The Old Camp-Oven

We don't keep a grand piano in our hut beside the creek,     And Im pretty certain Hannah couldnt bang it, anyhow,     But weve got one box of music, and Id rather hear its squeak     Than the daisiest cantata thats been fashioned up to now.     Its 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 Im feeling sort of vacant, but just wonder fully fit.          In its sizzle, sizzle, sizzle,     Theres 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-ovens grinding     All the reels he ever knew.          When the wet winds meet and whip me in the early winter nights,     And the hissing hailstones clip me all the way across the flat,     As I battle forards, water-logged, toward the beckoning lights,     There is always there a welcome to console a chap for that.     For my little wife is beaming brisk and bright beside the lamp,     And the old camp-ovens going. Gosh! I feel just like a kid     As I peel and sluice so slippy, and I hear the storm winds vamp     To the singing of the oven when the missus lifts the lid.          Theres a sizzle and a splutter     And a whirr of many harps;     Wheres the instrument can utter     Such a maze of flats and sharps?     Not for me the great creations     When the old camp-oven plays     Home Sweet Home, with variations,     At the end of working days.          In the evenings dim and hazy, stretched outside along a butt,     Feeling reasonably lazy, blowing clouds that curl and climb,     I can hear the old camp-oven on the logs before the hut     Ripping out a mellow chorus that just suits the place and time.     If we strike it in the ranges, or The Windmill turns out well,     I suppose therell be some changes, and Ill want to make things gee;     But the time will never happen when Ill be so steep a swell     That the old camp-ovens measure wont be melody to me.          Neath its bubble, bubble, bubble,     Theres the lilt of jigs and reels;     All the common kind of trouble     That the horney-handed feels     Is wiped out in half a minute     By the restfulness it brings,     And the peaceful rapture in it     When the old camp-oven sings