by P.B. Fisk
Oh, bubble, bubble, bubble goes the syrup in the pan.
Making sweeter music try to top it if you can.
See the golden billows; watch their ebb and flow.
Sweetest joys indeed we sugar makers know.
When you see the vapor pillar lick the forest and the sky,
You may know the days of sugar making then are drawing nigh.
Frosty nights and sunny days make the maple pulses play,
Till congested with their sweetness they delight to bleed away.
When you see the farmer trudging with the dripping buckets home,
You may know the days of sugar making then have fully come.
As the fragrant odors pour through the open door,
How the eager children rally, ever loudly crying, "More!"
If for love or for sickness or for any sort of thing,
Take in allopathic doses and repeat it every spring.
If at home or on the sweet, anyone you meet,
Will be half a mind to bite you, 'cause you look so very sweet.