Explore "The Old Camp-Oven" by Edward Dyson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We don't keep a grand piano in our hut beside the / creek, / And I'm pretty certain Hannah couldn't bang it, / anyhow, / But we've got one box of music, and I'd rather hear / its squeak / Than the daisiest cantata that's been fashioned up / to now. / It's an old camp-oven merely, with a handle made of / wire, / But no organ built could nearly compensate to me / for it / When I come off graft and find it playing tunes / before the fire, / And I'm feeling sort of vacant, but just wonder / fully fit.
In its sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, / There's a thousand little airs, / And no man can sit and grizzle / 'Bout his troubles and his cares / While the flames are gaily winding, / And the tea is down to brew, / And the old camp-oven's grinding / All the reels he ever knew.