Classic Poem

So now they are pinnin' of medals on people, I see by the news:
They're huntin' the highways for heroes an' beatin' the byways for clues,
An' ketchin', convictin' an' markin', while Andy more martyrs pursues.

That's all very pleasant an' proper, but leads me to wonderin' what
They figger down east is a hero, they figger is brave an' is not;
I bet, while they're huntin' for heroes, a few of our own we have got—

A few of our own on the river, that never no medals will wear
Because all the things they are doin' they always are doin' out there,
With no one to 'specially notice an' no one to 'specially care.

It's courage to fight the quickwater a moment some mortal to save,
It's courage the rapids to rassle an' rescue some fool from the grave;
But to do it for bread an' for butter all day ain't considered so brave.

I reckon we won't git no medals up here for the chances we take;
It's just for the wife an' the babies, the rent an' a grocery stake
We come at the call of the river, the jam an' the rollway to break.

We won't git no thousand a-livin', we won't wear no ornaments dead;
There ain't none of us that are heroes—we're rats of the river instead;
An' we ain't runnin' rapids for glory—we're just fightin' trouble for bread.