We have songs on many topics,
New and old, beneath the sun,
But, alas, in many cases,
Minstrelsy is overdone;
So I'll sing a song of labor—
Where the muse is rather slack—
And my theme shall be of timber
And the hardy lumberjack.
Now republican traditions
Are so grafted in our bones,
That e'en monarchs of the forest
Must be tumbled from their thrones.
And to raze those ancient strongholds
We have armies of the axe,
Plucky pioneers of progress,
Known to all as lumberjacks.
He may lack the wings of angels
And the sanctity of saints:
If a town's in need of painting
He may furnish all the paints.
Yet he lapses but a moment
And again he hies him back
Close unto the heart of nature,
Does the lonesome lumberjack.
There amid his wild surroundings
And the crooning of the trees,
He finds balm for mind and body
Borne on every passing breeze.

There is something strangely healing
In the magic of the myrrh,
In the odor of the cedar
And the fragrance of the fir!
Grind your axes, O my heroes,
Point your peavies, file your saws;
Let your ropes and chains and cables
Be examined now for flaws.
Fire up the iron donkey,
Till each rivet feels the strain,
Lumberjack has had his outing
And returns to camp again!
There is music in the axe fall
As it sounds upon the ear;
There is music in the sawing
When the dust is flying clear—
Aye, there's music for the lumberjack
Magnificent of sound,
In the crashing of the timber
As it thunders to the ground.
He will never lack for music
While the owl is keeping time
With the ceaseless serenading
Of the frog within the slime.
But the music ever sounding,
With the sweetest of appeals,
Is the ding-dong of the iron gong
That calls him to his meals!

He's a credit to his calling,
To his country and his clan:
There is not a dude among them—
Every lumberjack's a man.
And you'll find him ever cheerful,
In the sunshine or the rain,
From the camps of B. Columbia
To the lumber camps of Maine.
He may show a rough exterior,
But his heart is warm within—
Mark him poring o'er that letter,
Just received from home and kin:
Tears will gather hot and blinding
And he cannot hold them back,
Reading words from distant loved ones
to their absent lumberjack!
'Tis, perchance, a loving message
From a sweetheart far away,
Or a tender admonition
From a mother old and gray.
O, ye lumberjacks, remember,
That wherever ye may roam,
There are anxious hearts awaiting
For an answer "back at home"!
When the sun in golden glory
Hath descended in the west,
They indulge in song and story
Till they seek their bunks for rest:

There to dream of scenes of childhood,
Amid mountain stream or glen,
Till old Sol in morning splendor
Calls them to their tasks again.
Soft and soothing are the voices
As the shades of evening fall,
Stealing gently through the forest—
Brooding calmly over all.
By yon lake a loon is calling
And the night bird answers back,
Keeping vigil o'er the slumbers
Of the weary lumberjack.
O, the lumberjack is loyal
And he'll surely see to it,
In the grind against the Kaiser
That each axe will "do its bit";
He will spruce up for the allies
Till ten thousand airplanes hum,
All to win the war for freedom
And democracy, by gum!

Grind your axes, O my heroes,
Point your peavies, file your saws,
Let your ropes and chains and cables
Be examined now for flaws:
Fire up the iron donkey
Till each rivet feels the strain,
Lumberjack will help the Allies
Win the war with ship and plane!