Song of the Minstrels on the Frontier

Upon the snow-clad mountain tops

The waves of ocean roar,

And the ships that bear the milkmaids home,

From their cabins out on the briny foam,

Are tied again to the barnyard door;

And all is still

On the sun-kissed hill

As the rain begins to pour;

And the codfish, coming out of his hole,

He heaves a sigh as he sips his bowl

Of cod liver oil, and eats his roll—

In the Land of Tockerlore.

And the song that we sing

To our mighty king

Will resound the wide world o’er,

44And it’s magical,

musical,

mystical

muse

Will be heard forevermore!

As they passed into the great canyon which lay between the two high mountains, they could hear the echo of the minstrels’ song, farther and farther away in the distance,

“Magical, musical, mystical muse,

musical, mystical muse,

mystical muse,

muse,

use,

se,

e”

and so on, until it died away altogether, and they realized that they were in the Land of Tockerlore.

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