BALLAD OF THE BACK ROAD FARMER

Well, now, the time is here again, we’ve waited for this moment when

We’d start to tap the maple trees, when days are warm but nights still freeze.

The snow is melting in the bush, and in the fields it’s turned to slush,

That’s when I get my auger out, and hunt for every misplaced spout.

The buckets are all checked with care to see if any leaks are there.

A pile of nice dry wood I’ve got to make the fire burn so hot.

The iron kettle shines like new (used elbow grease and ashes, too),

And now, it’s ready, all our gear, to make our syrup for the year.

Some like their syrup made from corn while others treat that stuff with scorn;

A sweet, but tasteless thing to me, for I prefer mine from a tree.

And when the sap drips in the pail, I’ll drink a quart and never fail

To drink a bit each hour or so – it helps make winter’s ills to go.

The fire burns a flaming red till red hot coals can form a bed;

The sap, which boiled so hard at first, is getting thick, and must be nursed,

So it won’t burn or turn too brown, you must take care when boiling down.

But when it’s done, oh me, oh my, that stuff tastes good in cake or pie,

And when you pour this maple treat on flapjacks, what a pile you’ll eat!

Yes sir, this is one time of the year when work is something I don’t fear.

For one things sure, on this I’ll bet, good maple syrup’s worth the sweat. H.M. Self, Bancroft.