Classic Poem

The sawin' of lumber,
The fallin' of norway,
The old occupation
Of drivin' the pine,
Has brought any number
Of men to our doorway —
Brought every nation
A-crossin' the brine.
But, of every faction,
From swampers to sorters,
Who run on the rivers
Or work in the mill,
The quickest in action
In murmurin' waters,
The cattiest drivers,
Are Irishers still!

Folks talk of Quebeckers
From Saguenay fountains,
They talk of world-beaters
From valleys of spruce,
They talk of the crackers
From Tennessee mountains,
The sow-belly eaters
An' drinkers of juice,
They talk of the Oles,
The foreigner stranger
Who works when the flood of
The pine is at hand —
But the holy of holies,
The altar of danger,
Is red with the blood of
The emerald land!

The hottest in fightin',
The thirstiest drinkin',
The loudest in prayin'
When prayin' is due,
The slowest in writin',
The quickest in thinkin',
The wittiest sayin'
The thoughts of a crew —
When timber is jammin',
When trouble is makin',
When water is mirish
Or bubbles alive,
The universe damnin',
The lawg-jam a-breakin' —
Oh, there are the Irish,
The kings of the drive!