Classic Poem

Deep in the Sunset Valley
Ill fortune had detained;
Bacon and beans were finished;
Of flour, none remained.

But now with tents and blankets,
Facing the backward track,
All hands were feeling cheerful
Save the cook--his looks were black.

They'd packed across the mountains
Where trails were never known,
Through leagues of heavy timber
And rock slides overgrown;

Had bridged the swollen torrents
By felling trees across;
And scrambled through the canyons
That walled the river's course.

The horses of the pack train
Had died in dark despair
When brought to face the prospect
Of using goat trails there;

So man a beast of burden
Himself was forced to be;
The crew packed grub and blankets
And the cook the cutlery,

The dishpans and the kettles,
The basins and a pot,
A battered old reflector,
Cups, bowls and plates, Great Scott!

Cymbals and drums weren't in it
When cook did have a spill;
The crash of warlike music
Echoed from hill to hill

As down his pack came bounding,
Spurning the canyon walls,
Scattering pots and dishes,
Leaping the waterfalls.

The packers looked in terror
To see the cook come too
As past their dizzy erie
The clanging luggage flew;

When anxiously they hailed him,
The cook, he only swore:
"If I survive this picnic
So help me--nevermore."