Summer Morn

Written by: Jon A Cavanaugh

I love to rise on a summer morn
And feed the game birds old stale bread
The distant hunter sounds his horn
Takes sharp aim and shoots them dead
Oh! What delicacy

To go to work on a summer morn
A job I do without a fear
A calling for which I was born
But for reasons still unclear
Perhaps because the mines are near

Ah! Then at times I drooping sit
The coal mines drain me of my power
Soot covers black as night
I'd like to sit just one more hour
But it's time for bed I'd better shower

How can this little parakeet
Sit in a cage and sing
The creature that the gases beat
And that shall soon my stomach meet
What a shame but such a treat

O! Father and mother when buds are nip-ped
Though my strength be blown away
I'll enjoy the beers I've tip-ped
And think no more this weary day
Work tomorrow? Oh dismay

How shall the summer arise with joy
Unless perhaps vacation's near
A small reprieve which griefs destroy
What's holding up my round of beer
I hope it shows sometime this year