The Hair Of The Dog
There was a lumberjack who tried
To break away from booze,
An' ev'ry Winter nearly died,
An' yet the fight'd lose;
All Winter he would go without
An' never take a thing;
An' then would kill himself, about,
With whisky in the Spring.
Last Winter up to camp he come
An', as he always would,
Announced that he was through with rum,
An' through with it for good.
He sprung a gold-cure of his own:
To show that he was strong,
That he could leave the stuff alone,
He brought a quart along.
He put that whisky in his bunk;
He slept with it at night;
But not a drink he ever drunk,
An' no one saw him tight.
Each day he said, “All yesterday
I didn't taste the stuff.
I guess, old booze,” he used to say,
“You'll see it ain't a bluff.”
A week, a month, the Winter passed,
But still it was the same—
For he had won the fight at last
An' proved that he was game.
An', when he come to town again,
He'd lean against the bar
An' tell the other drinkin' men
What omadhauns they are.
No doubt there are a bunch of things
That worry us a lot;
But maybe we could pull their stings
If close to them we got,
If we that way of his'd try—
Just bunked with them a bit,
Just looked them squarely in the eye,
An' showed a little grit.
To break away from booze,
An' ev'ry Winter nearly died,
An' yet the fight'd lose;
All Winter he would go without
An' never take a thing;
An' then would kill himself, about,
With whisky in the Spring.
Last Winter up to camp he come
An', as he always would,
Announced that he was through with rum,
An' through with it for good.
He sprung a gold-cure of his own:
To show that he was strong,
That he could leave the stuff alone,
He brought a quart along.
He put that whisky in his bunk;
He slept with it at night;
But not a drink he ever drunk,
An' no one saw him tight.
Each day he said, “All yesterday
I didn't taste the stuff.
I guess, old booze,” he used to say,
“You'll see it ain't a bluff.”
A week, a month, the Winter passed,
But still it was the same—
For he had won the fight at last
An' proved that he was game.
An', when he come to town again,
He'd lean against the bar
An' tell the other drinkin' men
What omadhauns they are.
No doubt there are a bunch of things
That worry us a lot;
But maybe we could pull their stings
If close to them we got,
If we that way of his'd try—
Just bunked with them a bit,
Just looked them squarely in the eye,
An' showed a little grit.
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.