Classic Poem

We're breakin' camp on Sunday, we're goin' back to town,
We'll hit the trail on Monday, the last big stick is down.
I heard it roar an' rumble, I watched the giant fall;
I saw the pine-tree tumble, the last old boy of all.

Old pine, the truth I'm learnin': I, too, have had my day;
I, too, no more returnin' will come along the way.
For Time's keen ax has hit me an' sent me to the dump;
For Time has come to git me, an' life is but a stump.

There may come other seasons an' other fightin' men,
But I, for Time's good reasons, will not come back again.
I am a dead pine standin' upon a treeless hill;
Death waits beside the landin' to claim me as he will.

For forty years I've tramped it by tote-road an' by trail;
For forty years I've camped it in rain an' snow an' hail;
But now my arm no longer will clear away the pine,
An' younger men an' stronger will do this work of mine.

An' yet I will not sorrow, though age is in my veins,
Though but a short to-morrow to such as me remains.
For, when the strand shall sever, some friend will come an' say:
“Now give him rest forever—for, God, he worked his way!”