Marching Songs
Oh, the sailor may sing of his tall, swift ships,
Of sailing the deep blue sea,
But the long, white road where adventures wait
Is the better life for me.
On the open road, when the sun goes down,
Your home is wherever you are.
The sky is your roof and the earth is your bed
And you hang your hat on a star.
You wash your face in the clear, cold dew,
And you say good-night to the moon,
And the wind in the tree-tops sings you to sleep
With a drowsy boughs-y tune.
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Then it’s hey! for the joy of a roving life,
From Florida up to Nome,
For since I’ve no home in any one spot,
Wherever I am is home.
Then it’s out of the gate and down the road
Without stopping to say good-bye,
For adventure waits over every hill,
Where the road runs up to the sky.
We’re off to play with the wind and the stars,
And we sing as we march away:
O, it’s all very well to love your work,
But you’ve got to have some play.
Chorus
Oh, the winding road is long, is long,
But never too long for me.
And we’ll cheer each mile with a song, a song,
A song as we ramble along, along,
So fearless and gay and free.
Oh, it’s over the hill and down the road
And we’ll borrow the moon for a light,
And wherever we go, one thing we know:
The road will lead us right.
If you start from home by any road,
And follow each dip and bend,
What fortune you find, whether cold or kind,
You find home again at the end.
Oh, the roads run east, and the roads run west,
And it’s lots of fun to roam
When you know that whichever road you take—
That road will lead you home.
Oh, a life of adventure is gay and free,
And danger has its charm;
And no pig of spirit will bound his life
By the fence on his master’s farm.
Yet there’s no true pig but heaves a sigh
At the pleasant thought of the old home sty.
But one tires at last of wandering,
And the road grows steep and long,
A treadmill round, where no peace is found,
If one follows it overlong.
And however they wander, both pigs and men
Are always glad to get home again.
Oh, the winding road to Florida
Is a dusty road, and long,
But we animals gay have cheered the way
With many a merry song.
Our hearts were bold—but our homes were cold,
And that is why we’ve come
To Florida, to Florida,
From our far-off northern home.
In Florida, in Florida,
Where the orange-blossom blows,
Where the alligator sings so sweet,
And the sweet-potato grows;
Oh, that is the place where I would be,
And that is where I am—
In Florida, in Florida,
As happy as a clam.
We’re out on the winding road again,
The road where we belong;
By hill and valley, by meadow and stream,
On the road that’s never too long.
Never too long is the winding road,
Though it climbs the steepest hill,
Though dark the night, and heavy the load,
When the rain drives hard and chill.
For the stormiest weather will always mend;
There’s a top to the highest hill;
But the winding road has never an end,
Whether for good or ill.
And we travel the road for the love of the road,
For love of the open sky,
For love of the smell of fields fresh mowed,
As we go tramping by.
For love of the little wandering breeze,
And the thunder’s deep bass song,
Which rattles the hills and shakes the trees
Like the roar of a giant’s gong.
For love of the sun, and love of the moon
And love of the lonely stars;
And the treetoads’ trill, and the blackbirds’ tune,
And the smell of Bill Wonks’ cigars.
And there, where the road curves out of sight,
Or surely, beyond that hill,
Adventure lies, and perhaps a fight,
And perhaps a dragon to kill.
Or perhaps it’s a brand new friend we’ll make,
Or a haunted house to visit,
Or a party with peach ice cream and cake,
Or something else exquisite.
So now for us all, for pigs and men,
For lions and tigers and bears,
The open road lies open again,
And we toss aside our cares.
And we sing and holler and shout Hurray!
No matter what the weather
For we’ll not be back for many a day
While we’re out on the road together.
Red and gold wagons are coming down the street
With a Boomschmidt, Boomschmidt, boom, boom, boom;
With a shouting and music and tramp of marching feet
And a Boomschmidt, Boomschmidt, boom, boom, boom.
Hear the squeal of the cornets, rattle of the snares;
The fifes scream shrilly and the trombone blares,
And here come the lions and the tigers and the bears,
With a Boomschmidt, Boomschmidt, BOOM!
Here come the caribou and kangaroos and camels,
The koodoos, zebus, zebras, and yaks,
The hippopotamuses and the rhinoceroses
And the big gray elephants with houses on their backs.
Boom—be quick! Buy a ticket at the wicket.
Boom—get your pink lemonade. Get your gum.
Boom—get your peanuts, popcorn, lollipops,
Boom—Mr. Boom—Mr. Boomschmidt’s come!
There’s a muttering of marching feet upon the windless air;
Far across the peaceful hills of Bean the distant torches flare;
For the animals are coming, you can hear the trumpets blare
And the drums beat victory.
Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins;
Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins;
Hip, hurray for Mrs. Wiggins,
For our next Pres-i-dent!
In our hundreds and our thousands we are marching through the night.
Underneath the tossing banners, in the torches’ smoky light,
We sing our song of triumph, and we shout with all our might
For Wiggins—and victory!
When the Farmers’ Party marches let all other parties cower;
We will shatter and defeat them with our overwhelming power;
We will scatter them like chickens in a sudden thunder shower
As we march to victory!
Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins!
Hail, all hail to Mrs. Wiggins!
Hip, hurray for Mrs. Wiggins
For our next Pres-i-dent!
By the old hotel at Lakeside, looking southward ’cross the sea,
There’s a bright campfire a’burning, and I know it burns for me.
For the wind is in the pine trees, and the murmuring needles say:
Come you back, you pig detective—come you back to Jones’s Bay;
Come you baaaack to Jones’s Ba-a-a-ay!
Oh, the road to Jones’s Bay! Where the flying flapjacks play!
You can hear the bacon sizzling from your bed at break of day.
On the road to Jones’s Ba-hay, we will sing and shout hooray;
A-and when your breakfast’s ready, they will bring it o-on a tray!
The weather grew torrider and torrider,
And the orange-blossoms smelt horrider and horrider
As we marched down into Florida.
