Come all you jolly raftsmen, who run the river down,
Be careful where you run your raft or you will run aground
CHO: And Boys, shove your grog around
The scores are on their own.
For we're the boys that fear no noise
Although we're far from home.
Well we sailed around old Butler, and nothing did we fear
Until we came to Sawmill Rift, and plunged against the pier.
Now, Henry Lodge stood at the oar, his voice so firm and strong
For when he struck the rock, by God, it almost knocked him down.
There was one among our number, and his name was Little Moe
He plunged right in among the logs and saved 'most all our clothes.
From Songs of a New York Lumberjack, Stekert. Collected from Fuzzy Barhight.
Note: A book called Canoeing the Delaware River, Letcher, quotes the first
verse, and attributes it to Robert "Boney" Quillan, "...a raftsman-poet
of the nineteenth century. Place names are on the Delaware River in
Pennsylvania, just above the New York border. RG
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