should these lines make you recall
Some happy days 'neath skies so fair,
Some happy days 'neath skies so fair,
To me this little camp-fire smoke
Will be sweet incense on the air.
Will be sweet incense on the air.