The Old Frying Pan By James W. Whilt.

You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,
Your roasters and toasters, they’re all lots of trouble;
But when out in the hills, just find if you can,
Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.

Over a campfire you don’t need a stove,
Out in the hills, the place we all love,
Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,
With many the thanks to the old frying pan.

When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,
I know old epicures would look, with a frown
At the meal set before me; dispute it who can,
With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.

With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,
Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,
You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;
Was dish e’er invented like the old frying pan?

Many a miner, in the good days of old,
Way back in the foothills a-searching for gold
Deep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,
Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.

There’s been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurry
Used no other iron, but why should they worry,
For many and many and many the brand,
That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.

So your praises I’ll shout, both far, wide and high,
That you’re the best dish, till the day that I die;
Why, there’s many a woman “cleaned up” on her man
With no other club but the old frying pan.

You may talk of your broilers, both single and double,
Your roasters and toasters, they’re all lots of trouble;
But when out in the hills, just find if you can,
Any kind of a dish like the old frying pan.

Over a campfire you don’t need a stove,
Out in the hills, the place we all love,
Such hotcakes they never were tasted by man,
With many the thanks to the old frying pan.

When the trout are all fried to a rich golden brown,
I know old epicures would look, with a frown
At the meal set before me; dispute it who can,
With naught for a plate but the old frying pan.

With the venison cooked, the potatoes all fried,
Bannocks like bed-quilts, with coffee beside,
You could eat till you busted, dispute it who can;
Was dish e’er invented like the old frying pan?

Many a miner, in the good days of old,
Way back in the foothills a-searching for gold
Deep in some creek-bed, for the rich yellow sand,
Has panned out a grub-stake with the old frying pan.

There’s been cattle rustlers, when in a great hurry
Used no other iron, but why should they worry,
For many and many and many the brand,
That has been blotched out with an old frying pan.

So your praises I’ll shout, both far, wide and high,
That you’re the best dish, till the day that I die;
Why, there’s many a woman “cleaned up” on her man
With no other club but the old frying pan.