Im not sure if this is the right place to post this so feel free to move it where it needs to be.
I like this one.
Come sit with me by the campfire,
Come warm yourself, I'll share my grub.
Take a drink, friend, but do lend an ear;
You see, I've been alone for nigh on forty year.
Sit, take food, take drink, 'tis truly my pleasure to share,
But forgive me, new friend, if at you I stare.
You remind me of someone I love; she has the same colour hair.
Don't take me wrong friend - I'm no Queen,
Its just that my memory fades me so, since last of her I've seen.
Take heed, my friend. Do not squat upon my possibles bag.
It is the only treasure that I own.
My rifles worn and rusted, my knife has lost its bite,
My clothes look only their best in the very darkness of night.
I use to have a buckle, my initials did adorn,
But I lost it in the rapids, when around me the warter swarmed.
I had kicked free my trousers, so that I might swim,
I let loose my pack and paddle and reached for an outcropped limb.
As you see I made the shore, as in life with me you sit.
Oh, but the cold! I remember I shivered and shook, as if I took a fit.
On the shore I stood half-naked, no warmth from the midnight sun,
No hat, no trousers, no shoes upon my feet.
The north wind squalled around me, the fall snows cold and deep.
I truly was in a direful fix - no grub, no hooch, no gun.
My voice hastened to my maker and I sought him to foregive,
All the evil deeds I'd done.
And here I swear by the cross I wear, I heard my lady say,
"Remember the code of those who muzzleload", put all your
necessisities to a possibles bag, and keep it by your side;
it surely will help you to survive.
This fine buckskin bag, sewn by a lady's hand,
Each stitch so cherishingly placed, as if a measure of love, to her man.
With cold and trembling hands I clasped my flint and steel,
I built a roaring fire to bide me, while I planned.
The snare wire brought food and fur, to warmth my all.
The patch knife sharp but small, made for a laborous task,
To build a shelter, as winter came from fall.
Through that long cold winter, to survive my weary plight,
I ate lemmings, which to my palate were sheer delight.
To quench my thirst I drank the green spruce tea,
And conjured up the face of my lady, to ensure my sanity.
For many a night by the open firelight, I spoke to my seamtress fair,
To that lady who sewed my possibles bag, with such skill, such love, such flair.
I waited out the bitter cold of winter long and grey,
I carved her name to my cabin wall and plotted the words that I would say.
I clutched my treasure that she had so lovingly sewn,
It gave me strength, it drove me on, it lit my weary way.
Come friend don't look so sad, I know that she is well,
She has a new and wonderous pal, a confidant, someone to trust and make her glad.
While I have all those memories of the love that we once had.
Come morn we'll break this camp and share the wintery trail,
But worry not, if at times I seem to falter or behind you lag,
It's just sometimes I'm daft, my thoughts they do wander so,
I'm trail dreamin', of the lady who sewed "my possibles bag ".
I like this one.
Come sit with me by the campfire,
Come warm yourself, I'll share my grub.
Take a drink, friend, but do lend an ear;
You see, I've been alone for nigh on forty year.
Sit, take food, take drink, 'tis truly my pleasure to share,
But forgive me, new friend, if at you I stare.
You remind me of someone I love; she has the same colour hair.
Don't take me wrong friend - I'm no Queen,
Its just that my memory fades me so, since last of her I've seen.
Take heed, my friend. Do not squat upon my possibles bag.
It is the only treasure that I own.
My rifles worn and rusted, my knife has lost its bite,
My clothes look only their best in the very darkness of night.
I use to have a buckle, my initials did adorn,
But I lost it in the rapids, when around me the warter swarmed.
I had kicked free my trousers, so that I might swim,
I let loose my pack and paddle and reached for an outcropped limb.
As you see I made the shore, as in life with me you sit.
Oh, but the cold! I remember I shivered and shook, as if I took a fit.
On the shore I stood half-naked, no warmth from the midnight sun,
No hat, no trousers, no shoes upon my feet.
The north wind squalled around me, the fall snows cold and deep.
I truly was in a direful fix - no grub, no hooch, no gun.
My voice hastened to my maker and I sought him to foregive,
All the evil deeds I'd done.
And here I swear by the cross I wear, I heard my lady say,
"Remember the code of those who muzzleload", put all your
necessisities to a possibles bag, and keep it by your side;
it surely will help you to survive.
This fine buckskin bag, sewn by a lady's hand,
Each stitch so cherishingly placed, as if a measure of love, to her man.
With cold and trembling hands I clasped my flint and steel,
I built a roaring fire to bide me, while I planned.
The snare wire brought food and fur, to warmth my all.
The patch knife sharp but small, made for a laborous task,
To build a shelter, as winter came from fall.
Through that long cold winter, to survive my weary plight,
I ate lemmings, which to my palate were sheer delight.
To quench my thirst I drank the green spruce tea,
And conjured up the face of my lady, to ensure my sanity.
For many a night by the open firelight, I spoke to my seamtress fair,
To that lady who sewed my possibles bag, with such skill, such love, such flair.
I waited out the bitter cold of winter long and grey,
I carved her name to my cabin wall and plotted the words that I would say.
I clutched my treasure that she had so lovingly sewn,
It gave me strength, it drove me on, it lit my weary way.
Come friend don't look so sad, I know that she is well,
She has a new and wonderous pal, a confidant, someone to trust and make her glad.
While I have all those memories of the love that we once had.
Come morn we'll break this camp and share the wintery trail,
But worry not, if at times I seem to falter or behind you lag,
It's just sometimes I'm daft, my thoughts they do wander so,
I'm trail dreamin', of the lady who sewed "my possibles bag ".
