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Robert W Service - The Little Old Log Cabin
Work rating: Medium

When a man gits on his uppers in a hard-pan sort of town,
    An` he ain`t got nothin` comin` an` he can`t afford ter eat,
An` he`s in a fix for lodgin` an` he wanders up an` down,
    An` you`d fancy he`d been boozin`, he`s so locoed `bout the feet;
When he`s feelin` sneakin` sorry an` his belt is hangin` slack,
    An` his face is peaked an` gray-like an` his heart gits down an` whines,
Then he`s apt ter git a-thinkin` an` a-wishin` he was back
    In the little ol` log cabin in the shadder of the pines.

When he`s on the blazin` desert an` his canteen`s sprung a leak,
    An` he`s all alone an` crazy an` he`s crawlin` like a snail,
An` his tongue`s so black an` swollen that it hurts him fer to speak,
    An` he gouges down fer water an` the raven`s on his trail;
When he`s done with care and cursin` an` he feels more like to cry,
    An` he sees ol` Death a-grinnin` an` he thinks upon his crimes,
Then he`s like ter hev` a vision, as he settles down ter die,
    Of the little ol` log cabin an` the roses an` the vines.

Oh, the little ol` log cabin, it`s a solemn shinin` mark,
    When a feller gits ter sinnin` an` a-goin` ter the wall,
An` folks don`t understand him an` he`s gropin` in the dark,
    An` he`s sick of bein` cursed at an` he`s longin` fer his call!
When the sun of life`s a-sinkin` you can see it `way above,
    On the hill from out the shadder in a glory `gin the sky,
An` your mother`s voice is callin`, an` her arms are stretched in love,
    An` somehow you`re glad you`re goin`, an` you ain`t a-scared to die;
When you`ll be like a kid again an` nestle to her breast,
    An` never leave its shelter, an` forget, an` love, an` rest.
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