Rear o’ the Drive

The rain has raised the river an’ she’s np to driving pitch,

An’ it’s oh, an’ grab your peavies an’ go sloppin’

in the wet.

We’ve got ter send ’er whoopin’ now without a ketch or hitch,

But it won’t be kid-glove bus’ness, oh, my hearties, you can bet.

Empty the water out of your boots

And gaffle your peavies, you P.I. galoots.

There’s the rips at Rundy’s Corner, and the sluice at Puzzle Gorge;

You can drive ’em and connive ’em, but the timber’s bound to lodge.

An’ sticks will buck—with best of luck—as offish-like as hogs,

For there ain’t no calkerlatin’ how you’ll run a drive o’ logs.

Chase the heathen with a sword,

Run the cattle with a goad,

All we want’s our Oldtown peavies, when our drives go overboard.

An’ we’ll foller, sloshin’ in,

Yes, we’ll waller to the chin,

An’ we’ll herd ’em through the wildest stream that ever frothed and roared.

So, look alive,

It’s after five,

An’ the drouth is a-chasin’ the rear o’ the drive.

Foller down, foller down with your peavies on your backs,

For the herd that runs ahead of us goes loafin’

’less it’s chased.

They know they’re off to market, an’ they dread the saw an’ axe,

An’ you’ve got to go and welt ’em, though the water’s to your waist,

For they balk on Depsconneagon when a sixty-

footer halts;

Ev’ry eddy stands a-ready for to swing ’em in a waltz.

An’ ev’ry rock is chock-a-block with jack-strawed pine an’ spruce,

Ontil you’ve got the devil’s job to try and turn

’em loose.

But our goadstick is the peavy, an’ our cant-dog is the pup

That’ll worry ’em an’ hurry ’em an’ rush ’em, chase ’em up.

Oh, the drouth is right behind us, but we’ve passed the North Twin flume,

An’ we’ll beat the sun in heaven in the race for Pea Cove boom.