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Oh, a shanty-man's life is a wearisome life,
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although some think it void of care
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Swinging an ax from morning till night
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in the midst of the forests so drear.
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Lying in the shanty bleak
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and cold while the cold stormy wintry winds blow,
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And as soon as the daylight doth appear, to the wild woods we must go.
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Oh, the cook rises up in the middle of the night saying,
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“Hurrah, brave boys, it's day."
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Broken slumbers ofttimes are passed
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as the cold winter night whiles away.
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Had we rum, wine or beer our spirits
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for to cheer in days so lonely do dwine,
and cold while the cold stormy wintry winds blow,
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Or a glass of any shone while in the woods alone for to cheer up our troubled minds.
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But when spring it does set in, double hardships begin,
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when the waters are piercing cold,
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And our clothes are dripping wet and fingers benumbed,
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and our pike-poles we scarcely can hold.
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Betwixt rocks, shoals and sands
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give employment to all hands our well-banded raft for to steer,
and cold while the cold stormy wintry winds blow,
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And the rapids that we run, oh, they seem to us but fun, for we're void of all slavish fear.
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Oh, a shanty lad is the only lad I love,
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and I never will deny the same.
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My heart doth scorn these conceited farmer boys
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who think it a disgraceful name.
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They may boast about their farms,
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but my shanty-boy has charms so far, far surpassing them all,
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Until death it doth us part he shall enjoy my heart, let his riches be great or small.