We don't keep a gran' pianner in our hut beside the creek, 
   An' I'm pretty certain Hanner couldn't bang it, anyhow, 
But we've got one box of music, an' I'd rather hear its squeak 
   Than the daisiest cantata that's bin fashioned up to now. 
It's an ole camp-oven merely, with a handle made of wire, 
   But no organ built could nearly compensate to me fer it 
When I come off graft an' find it playin' tunes afore the fire, 
   An' I'm feelin' sorter vacant, but jes' wonderfully fit. 


   In its sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, 
      There's a thousan' little airs, 
   An' no man can sit an' grizzle 
      'Bout his troubles and his cares 
   Whiles the flames are gaily windin', 
      An' the tea is down to brew, 
   An' the ole camp-oven's grindin' 
      All the reels he ever knew.


When the wet winds meet an' whip me in the early winter nights, 
   An' the hissin' hailstones clip me all the way across the flat, 
As I battle for'ards, water-logged, to'ard the beck'nin' lights, 
   There is alwus there a welcome to console a chap for that. 
For my little wife is glowin' brisk an' bright beside the lamp, 
   An' the ole camp-oven's goin'. Gosh! I feel jes' like a kid 
As I peel an' sluice so slippy, an' I hear the storm winds vamp 
   To the singin' of the oven when the missus lifts the lid.


   There's a sizzle an' a splutter 
      An' a whirr of many harps; 
   Where's the instrument can utter 
      Such a maze of flats an' sharps? 
   Not fer me the great creations 
      When the old camp-oven plays 
   ‘Home sweet Home,’ with variations, 
      At the end of workin' days.

 
In the evenin's dim an' hazy, stretched outside along a butt, 
   Feelin' reasonably lazy, blowin' clouds that curl an' climb, 
I can hear the old camp-oven on the logs before the hut, 
   Rippin' out a mellow chorus that jes' suits the place an' time. 
If we strike it in the ranges, or The Win'mill turns out well, 
   I suppose there'll be some changes, an' I'll want to make things gee; 
But the time will never happen when I'll be so steep a swell 
   That the old camp-oven's measure won't be melody to me.

 
   'Neath its bubble, bubble, bubble, 
      There's the lilt of jigs an' reels; 
   All the common kind of trouble 
      That the "'orney-'anded" feels 
   Is wiped out in half a minute 
      By the restfulness it brings, 
   An' the peaceful rapture in it 
      When the old camp-oven sings.
 

"Edward Dyson"
The Bulletin, 17 August 1895, p28

Note:
This poem was published in slightly different form in Dyson's poetry collection Rhymes From the Mines and Other Lines.