The crew packed grub and blankets
And the cook the cutlery,

The dishpans and the kettles,
The basins and a pot,
A battered old reflector,
Cups, bowls and plates, Great Scott!

Cymbals and drums weren't in it
When cook did have a spill;
The crash of warlike music
Echoed from hill to hill

As down his pack came bounding,
Spurning the canyon walls,
Scattering pots and dishes,
Leaping the waterfalls.

The packers looked in terror
To see the cook come too
As past their dizzy erie
The clanging luggage flew;

When anxiously they hailed him,
The cook, he only swore:
"If I survive this picnic
So help me--nevermore."