They’ll yoke you to another mate
And work you early, long and late.
The “goad stick’s point will puncture you
And make you loudly moan and moo.
They’ll hitch you to a logging sled
While I’ll be slumbering in my bed.
They’ll hitch you to a crotch or sleigh,
And make you labor, day by day,
For three long weary months or more,
Until your bones are stiff and sore.
You’ll wade through snow up to your chest,
Without a daylight moment’s rest.
They’ll diet you on corn and hay,
And give you not a cent of pay.
And when the winter days are o’er
And “gentle spring” returns once more,
They’ll send you back from whence you
came,
Though you be weary, sore and lame.
And when you’ve rested for a while,
And bright spring days begin to smile,
They’ll hitch you to the plow again,
And make you pull with might and main.
Horse flies will bite you on the nose,
Your ribs resound with kicks and blows.
Thus, month by month from year to year,
82
