BACK ON THE JOB
This is the time of the bust-up,This is the end of the trail;Though your icin’ you do,Still the ground will come throughAn’ your icin’ an’ cussin’ will fail.The eaves are a-drippin’ at midnightAn’ out of the south comes a sob;You kin talk about lossAll you like, Mister Boss,But Spring has got back on the job.You kin rave all you like of the timberThet lays in the woods at the stump,You kin swear you will haulEv’ry stick of it allTo the road an’ the bank an’ the dump,But she’s got all creation ag’in you,The sun an’ the wind an’ all that,An’ she’ll bust ev’ry roadAn’ she’ll stall ev’ry loadAn’ your timber will stay where it’s at.You ought to know somethin, of woman—You’ve seen her both single an’ wed;You know you can’t stirAny notion in herWhen once it gits into her head.But, of all of the contrary women,Miss Spring is the worst of the lot;When you want her to freezeShe will thaw, if you please,An’ she’ll freeze when you’re wantin’ it hot.No use to dispute with a heiferEr argue a case with a skirt;If Spring wants to thaw,Neither reason ner lawWill keep her from doin’ you dirt.It’s will er it’s won’t with a woman—She says when she won’t er she will.You kin talk till you’re blackIn the face, but the shackWill be bossed by the petticoats still.We think we’re her lord an’ her master,She swears she will love an’ obey.We think we’re the headOf the house, as she saidWe would be when we bore her away.But a month er so after the weddin’,When honeymoon season is flown,She quits sayin’ “dear”An’ she gits on her earAn’ she kicks us plumb off of the throne.It’s likewise up here in the timber:We think we are runnin’ the thing;We’re falling the treesAn’ we’re makin’ it freeze—But all of a sudden it’s Spring.Then it’s mix up a walk fer the swampersAn’ can the whole mackinaw mob;No use fer the bossEr the crew er the hoss—Miss Spring has got back on the job.
This is the time of the bust-up,This is the end of the trail;Though your icin’ you do,Still the ground will come throughAn’ your icin’ an’ cussin’ will fail.The eaves are a-drippin’ at midnightAn’ out of the south comes a sob;You kin talk about lossAll you like, Mister Boss,But Spring has got back on the job.You kin rave all you like of the timberThet lays in the woods at the stump,You kin swear you will haulEv’ry stick of it allTo the road an’ the bank an’ the dump,But she’s got all creation ag’in you,The sun an’ the wind an’ all that,An’ she’ll bust ev’ry roadAn’ she’ll stall ev’ry loadAn’ your timber will stay where it’s at.You ought to know somethin, of woman—You’ve seen her both single an’ wed;You know you can’t stirAny notion in herWhen once it gits into her head.But, of all of the contrary women,Miss Spring is the worst of the lot;When you want her to freezeShe will thaw, if you please,An’ she’ll freeze when you’re wantin’ it hot.No use to dispute with a heiferEr argue a case with a skirt;If Spring wants to thaw,Neither reason ner lawWill keep her from doin’ you dirt.It’s will er it’s won’t with a woman—She says when she won’t er she will.You kin talk till you’re blackIn the face, but the shackWill be bossed by the petticoats still.We think we’re her lord an’ her master,She swears she will love an’ obey.We think we’re the headOf the house, as she saidWe would be when we bore her away.But a month er so after the weddin’,When honeymoon season is flown,She quits sayin’ “dear”An’ she gits on her earAn’ she kicks us plumb off of the throne.It’s likewise up here in the timber:We think we are runnin’ the thing;We’re falling the treesAn’ we’re makin’ it freeze—But all of a sudden it’s Spring.Then it’s mix up a walk fer the swampersAn’ can the whole mackinaw mob;No use fer the bossEr the crew er the hoss—Miss Spring has got back on the job.
This is the time of the bust-up,This is the end of the trail;Though your icin’ you do,Still the ground will come throughAn’ your icin’ an’ cussin’ will fail.The eaves are a-drippin’ at midnightAn’ out of the south comes a sob;You kin talk about lossAll you like, Mister Boss,But Spring has got back on the job.
This is the time of the bust-up,
This is the end of the trail;
Though your icin’ you do,
Still the ground will come through
An’ your icin’ an’ cussin’ will fail.
The eaves are a-drippin’ at midnight
An’ out of the south comes a sob;
You kin talk about loss
All you like, Mister Boss,
But Spring has got back on the job.
You kin rave all you like of the timberThet lays in the woods at the stump,You kin swear you will haulEv’ry stick of it allTo the road an’ the bank an’ the dump,But she’s got all creation ag’in you,The sun an’ the wind an’ all that,An’ she’ll bust ev’ry roadAn’ she’ll stall ev’ry loadAn’ your timber will stay where it’s at.
You kin rave all you like of the timber
Thet lays in the woods at the stump,
You kin swear you will haul
Ev’ry stick of it all
To the road an’ the bank an’ the dump,
But she’s got all creation ag’in you,
The sun an’ the wind an’ all that,
An’ she’ll bust ev’ry road
An’ she’ll stall ev’ry load
An’ your timber will stay where it’s at.
You ought to know somethin, of woman—You’ve seen her both single an’ wed;You know you can’t stirAny notion in herWhen once it gits into her head.But, of all of the contrary women,Miss Spring is the worst of the lot;When you want her to freezeShe will thaw, if you please,An’ she’ll freeze when you’re wantin’ it hot.
You ought to know somethin, of woman—
You’ve seen her both single an’ wed;
You know you can’t stir
Any notion in her
When once it gits into her head.
But, of all of the contrary women,
Miss Spring is the worst of the lot;
When you want her to freeze
She will thaw, if you please,
An’ she’ll freeze when you’re wantin’ it hot.
No use to dispute with a heiferEr argue a case with a skirt;If Spring wants to thaw,Neither reason ner lawWill keep her from doin’ you dirt.It’s will er it’s won’t with a woman—She says when she won’t er she will.You kin talk till you’re blackIn the face, but the shackWill be bossed by the petticoats still.
No use to dispute with a heifer
Er argue a case with a skirt;
If Spring wants to thaw,
Neither reason ner law
Will keep her from doin’ you dirt.
It’s will er it’s won’t with a woman—
She says when she won’t er she will.
You kin talk till you’re black
In the face, but the shack
Will be bossed by the petticoats still.
We think we’re her lord an’ her master,She swears she will love an’ obey.We think we’re the headOf the house, as she saidWe would be when we bore her away.But a month er so after the weddin’,When honeymoon season is flown,She quits sayin’ “dear”An’ she gits on her earAn’ she kicks us plumb off of the throne.
We think we’re her lord an’ her master,
She swears she will love an’ obey.
We think we’re the head
Of the house, as she said
We would be when we bore her away.
But a month er so after the weddin’,
When honeymoon season is flown,
She quits sayin’ “dear”
An’ she gits on her ear
An’ she kicks us plumb off of the throne.
It’s likewise up here in the timber:We think we are runnin’ the thing;We’re falling the treesAn’ we’re makin’ it freeze—But all of a sudden it’s Spring.Then it’s mix up a walk fer the swampersAn’ can the whole mackinaw mob;No use fer the bossEr the crew er the hoss—Miss Spring has got back on the job.
It’s likewise up here in the timber:
We think we are runnin’ the thing;
We’re falling the trees
An’ we’re makin’ it freeze—
But all of a sudden it’s Spring.
Then it’s mix up a walk fer the swampers
An’ can the whole mackinaw mob;
No use fer the boss
Er the crew er the hoss—
Miss Spring has got back on the job.