Matin Song Of Pete Long’S Cook

It’s dark in the camp, and the woods outside

Are dark, dark, too!

And a hundred men still open wide

Their loud bay-zoo.

It’s sort of mean to rout ’em jus’

To work once more;

I’d like to let each tired cuss

Jus’ lay and snore.

But I’ve been up for an hour or two

And grub’s all on;

And now as the cook of Pete Long’s crew

I toot my horn.

The weirdest of all wood-sounds, by the way,

Is a cook’s queer cadence at break of day:

Whoo-e-e-e!

Git UP!

The grub is on the table, boys, the coffee’s on

the bile:

The swagon’s hotter’n Tophet and I swear ’twill

make you smile.

There’s whiskers on the gingerbread, the biskit

can’t be beat;

I’ve got molasses sinkers made from mother’s

old receipt.

--Oh, I’ve got molasses sinkers built around

some extra holes;

They’ll make you think of home and friends and

tickle up your souls.

The beans come out a-roarin’ when I boosted

up the lid;

They chuckled when I pried ’em out--they

laughed, I swear they did.

Don’t jolly me about your smells of Araby the

blest,

--Jus’ take a snuff of ground-baked beans all

hot from out their nest.

The grub is on the table, boys, hurroop, hurroop,

whoo-e-e-e!

Come, tumble out, git on a move! Good Lord,

it’s after three!

Rise up and shine, my gentle lambs, surround

your breakfast quick,

Or else you’ll git the sun’s ha-ha from over

Tumble Dick.

And if the timer heaves a growl and docks you

in his book,

Jus’ blame your own durn lazy luck--don’t

lay it on the cook.

For ev’ry man who’s et my cream-of-tartar bis-

kit knows

The cook of this ’ere camp, by smut, ’s the

earliest bird that crows.

For I’m old enough to spell a-a-a-ble!

The grub is all on the ta-a-a-ble!

Whoo-e-e-e!

Git UP!