We Fellers Diggin' Clams

Pluck, pluck,
Pluck, pluck!
Stubbin' acrost the clam-flat muck!
Ev'ry time I lift my huck,
--Hearin' the heel of my old boot suck,
It seems to me that a word plops out,
And I've listened so often there ain't no doubt
It's pluck, pluck, pluck.
And pluck and the job they jest agree
--Dig clams, my lad, for a while and see!
It's a stiddy kind of bus'ness an' it ain't for shiny boots,
But still--ye know,'tain't bad!
It ain't an occurpation for the millionaire galoots,
But'tain't so mighty wuss, my lad.
It's a stiddy kind of bus'ness where there ain't no room for doubt
As to what'ull be the profit and where ye're cornin' out.
For there ain't no books and ledgers, and no botherin' with deals,
No dodgin' law and lawyers and no stock contrivin' steals.
Simply take a leaky dory and a basket and a hoe,
And you're fixed for doin' bus'ness--ev'ry feller has a show.
When the old Atlantic ocean pulls away his swashin' tide
Why, the bank is there 'before you and the doors are opened wide;
The flats are there etarnal and you never find the sign
Sayin', "Bank has shet up business--pres'- dent's skipped acrost the line."
Shuck away yer co't and weskit, grab the clamhoe's muddy haft,
And endorsed by grit and muscle you'll get cash on ev'ry draft.
For yer check-book's there, the clam flat; and yer pen, sir, is the hoe,
And accounts are balanced daily by the ocean's ebb and flow.
Then the climbin', crawlin' water rubs the diggin' marks away,
And the clams are jest as plenty when you come another day.
And the sleep that follers labor kind of smooths'- us, as the tide
Smooths the nickin's on the clam-flats where our busy hoes have pried.
So the nights are nights of comfort and I mostly can forget
That the days are days of diggin',--cold and muddy, lame and wet.
For Fd rather have a backache than a rattled, burnin' brain,
And I guess I'm fair contented with the clam flats here in Maine.
For I'm thinkin' worried critters in the rushin', pushin' jams
Likely'nough ain't nigh so happy as we fellers diggin' clams.