O'Connor from the Drive

Men who plough the sea, spend they may--and free!
But nowhere is there prodigal among those careless Jacks,
Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of lusty toil,
Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ishmaels of the Axe.
You could hear him when he started from the
Rapogenus Chutes,
You could hear the cronching-cranching of his swashing, spike-sole boots,
You could even hear the colors in the flannel shirt he wore,
And the forest fairly shivered at the way
O'Connor swore.
'Twas averred that in the city, full a hundred miles away,
They felt a little tremor when O'Connor drew his pay.
Though he drew it miles away,
When O'Connor drew his pay,
The people in the city felt the shock of it that day.
And they said in deepest gloom,
"The drive is in the boom,
And O'Connor's drawn his wages; clear the track and give him room."
He rode two giant spruces thro' the smother of the Chutes,
He rode them, standing straddled, shod and spurred in spike-sole boots;
And just for exhibition, when he struck Chesuncook Rip
He rolled the logs and ran them with never miss or slip.
For a dozen miles thro' rapids did he balance on one log,
And he shot the Big Seboomook at a mighty lively jog.
He reached Megantic Landing where he nimbly leaped ashore,
And he bought some liquid fire at the Bemis wangan store.
For, O'Connor'd drawn his pay,
He was then upon his way
For a little relaxation and a day or two of play.
The drive was in the boom,
Safely past Seboois flume,
And all O'Connor wanted was rum enough-- and room.
O'Connor owned the steamboat from Megantic to the Cove:
Whatever there was stavable, he forthwith calmly stove.
He larruped crew and captain when they wouldn't let him steer,
Sat down upon the smoke-stack--smoked out the engineer.
Of course he was arrested when the steamer got to shore;
A justice fined O'Connor and he paid the fine
--and more!
He had drawn his season's pay,
He had cash to throw away,
He had cash to burn! O'Connor'd spurn for clemency to pray.
The drive was safely down,
He was on his way to town;
He was doing up the section and proposed to do it brown.
O'Connor owned the railroad, as O'Connor'd owned the craft.
Pie cronched from rear to engine, and he chaffed and quaffed and laughed.
He smashed the plate-glass windows, for he didn't like the styles.
He smashed and promptly settled for a dozen stove-pipe tiles;
They took him into limbo right and left along the line,
He pulled his roll and willingly kept peeling off his fine.
With his portly wad of pay
He paved his genial way,
He'd had no chance to spend it on the far-off Brass-u-a.
But now the drive was in,
As he'd neither kith nor kin,
There seemed no special reason why he shouldn't throw his tin.
O'Connor reached the city and he reached it with a jar,
He had piled up all the cushions in the center of the car.
--Had set them all on fire, and around the blazing pile
He was dancing "dingle breakdowns" in a very jovial style.
And before they got him cornered they had rung in three alarms,
And it took the whole department to tie his legs and arms.
He had spent his last lone copper, but they sold his spike-sole boots
For enough to pay his freightage back to Rapogenus Chutes.
They put him in a crate,
And they shipped him back by freight,
To commence his year of chopping up in Township Number Eight.
And earnestly he swore,
When they dumped him on the shore,
He had never spent his wages quite so pleasurably before.
Men who plough the sea, spend they may--and free!
But nowhere is there prodigal among those careless Jacks,
Who will toss the hard-won spoil of a year of lusty toil,
Like the Prodigals of Pick-pole and the Ishmaels of the Axe.