’Board For The Allegash”

A hundred miles through the wilds of Maine You soon may ride on a railroad train.

Some Yankee hustlers have planned the scheme To take the place of the tote-road team.

They have the charter, the grit and cash To stretch their tracks to the Allegash.

Along the length of the forest route The woodland creatures will hear the hoot Of the bullgine’s whistle, where up to now The big bull moose has called his cow.

And old Katahdin’s long fin-back Will echo loud with the clickity-clack Of wheels that merrily clatter and clash Through the sylvan wastes toward the Allegash.

Sing hey! for the route to Churchill Lake,

But oh, for the chap who twists the brake.

His buckskin gloves will save the wear On his good stout palms, you know, but where Will he find relief when his throat is lame With the wrench of a yard-long Indian name? ’Tis something, friend, of a lingual trick To say “Seboois” and “Wassataquoick,”

“Lunksoos,” is tame and “Nesourdneheunk,” But what do you say to a verbal chunk To chew at once of the size of this:

“Pok-um-kes-wango-mok-kessis”?

I don’t believe’twould phase a man To bellow out “Lah-kah-hegan His windpipe scarcely would get a crook By spouting forth, “Pong-kwahemook,”

And even “Pata-quon-gamis”

Is easy. But just look at this:

Ah, where is he who wouldn’t run From “Ap-mo-jenen-ma-ganun”?

E’en “Umbazookskus” scratches some,

But doesn’t this just strike you dumb?

“Nahma-juns-kwon-ahgamoc”?

Just think of having that to sock Athwart the palpitating air Straight at a frightened passengaire.

Hot bearings can be swabbed with oil,

And busted culverts yield to toil,

One can replace a broken rail But larynxes are not on sale.

So, while it’s hey for Churchill Lake It’s oh, for the chap who twists the brake.