The Old Camp-oven Poem Rhyme Scheme

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WE DON T keep a grand piano in our hut beside the creek	A
And I m pretty certain Hannah couldn t bang it anyhow	B
But we ve got one box of music and I d rather hear its squeak	A
Than the daisiest cantata that s been fashioned up to now	B
It s an old camp oven merely with a handle made of wire	C
But no organ built could nearly compensate to me for it	D
When I come off graft and find it playing tunes before the fire	C
And I m feeling sort of vacant but just wonder fully fit	D
	-
In its sizzle sizzle sizzle	E
There s a thousand little airs	F
And no man can sit and grizzle	E
Bout his troubles and his cares	F
While the flames are gaily winding	G
And the tea is down to brew	H
And the old camp oven s grinding	G
All the reels he ever knew	H
	-
When the wet winds meet and whip me in the early winter nights	I
And the hissing hailstones clip me all the way across the flat	J
As I battle for ards water logged toward the beckoning lights	I
There is always there a welcome to console a chap for that	J
For my little wife is beaming brisk and bright beside the lamp	K
And the old camp oven s going Gosh I feel just like a kid	L
As I peel and sluice so slippy and I hear the storm winds vamp	K
To the singing of the oven when the missus lifts the lid	L
	-
There s a sizzle and a splutter	H
And a whirr of many harps	M
Where s the instrument can utter	H
Such a maze of flats and sharps	M
Not for me the great creations	N
When the old camp oven plays	O
Home Sweet Home with variations	N
At the end of working days	O
	-
In the evenings dim and hazy stretched outside along a butt	P
Feeling reasonably lazy blowing clouds that curl and climb	Q
I can hear the old camp oven on the logs before the hut	P
Ripping out a mellow chorus that just suits the place and time	Q
If we strike it in the ranges or The Windmill turns out well	R
I suppose there ll be some changes and I ll want to make things gee	S
But the time will never happen when I ll be so steep a swell	R
That the old camp oven s measure won t be melody to me	S
	-
Neath its bubble bubble bubble	E
There s the lilt of jigs and reels	T
All the common kind of trouble	E
That the horney handed feels	T
Is wiped out in half a minute	P
By the restfulness it brings	U
And the peaceful rapture in it	D
When the old camp oven sings	U

Edward George Dyson

The Old Camp-oven Poem Rhyme Scheme and Analysis

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