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| From Songs of Miramichi by Louise Manny and James Reginald Wilson, Brunswick Press, Fredericton, New Brunswick, 1968 |
Come, bushmen all, give ear recall
Until I will relate
Of my experience in the lumbering woods
Within the grandest State.
Its snow-clad hills and winding rills,
Its mountains, rocks and plain,
You will find it very different from
The Good Old State of Maine. Of Millinyers and foreigners
They flock in by the score,
The diversity of languages
Would equal Babel’s Tower.
Italians, Russians, Poles and Finns,
The Dutchman and the Dane,
You’ll never hear such groans as those
In the Good Old State of Maine. The differ’ence in the wages, boys,
Is scarcely worth a dime;
For it’s every day you cannot work
You’re forced to lose your time.
For to pay your passage to and fro
You’ll find but little gain;
You’ll do as well to stay at home
In the Good Old State of Maine. For it’s in the Zealand Valley
You’ll find seven feet of snow,
And work from there to on the turn
Is thirty-five below.
They average there three storms a week
Or snow or sleet or rain;
You’ll seldom find such weather
In the Good Old State of Maine. Our boss he will direct you
With a loud commanding voice
Saying, “You know the regulations, boys,
Therefore you have your choice.”
Of course they did not make those rules;
Of him we can’t complain.
I’ve never heard such rules as those
In the Good Old State of Maine. It’s every night with pen and ink
They figure up the cost;
The crew is held responsible
For all things broke or lost.
An axe, a handle, or a spade,
A cant-dog or a chain,
A man is never charged for tools
In the Good Old State of Maine. They figure things so very fine
It’s hard to save a stamp;
For it’s every month they do take stock
Of all things round the camp.
Stove pots, tea kittles, knives and forks,
The draw-shave and the plane
Of those they take but small account
In the Good OId State of Maine. The rules and regulations,
As I mentioned here before,
In typewriting and in copy
Posted up on every door,
For to lose your time and pay your board
And work in snow and rain,
They call us fools to stand such rules
In the Good Old State of Maine. Now if you do not like the style,
You can go down the line,
But if you leave them in the lurch
They’ll figure with you fine;
Cut down your wages and they charge,
Your carfare on the train.
I never heard of such a thing
In the Good Old State of Maine. For it’s of the grub I’ll give a rub,
Of which it well deserves;
Our cook become so lazy
He allowed the men to starve.
’Twas bread and beans, and beans and bread,
And bread and beans again;
For grub we sometimes had a change
In the Good OId State of Maine. Here is adieu to camp and crew,
To Henery and Son;
Their names are great throughout the State,
They’re some of the sons of guns.
I wish them all prosperity
Until I return again,
But I’ll mend my ways and spend my days
In the Good Old State of Maine.