Cranberry Bogs You ask me to sing, so I'll sing you a song I'll tell how in the marshes they all get along. Bohemians and Irish and Yankees and Dutch, It's down in the shanties you'll find the hole clutch. Did ever you go to the cranberry bogs? There some of the houses are hewed out of logs. The walks are of boards, they're sawed out of pine, That grow in this country called cranberry mine. It's now then to Mather their tickets to buy, And to all their people, they'll bid them goodbye. For fun and for frolic they plan to resign, And stay there four weeks in the cranberry kline. When hay is all cut and the wheat is all stacked, The berries are ripe, so they're clothes they will pack. Make their way to the marshes, away they will go, Where they'll dance to the music of fiddle and bow. All day in the marshes their rakes they will pull, And feel the most gayest when boxes are full. In the evening, they'll dance till they're all tuckered out, And wish the cranberries would never play out. Barney Reynolds, Mather, Wisconsin. Caroline Paton sings it great.