Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 January 1900 — LYRIC OF THE BUCKSAW. [ARTICLE]

LYRIC OF THE BUCKSAW.

Ur-r rick, ur-rraw! Ur-r rick, ur-r raw! Have you buckled your back to an old bucksaw? Have you doubled your knee on a knotty stick And bobbed to the tune of ur-raw—ur-r rick? Have you sawed till your eyeballs goggled and popped, Have you yeaked her up and yawked her down'* 4 A, doleful a lad as there was in town ? If so we can talk of the back-bent woe That followed the youngsters of long ago. Ah, urban chap with your anthracite Pass on, for you cannot fathom quite The talk that I made this other chap Who got no cuddling in comfort’s lap. You'll scarcely follow me when I sing Of the rasping buck-saw’s dancing spring. For the nigged rhythm is fashioned for The ear that rememberslur-r rick ur-r raw. Ur-r raw, ur-r rick, Ur-r raw, ur-r rick, We pecked at our mountain stick by stick Our dad was a man who was mighty good In getting the women folks lots of wood, And as soon as sledding came to stay Jack got all work and he got no play. For daily the ox-sleds creaked and crawked Till the yard was full and the buck-saws talked. Twas rugged toil and we humped our backs, But we scarce kept pace with dad’s big ax. There were bitter mornings of .“ten below,” There were days of bluster and days of snow, But with double mittens, a big wool scarf And coonskin earlaps we used to laugh At the fussiest blast old Boreas shrieked And the nippingest pinches Jack Frost tweaked. We were warm as the blade of the yanking saw That steamed to the tone of ur-r rick, ur-r raw! Ur-r raw, ur-r rick, Ur-r raw, ur-r rick. Ho, men at the desks, there, dull and sick! You slap your hands to your stiff old backs At thought of the days of the saw and the ax. And you press your palms to an aching brow And shiver to think of a saw-buck now. But. ah, old fellows, you can't deny You hanker a bit for the times gone by. When the toil of the tasks that filled the day Made bright by contrast our bits of play. O, grateful the hour at set of sun When the tea was hot and the biscuits ‘‘done.’ ’ When chocking his ax in the chopping block Dad sung “Knock off, boys; five o’clock.” Now tell me truly, ye wearied men, Are you ever as happy as you were then. When you straightened your toil-bent, weary backs At the welcome plop of dad’s old ax? And tell me truly can you forget The sight of the table that mother set. When dropping the saws in the twilight gloom We trooped to the cheer of the dear foreroom, And there in the red shade's mellow light Made feast with a grand, good appetite? Made feast at the sweet, old homespun board On the plum preserves and the cran’ jell stored For demands like these; and made great holes In the heaps of the cream-o'-tartar rolls— Ah. gusto! fickle and faint above The savory viands you used to love, What wouldn’t you give for the shatp-set Ung That followed those days when the steel teeth sang?— For zest was as keen as the bright, swift saw , When you humped to the tune of ur-r rick, ur-rraw. —Lewiston Journal.