He would wince to wade and wallow--and I hate a horse or steer! But we stand the kings of herders--he for There and I for Here; Though he rides with Death behind him when he rounds the wild stampede, I will chop the jamming king-log and I'll match him deed for deed; And for me the greenwood savor, and the lash across my face Of the spitting spume that belches from the back-wash of the race; The glory of the tumult where the tumbling torrent rolls, With half a hundred drivers riding through with lunging poles; Here's huzza, for reckless chances! Here's hurrah for those who ride Through the jaws of boiling sluices, yeasty white from side to side! Our brawny fists are calloused, and we're mostly holes and hair, But if grit were golden bullion we'd have coin to spend and spare!
Here some rips and there the lips of a whirlpool's bellowing mouth, Death we clinch and Time we fight, for behind us gasps the Drouth; Twenty a month, bateau for a home, and only a peep at town, For our money is gone in a brace of nights after the drive is down; But with peavies and poles and care-free souls our ragged and roofless crew Swarms gayly along with whoop and song when the Allegash drive goes through.
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