BREAKING CAMP

FAREWELL to our camp on the banks of the Eddy,
Where we frightened the herons with laughter and song.
Our skiff is hauled up and the knapsacks are ready—
Our whiskey runs short, and the journey is long.
The captain complains
That it constantly rains,
And swears he prefers a secession attack.
For each rheumatic pain
Makes it hard to abstain
From crooking his elbow—to straighten his back.

Farewell to the spot where the doe came to water,
And passed us in camp with the speed of the wind.
(If I wanted to lie I would say that we shot her.)
Farewell to the hounds that came limping behind.
Farewell to the camp
With its earwigs and damp,
Its mountains and valleys, too rugged for use,
Where each tramp after fish
Made us ardently wish
We had gone in more freely for cereal juice.

Our flies were the finest, our hooks were the Kirby—
But trout wouldn’t rise with the water so high.
And ’tis strange—but ’tis true—that the captain and Derby
The more they got wet, were more thoroughly dry!
Farewell to the gnats
That could bite through our hats,
To savage musquitoes, and punkies and rain;
To the bright-flashing spires
That went up from our fires,
Till we camp on the banks of the Eddy again.

June, 1869