As the grey-wispy smoke upon the hill
billows towards the sky.
I smell that plesant sweetness,
A shanty close by.

Cans hanging from the trees as
I am passing through,
I’ll stop close by the Sugarcamp,
As I always do.

A jingle of a harness
Tells me men are gathering near,
Spring syrup seasons come,
And it happens every year.

The fire is a-roaring
Bringing warmth to all around,
As men continue to feed this blaze,
With kindling from a mound.

Boiling is the sap
Which fresh came from the tree
The Sugarbush in early spring,
Is quite the place to be.

Stern creeping frosts in early morn,
And winds that touch like steel.
The life is being in the bush but
Biting air you feel.

Can you believe that awful sap,
Come out so savoring sweet.
But after you have had a taste,
The syrup’s hard to beat.

The camp is standing on the hill,
And it’s a lonely sight.
I turn around and look at it,
The sky is now twilight.

Julie Jackson, Perth, Ontario 1979