Motor Boats On "Lizzard Crick"

The summer season’s comin’ on, the birds are gittin’ thick,

They’re busy buildin’ nests along the shores uv “Lizzard Crick”;

They’re chirpin’ when the sun is out, complainin’ when it’s gray,

But ever hopeful thet their songs will bring a brighter day.

The turkles  they are crawlin’ frum the miry medder bogs

To feel the warm spring sun ag’in upon the ha’f-soaked logs;

The bull-frogs in the marshes they are singin “jug-o-rum!”

A-tryin’ to convince themselves thet good ol’ summer’s come.

These are the joyful sounds we’ve heard fur fifty years or more,

The bull-frogs on the lily-pads, the birds along the shore

The soughin’ of the gentle pine thet sways upon the hill,

The murmur of the distant brook thet turns the Gungy mill.

But other sounds hev entered in this wondrous parrerdise

This fairy land so long removed frum greed an enterprise;

The city folks hev found it out, an’ now the song bird notes

Are drownded out the livelong day by noisy motor boats.

     For it’s “chug, chug, chug”, an’ it’s “puff, puff, puff”,

     When the ol’ Crick’s still an’ when it’s rough;

An’ it’s “pop, pop, pop”, an’ it’s “bark, bark, bark”,

From the rise of the sun, till long past dark,

Upstream an’ downstream, all along the Crick

Till my heart grows cold an’ my soul grows sick.

          It’s coughin’ an’ puffin’

          An’ sneezin’ an’ snuffin’

Spoilin’ the silence uv “Lizzard Crick”.

The turkle sets upon the log an’ wonders at the noise,

The cat-bird in the alder bush has been denied his joys;

The bull-frog he hez strained himself, hez hurt his plastic throat

By tryin’ uv his level best to drown the motor boat.

The bald ol’ eagle in the sky he wavers round an’ round

An’ cries with disappointment o’er the soul-disturbin’ sound;

An’ grandpap. at the kitchen door, he shakes his bushy head

O’er all this modern fillergree, o’er memories long dead.

O, Gungywamp hez entered in an age uv fuss an’ noise;

She’s goin’ on the homeward stretch thet cripples an’ destroys.

The rowboat rots upon the shore, the oars are laid away,

Gone are the rafts we poled around in that long bygone day!

Ol’ “Lizzard Crick” is up to date – she kennot help herself,

An’ all her peace an’ quiet now is laid upon the shelf.

The bird-songs they are drownded by a thousand puffin’ throats

‘Cuz city folks hev sp’iled her calm by noisy motor boats.

     For it’s “chug, chug, chug”, an’ it’s “puff, puff, puff”,

     When the ol’ Crick’s still, an’ when it’s rough;

An’ it’s “pop, pop, pop”, an’ it’s “bark, bark, bark”,

From the rise of the sun, till long past dark,

Upstream, downstream, all along the shore

Till my soul grows sick an’ my heart grows sore.

          It’s coughin’ an’ puffin’

          An’ sneezin’ an’ snuffin’

Sp’ilin’ the pleasure we hed uv Yore!

April 25, 1911

Pub. May 7, ‘11

B. Herald