Some sigh for cooks of boyhood days, but none of them for me;
One roundup cook was best of all —
And when we heard the grub-pile call at morning, noon, and night,
The old Dutch oven never failed to cook the things just right.
‘She was covered o’er with red-hot coals, and when we fetched her out,
The biscuits there were of the sort no epicure would flout.
I ain’t so strong for boyhood grub, ’cause, summer, spring, or fall,
The old Dutch oven baked the stuff that tasted best of all.
Perhaps ‘t was ’cause our appetites were always mighty sharp —
The men who ride the cattle range ain’t apt to kick or carp;
But, anyway, I find myself a-dreaming of that bread
The old Dutch oven baked for us beneath those coals so red.