The Pioneers [ C ] Those mountaineers have hairy ears. They piss through leather britches. They bang their cocks against the rocks. They're hardy sons of bitches. Those mountaineers, they give three cheers For Hell and all its trifles. They bang their balls upon the walls And pepper them with rifles. The mountaineers, they're hung like steers. They'll shag a yawning chasm. They flop their nuts against their butts, And shoot a mean orgasm. The mountaineers, they love their beers, And quaff one every minute. They drain their jocks in big stone crocks, And wash their faces in it. The mountaineers, they shed no tears. They're full of quips and frolics. They poop foul gas from out their ass To cool their iron bollocks. Those mountaineers can shift their gears And shit in all directions. They wipe their ass on broken glass Or on their proud erections. Those mountaineers with hoots and jeers Bewail a cuntless nation. They jab their tools in army mules In abandoned masturbation. Those mountaineers, they have no fears Of crab-infested niches. They scratch their pricks with sandy bricks When annoyed by lousy itches. [ D ] Oh, mountaineers have shaggy ears. They diddle not with trifles. They hang their balls on canyon walls And shoot at them with rifles. They pound their cosk upon the rocks, Those hardy sons of bitches. They wipe their ass with broken glass, And care not if it itches. When tail is rare, they rape the bear, And tie her in half hitches, Nor hesitate to masturbate Within their leather britches. They use their pricks for walking sticks In crossing muddy ditches. They fuck their wives with carving knives And flog their teats with switches. They brew their booze from boots and shoes, A drink they seem to relish. They shave their jaws with crosscut saws, Which makes them look quite hellish. They always throw their balls, you know, At women and at babies. They're full of snot and other rot And covered o'er with scabies. From dark till dawn with one bone on, They fuck their clappy wenches. From dawn till dark, they beat their bark And screw knotholes in benches. With limber tools they flail their mules And warm their offsprings' brtiches. With stiffened cocks they pry up rocks And boost Fords out of ditches. The mountain lass is full of pash. They crack nuts in their snatches. They love to screw an hour or two Bare-ass in bramble patches. The mountain twat is boiling hot. It covers pricks with blisters. A stranger once tried lapping cunts And singed off all his whiskers. Those hardy cunts use double shunts And mighty heaves and passes, That pull the pricks of common hicks And set them on their asses. They ne'er despair when prick is rare, But frig themselves with cactus, Or mount a jack upon their back Which gives them lots of practice. These C and D texts are from the Hubert Canfield Collection, assembled in the first months of 1926. No tune was indicated. [ E ] The pioneers have hairy ears, They piss through leather britches; They wipe their ass on broken glass, Those hardy sons of bitches! When cunt is rare they fuck a bear. They knife him if he snitches; They knock their cocks against the rocks, Those hardy sons of bitches! They take their ass upon the grass From fairies, wolves, or witches; Their two-pound dinks are full of chinks, Those hardy sons of bitches! They fuck a horse without remorse And beat him if he twitches; Their mighty dicks are full of nicks, Those hardy sons of bitches! To make a mule stand for the tool, He's beat with hickory switches; They use their pricks for walking sticks, Those hardy sons of bitches! Great joy they reap from tupping sheep In sundry bogs and ditches, Nor care a damn if it's a ram, Those hardy sons of bitches! When booze is rare, they do not care. They take a shot of Fitch's; They fuck their wives with butcher knives, Those hardy sons of bitches! Sent by Joe Fineman, on May 15, 1994, as sung in the Boston area four decades earlier. [ F ] The pioneers have hairy ears, They piss through leather britches, They wipe their ass with broken glass, Those tough old sons of bitches. When cunt is rare, they fuck a bear, They knife him if he snitches, They knock their cocks against the rocks, Those hardy sons of bitches. They take their ass upon the grass, In bushes or in ditches, Their two-pound dinks are full of kinks, Those rough-hewn sons of bitches. Without remorse, they fuck a horse, And beat him if he twitches, Their two-foot pricks are full of nicks, Those mean old sons of bitches. To make a mule stand for the tool, They beat him with hickory switches, They use their pricks for walking sticks, Those gnarled old sons of bitches. Great joy they reap from cornholing sheep, In barns, or bogs, or ditches, Nor give a damn if it be a ram, Those grimy sons of bitches. They walk around, prick to the ground, And kick it if it itches, And if it throbs, they scratch it with cobs, Those mighty sons of bitches. This is number 191 in Paul Woodford's "Hash Hymns II" (Honolulu, Hawaii, 1994). Woodford notes it is sung to the melody of "Son of a Gambolier."