I couldn't find a place for this, so I decided to add it to the cooking section. :surrender:
Something I ran across on my WWW travels!
**********************************
CABIN FEVER
By SNOWDANCER
Here I sit in my cabin squat, wait'n on winters wrath.
Been five months and thirteen days, since last I took a bath.
I'm down to boiling my boots and I've already ate me hat.
Its been a long cold winter, I've only shot, the "cabin rat".
I wait by the window, at each dawning of the day.
My rifle's loaded, my hopes I abide.
It's so dam cold out there, some critters surly wanting inside.
As I sit and ponder times before, when I was young, able and fit.
I'd be out on the trail, running traps and shoot'n game.
Now all I do in this cabin small,is sit, sit, sit.
The hooch is gone, the larder's bare.
The only hides, that I've for trade, are a Rat and a Fox,
I caught in a snare.
While I wait for my boots to boil. I think of years ago.
I left me home in Summerset, with its stone houses, row on row.
I took the family silver and a curl of my Mother's hair.
I bade goodbye to me drinking mates
And hurridly passed,the home of my lass.
For what I'd done I wouldn't stop, not even on a dare.
I crossed the ocean waters, to Canada's eastern shore.
I traded the last of me plunder, for a smooth bore rifle and horn.
I sold my soul to the Northwest Store, for powder, traps and ball.
I set out for the land of the Swampy Cree,
I remember, it was late in the fall.
I stayed the west, I trapped the Delta and hunted the plains.
I fought, I drank and freed myself, of those Northwest chains.
I took to me a woman, the winter of twentythree.
She surly was no hag!
That first glorious winter, she sewed for me, a Possibles Bag.
She was tall and buxom and as beautiful, as a blossoming tree,
She came from the land of the Metis, was Irish and Cree.
Like the lass from Summerset, I never treated her right.
I spent my days a wandering, and only thought of her at night.
They say she left with a wagon train, one cold and rainy day.
But I know she's with a Trapper and lives near Hudson Bay.
I stoke the fire and bring the boots to boil.
It's a hell of land and hell of hand, that I alone did deal
Ah! this soup is tasty. Needs, but another pinch of heel.
So here I sit, wait'n out the winter.
My only plunder, some rusty traps,
Two skins and a smooth bore flinter.
My poke is bare, my minds amok,
My fate - dying in this old wooden chair.
Thank goodness for my treasure,
A lock of Mother's hair.
© B.W.Pearson 2000
Something I ran across on my WWW travels!
**********************************
CABIN FEVER
By SNOWDANCER
Here I sit in my cabin squat, wait'n on winters wrath.
Been five months and thirteen days, since last I took a bath.
I'm down to boiling my boots and I've already ate me hat.
Its been a long cold winter, I've only shot, the "cabin rat".
I wait by the window, at each dawning of the day.
My rifle's loaded, my hopes I abide.
It's so dam cold out there, some critters surly wanting inside.
As I sit and ponder times before, when I was young, able and fit.
I'd be out on the trail, running traps and shoot'n game.
Now all I do in this cabin small,is sit, sit, sit.
The hooch is gone, the larder's bare.
The only hides, that I've for trade, are a Rat and a Fox,
I caught in a snare.
While I wait for my boots to boil. I think of years ago.
I left me home in Summerset, with its stone houses, row on row.
I took the family silver and a curl of my Mother's hair.
I bade goodbye to me drinking mates
And hurridly passed,the home of my lass.
For what I'd done I wouldn't stop, not even on a dare.
I crossed the ocean waters, to Canada's eastern shore.
I traded the last of me plunder, for a smooth bore rifle and horn.
I sold my soul to the Northwest Store, for powder, traps and ball.
I set out for the land of the Swampy Cree,
I remember, it was late in the fall.
I stayed the west, I trapped the Delta and hunted the plains.
I fought, I drank and freed myself, of those Northwest chains.
I took to me a woman, the winter of twentythree.
She surly was no hag!
That first glorious winter, she sewed for me, a Possibles Bag.
She was tall and buxom and as beautiful, as a blossoming tree,
She came from the land of the Metis, was Irish and Cree.
Like the lass from Summerset, I never treated her right.
I spent my days a wandering, and only thought of her at night.
They say she left with a wagon train, one cold and rainy day.
But I know she's with a Trapper and lives near Hudson Bay.
I stoke the fire and bring the boots to boil.
It's a hell of land and hell of hand, that I alone did deal
Ah! this soup is tasty. Needs, but another pinch of heel.
So here I sit, wait'n out the winter.
My only plunder, some rusty traps,
Two skins and a smooth bore flinter.
My poke is bare, my minds amok,
My fate - dying in this old wooden chair.
Thank goodness for my treasure,
A lock of Mother's hair.
© B.W.Pearson 2000
