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 biskit 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!