Chapter I: Part 1

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BY TRENCH AND TRAIL IN SONG AND STORY

by

ANGUS MACKAY (Oscar Dhu)

Author of "Donald Morrison--The Canadian Outlaw" "A Tale of the Pioneers" "Poems of a Politician" "Pioneer Sketches" Etc., Etc.

Illustrated

Mackay Printing & Publishing Co. Seattle and Vancouver 1918

Copyright 1918 by Angus MacKay

INTRODUCTION.

A number of the songs in this collection have been heard by campfire and trail from the camps of British Columbia to the lumber camps of Maine. Several of the songs have been fired at the Huns "somewhere in France," no doubt with deadly effect. And also at the Turks on the long long hike to Bagdad and beyond.

And it is not impossible that some of my countrymen are now warbling snatches of my humble verse to the accompaniment of bagpipes on the streets of the New Jerusalem! Many of the verses have appeared from time to time in leading publications from Vancouver, B. C., to the New England States and Eastern Canada; while others appear in print here for the first time.

From all parts of the land I have received letters at various times asking for extra copies of some particular song in my humble collection, which I was not in a position to supply at the time.

I therefore decided to publish some of the songs for which a demand had been expressed, and in so doing offer to the reading public in extenuation of my offense the plea that in a manner this humble volume is being published by request.

I offer no apology for my "dialect" songs as they have already received the approval of music lovers whose judgment is beyond criticism.

For the errors which must inevitably creep into the work of a non-college-bred lumberjack, I crave the indulgence of all highbrows who may resent my inability to comb the classics for copy to please them. All the merit I can claim is the ability to rhyme a limerick or sing a "come-all-ye" in a manner perhaps not unpleasing to my friends.

The lumberjacks will understand me, I am sure, and will appreciate my humble efforts to entertain them.

As for the genial highbrow, should he deem me an interloper in the realm of letters and imagine that my wild, uncultured notes are destroying the harmony of his supersensitive soul, I shall "lope" back to the tall timber again and seek sympathy and appreciation among the lumberjacks of the forest primeval, where, amid the wild surroundings and the crooning of the trees, there is health for mind and body borne on every passing breeze. Yes, there's something strangely healing in the magic of the myrrh, in the odor of the cedar and the fragrance of the fir.

There the hardy lumberjack is the undisputed lord of the lowlands and chief of the highlands, and at the present time no soldier in the trenches or sailor on the rolling deep has a more arduous task to perform or a more important duty to discharge than he.

Toil on, ye Titans of the tall timbers; steadfast soldiers of the saw, and able allies of the axe. Carry on till the stately trees which constitute the glory of the West are converted into ships and planes in countless thousands, to win the great war for freedom and to make the world safe for democracy--and lumberjacks!

THE AUTHOR.

ILLUSTRATIONS

Frontispiece

"Where the tall, majestic pine tree branches wave" 124

"Christmas in Quebec" 14

"Gagne's Cavalry" 52

"Sergeant-Major Larry" 76

"I am now one lumberjack" 110

"Another Findlay like your own" 141

_Illustrations by
Lieutenant William R. McKay
with 161st U.S.A. in France_

CONTENTS

DESTINY 11
There's a grand, grand view unfolding.

THE SONS OF OUR MOTHERS 12
In the Ramah's of our day.

CHRISTMAS IN QUEBEC 15
I got notice sometam lately.

THE CLEVELAND MESSAGE 22
It is such a fad at present.

THE SULTAN AT POTSDAM 27
Mohammed, Dammed gift of God,

JOHN LABONNE'S DREAM 41
All las' night I was me dreaming,

THE DERELICT 44
I will write a short sketch of a
free-hearted wretch.

GAGNE'S CAVALRY 49
Ma Rosie write to me somet'ing,

THE GRIPPE 54
To see us now deceivers.

TRUDEL'S TRAVELS 58
Said Joe, I mus' go w'ere de snow
she don' blow,

THE END OF THE TRAIL 71
I was summoned in the gloaming,

HOMESICK 75
I am tire' now for roam Rosemarie,

THE GALLANT 58TH 77
O come all ye loyal volunteers,

THE FENIAN RAID 82
From de country of de Eagle,

A LEAP YEAR PARTY 87
The night before last Hallowe'en,

THE HOLLERNZOLLERN'S PRAYER 91
Dear Gott, der weight of "right divine,"

ALASKA BOUNDARY LINE 95
Now that little Venezuela,

THE GUARD OF LAFAYETTE 99
Ma Rosie say to me today,

THE LUMBERJACK 103
We have songs on many topics,

THE BOOK AGENT 107
The sun rose in beauty,

JEAN LABONNE 111
I am now one lumberjack,

CANADIANS, GUARD YOUR OWN 113
"On feet of clay," false prophets say,

GUARD THE GAELIC 116
Is it not our bounden right?

THE AMERICAN EAGLE 120
Lofty is thy habitation,

DONALD McLEOD 123
The sun hath set and leaves the day,

OVER THE TOP 127
A lusty lad from Lewis,

THE ALKALI LAND 130
I left my old home and my friends in
the East,

A CHRISTMAS DREAM 135
One Christmas night I sallied forth,

DESTINY

There's a grand, grand view unfolding
And it pictures our future goal:
There's a strong, strong army moulding
Our land into one great whole;
There's a world-wide movement holding
Firm the lines of our destiny:
And 'twill never cease
Till the earth finds peace
In the arms of Democracy!

THE SONS OF OUR MOTHERS

In the Ramah's of our day
Mothers grieve their hearts away,
Mourning comfortless as Rachel did of yore;
Hoping day by day to learn
Of their absent boy's return
And to hear his well-known footsteps at the door.
The lilies are blooming in far-away France--
Bloom O bloom!
The cannons are roaring retreat and advance--
Boom, O boom!
The hell of their fire is falling like rain,
And our soldiers before it are falling like grain,
While the voices of loved ones are calling in vain--
Home, sweet home!

Dear Canadians who fell,
Fighting nobly fighting well,
May the angels guard thy rest in lonely graves;
We'll remember "ridge" and "hill"
And rejoice in knowing, still,
That the dear old flag you died for rules the waves.
The wild birds are lilting their lay on the breeze,
Soft and low:
As they croon to their nestlings asway in the trees,
To and fro--
The young of the robin will flit down the glen
And return in the spring to the dwellings of men,
But the sons of our mothers return not again--
No, ah no!

And the absent from the fold?
What of those, the gay, the bold?
Fighting bravely, dying nobly, to the fore.
Shall we not avenge the slain?
Shall our mothers weep in vain?
Calling, calling for the boys who come no more.
Dear soldier boys dead in the trenches of war,
Work well done!
Your service for country there's nothing can mar,
Fame well won!
They fought for the right in a cause that will win--
They died in a fight that they did not begin--
And you'll pay the last groat when we enter Berlin.
Hun, oh Hun!

CHRISTMAS IN QUEBEC.

This sketch is truer of the Quebec of last century
than that of today. I am glad to hear that whisky
blanc does not "cut the figure" in French festivities
now that it did twenty years ago; and no one will
rejoice more than Oscar Dhu to see the demon rum
utterly destroyed in Canada ere many moons.

Yes, I sincerely hope that the day will soon dawn when
the baneful influence of both De Kuyper and de Kaiser
will be forever banished from my dear native province,
queenly Quebec!

I got notice some tam lately
Wrote in Yankee dialec',
Ask me Joe how I spen' Chris'mas
On de 10 range of Kebec;

But ba gosh I don' wrote nottings
Till de New Year pass along.
Chris'mas tam I dance an' fiddle,
Eat an' drink an' sing some song!

Yes ma frien' dis ol' man's happy,
Jus' lak' leetle lamb in May!
Ev'ry year I grow lak young one,
W'en it come to Chris'mas day!

Hip ho-orah! I feel lak dancin',
Play for Joe an' kip good tam,
I'm mos' happy man in Weedon,
On his shanty jus' de sam'.

Come Zavier and clear de room off,
An' one dance to you I'll show,
Dat I learn on Lampton Corners
More as t'irty year ago.

It's call cris-cross two-step, quick step,
Up an' down de center, too;
Right an' lef' and swing you' pardner,
Till de tack fly out her shoe!

Come I'll show you how to do it,
Tak' de one you love de bes',
Den you swing it ro'nd lak swirlwind
Or dat slyclone in de Wes'.

Whoop up gee' jus wash ma dances
An' hole Paul will kip good tam,
On dis side de Lac St. Francis
I can skung dem all de sam'.

T'ro' dat stool on top de corner,
Push dat cradle from de room,
Joe hee's got dis floor for shak' down
An' he'll swip it lak de broom.

Jomp up Jacque! and strak dat ceilin'
Till de dus' fall on you' head--
Come Lucinda! stop dat squealin'
Or we'll sen' you off to bed.

Dis is Chris'mas an' one good one--
Chris'mas come but once a year;
Ope dat stove an' t'row some hood on,
An' we'll have one, two, t'ree cheer!

Rig a gig a gig jus' wash ma moccasin
An' hole Paul you kip good tam!
Pass dat jug aro'nd de grog-is-in,
An we'll have w'at Scotch call "dram."

Pass it ro'nd de room ma Rosie
An' be sure you fill de glass;
Ma Joe sen' me twenty dollair
Jus' las' wick from Lowhell, Mass.

Ev'ry year he sen' me monay
And he sen' some ol' clothes too--
But dem duty charge me custom
Jus' de same lak it was new!

Shoo! dat dance has mak' me tire--
Rosie pass de pipe of clay--
Plenty more rat here in Weedon,
We're Pete Tanguay give it 'way.

Here's tobac dat's raise in Compton,
Tak' it too an' pass it ro'nd--
Plentay more way do'n at Lampton--
Jus' for twenty cent one po'nd.

Smoke ma frien' an' take it heasy,
Till de fiddler res' his bow--
Smudge dis room till it grow hazy,
Den we'll have one nodder go!

Rig-a-gig-gig jus' wash ma feet go,
Put some movemen' in dat tune;
If a man is want for beat Joe--
Mus' get up before its noon!

Oh ba gosh! de hole man's happy!
Wish you all feel sam' lak me.
Canada's de place spen' Chris'mas
Up at Weedon 'mong de tree!

I feel bad for Wilfrid Laurier,
An' for all de beeg Frenchman,
Who can nevair know henjoymen'
In dis worl' de sam's I can.

Troub' is all he gets for breakfas',
An' for dinnair too I guess--
Charlie Tupper's eat for supper--
An' hee's awful hard diges'!

Den de nightmare kick lak blazes,
W'en a leetle sleep dey foun'--
I can sleep me in dis shanty
Twice as fas' an' twice as soun'.

I don' henvey any rich man,
He can tak' ma house an' lan',
But he can't tak' ma henjoymen'
Lak de res' w'en hee's deman'.

Hee's live in one gran' beeg cassil--
All light up wit' 'letric lamp--
I am Joseph in dis shanty,
An' my shanty's in de swamp;

But ba gosh I'm far more happies
Den beeg man in house of stone--
Byemby he'll be lak Joseph--
Six feet land is all he'll own!

Come here Pierre ma troat's grow wheezy,
Pass de glassware roun' for change--
Wash ma Rosie, a'nt she daisy?
She's de bes' cook on de range.

Ev'ry year w'en it come Chris'mas,
Rosie geeve me lots to heat--
Pie an' stoughnut--cake an' cookie--
Bun an' two t'ree kin' of meat.

Ev'ryt'ing she's good for cook it,--
An' de pork she's good for fry,
She can flip dat bockwheat pancake
Lak de twinkle of you' eye!

Yes ba gosh! ma wife hee's good wan,
Nevair scold me w'en I'm sick:
An' she raise it twenty young wan
Nevair learn dat "Yankee trick"!

Plenty vote to swing de 'lection--
Twenty-two or twenty-three;
But I'm ask for no Protection
For my Infant Industry!

Dat's de cry I like, "all ready"!
Sopper's on de tab' at las'--
Girl an' boy fall in ma hearty--
Hungry fom de midnight Mass.

Come Joseph an' bring Louiser,--
Don' be squeeze her all night long--
Joe, I know is lak hee's fadder--
Jus' de sam' w'en I was young!

Now I'll pass de jug for luck, me,
Drink de he'lt' of frien' an' foe--
Plenty more at Dudswell Junction,
Ma frien' Gauthier tole me so.

Dis is firs' class liquidation,
Jus' one glass will pay de tax;
Two or tree will lif' de mortgage--
All de worl' is mine wit' six!

What's de use for feel downhearted?
Plenty life in barley juice;
Dat's w'at mak' dis ol' man happy--
But some tam it raise de duce.

Eat an' drink an' feel contentmen',
'Till de holiday pass by;
Den ol' Joe mus' tackle snow
An' chop de hood an' hew de tie.

I got credit from de storekeep--
Bean an' pork an' pea an' flour,
An' I promise pay in cordhood--
An' its tak' me many hour.

Scoonkin coat I got from Tanguay,
For to tak' me warm to church,
An' he tole me pay heem sometam',
W'en I haul de spruce an' birch.

Plenty work for Joe in winter--
Brak de road an' haul de hood,
But hole Joe hee's nevair worry--
Not so long hees he'lt' is good.

Dis is holiday at presen',
I won't cut me one dem stick
'Till I have ma Chris'mas hoorah,
An' it always las' a wick!

Den I'll say good bye to ol' year
An' w'en New Year come on deck,
I'll tole Yankee how ol' Joseph
Spen' his Chris'mas on Kebec.

Rig-a-gig-a-gig, jus' wash me moccasin,
An' ol' Paul will kip good tam;
Pass de jug aro'n' de grog is in
An' we'll have w'at Scotch call "dram."

"THE CLEVELAND MESSAGE."

The seeming hostile spirit towards the United States
pervading some of the sketches in this volume is more
apparent than real, as they were introduced in the
spirit of fun to accentuate the oddities of certain
characters, and not to disparage our neighbor; for
notwithstanding petty quarrels and misunderstandings
we always loved our great big, bluff brother to the
South.

We always maintained that closer relationship with our
kindred people was our manifest destiny and that
nothing could happen that would keep us permanently
apart. According to this song, written many years ago,
we have been "interwooing" and "intermarrying" for a
long time. We have been flocking to their cities and
they have been flocking to our farms, and naturally
the ties between us have been growing stronger with
the years.

Consequently when the present great war engulfed the
world in a holocaust of blood, kindred cried to
kindred and the resulting alliance was both natural
and logical.

Time alone can prove the value of the services
rendered the Allied cause in this great war by British
Americans and Americanadians residing in the United
States.

The Germans and pro-Germans of this country thot in
their overweening pride with overbearing Kultur to
obtain a greater "pull" with Uncle Sam than we
possessed. By the most cunning propaganda ever known
they endeavored to widen the breach between brother
Jonathan and John Bull, but failed miserably. While
they "hoched" for the "fatherland" till the cows came
home, we "coached" for the "motherland" till the
children came home!

Kultur may be a powerful persuader but the call of the
blood is more powerful still, and when the old lion
roared his appeal the sound went round the world, and
the whelps, true to their breed, gathered from all
corners of the earth, not into alien jungles, but
home! The fur is now flying and blood is flowing, and
when the combatants shall have emerged from the great
conflict the two powerful branches of the
English-speaking peoples will be bound together in
ties of friendship stronger than ever before, and by
thunder they will not be under!

THE CLEVELAND MESSAGE

or

HOW CANADA AND THE U. S. MAY BECOME ONE.

It is such a fad at present
For each poet effervescent,
To assail the "cross" or "crescent"
And the "Cleveland message" grim;
That we pondered for a minute
Thinking we would not be "in it"
If we did not aid some Linnet
With a little of our din.

Now we're not at'all unwilling
To receive a course of "drilling"
If successful in dispelling
Just a little of the mist
Which is hanging thickly over
Our detractor, brother Grover,
And that rank sedition mover,
Called the jingo journalist.

There are men among you moving
Who're ostensibly peace loving,
While their conduct's always proving
The reverse to be their toast;
They eternally are blowing
Like a game cock, bent on showing
By his loud defiant crowing
That he's there to rule the roost!

Tho' you send a warlike "message"
Do not punctuate its passage
Crying "cut 'em into sassage,
Now beware, you crippled cuss":
All such ravings out of season
Should be classified as treason,
Guard your tongues and use your reason
In considering the "fuss."

If again your mind should rove
Around the field of Carnage Grover,
We would have you think it over
In the light of common sense;
Ponder well the pain and labor
It would cause to quell your neighbor;
And be sure you hide your saber
'Ere you venture through our fence.

Why rely on jingo blowing
If you're bent upon subduing
Brave Canadians who've been growing
Since they met Montgomery?
Drop your systematic hounding,
And your epithets loud sounding
For we've pipers here abounding
Who could blow you out to sea!

If you saw bold piper Ronald
Of the warlike Clan Macdonald,
And the way in which he pommelled
O'er a hundred of your ranks;
You would soon be after wishing
You had always kept a-fishing
Right at home, instead of swishing
Warlines over Britain's banks!

And it seems to us so very
Queer that Highlanders who quarry
Monumental stones at Barre,
Did not scare away your frowns:
Had they started with their hammers
Down among your city bummers,
It would take you many summers
To repopulate your towns.

Yea, at prospects of a battle
From old Bangor to Seattle
Each Canadian would skedaddle
To defend his home and kin;
And from Picton to Vancouver
We would welcome each one over;
Thus united, brother Grover,
Would you have a chance to win?

Then relinquish Yankee dodges,
We would warn you to be cautious;
Silence rabid Cabot Lodges
And your jingo journalists.
Friendship's thread already slender
Needs a sapient defender--
As the lion's tail is tender
From so many ruthless twists!

We have often heard it stated
When by jingoists berated,
That the people here were fated
To be "taken in by Sam."
But believe us, brother Grover,
Coming ages will discover
That you cannot get us over
In that manner by a d----!

There's another way that's better
Than coercion and the fetter,
And we'll tell you in this letter
How to circumvent the end:
Cultivate a better feeling
For your neighbor in your dealing--
As you'll never see us kneeling
For the favors you can lend.

Let events their course pursuing
Glide along as they've been doing--
Let our people interwooing--
Intermarry--buy and sell;
Let your friendly salutation,
Be extended to this nation,
Let the law of gravitation
Do the rest and all is well!

You have often sold a daughter
To some dude across the water,
While the title high(?) which bought her
You so seemingly ignore;
Why not send us a cotillion
Of those girls who own a million
For our hardy northern gillian
On the old Canadian shore?

You may think this would not do, but
We can tell you that your "blue blood"
Isn't "in it" with the true blood
Of our bracing Northern clime--
Better far to take their chances
With Xavier at Lac St. Francis
Than to purchase the advances
Of coin hunters of our time!

THE SULTAN AT THE KAISER'S KOURT

Enter SECOND SONS

Mohammed Dammed, gift of God!
The Sultan's second son,
Enjoys a pilgrimage abroad
With Eitel Fritz the Hun.

These second sons, of sons of guns,
Are sure some friendly foes;
But to what length their friendship runs
Jehovah only knows.

Just now the Sultan, also, dines
At Williams' kultured kourt,
And downs the Kaiser's doctored wines
While Kaiser downs his porte.

One day young Dammed said to Fritz:
"Who started this fool row?
Whoever did was void of wits,
As you must know by now."

Said Eitel, "Though I'm from Missour,
Some say it was my Dad;
But as they're going to Bag-dad sure,
He'll wish he never had."

Said Dammed, "If they bag your Dad
They'll bag my Daddy sure,
And make him wish he never had
Come here to seek a cure.

"Your father promised mine to win
From Cork to Timbuctoo;
If we would throw our Turkey in
Your bloody Pots-dam brew!

"Besides, he promised on demand
Star-eyed Parisian pearls!
Great hunks of Greece, Manhattan and
A thousand chorus girls!

"He also swore by every beard
The prophets ever tore,
That great Mahomet had appeared
Before his chamber door.

"And hurled his mantle--so revered--
The blooming transom o'er;
And hence my foolish father feared
The awful robe he wore!"

Fritz gazed upon the rolling Rhine
With bleary, beery eyes,
And as he sips his foaming stein,
To Dammed thus replies:

"Thy father was a howling mutt
Thus to believe my sire;
For 'scraps of paper' never cut
Much ice with any liar.

"That he has promised you too much
Cannot be well denied;
For many things will 'beat the Dutch,'
I find since Hannah died.

"My dad and 'first born' started out,
To eat the world in gobs,
But now they're down to spuds and krout,
And what the army robs.

"I have no patience with the bunch
That failed to win from France,
The crown prince plainly lacks the punch--
Why not give me a chance!

"A million soldiers good and true
Went down to death for him,
And chances still of 'breaking thru,'
Are daily growing slim.

"I love him not, nor yet his clique,
Who deem themselves so smart:
I'd like to serve them all a kick
Where their Prince Alberts part.

"To whip the French, they'll have to sail
Thru blood to gay Paree--
Here's hoping Poilus will not fail
To make crown prince of me!

"For O, I'd love to have a peep
Into that promised land!"
Thus saying Eitel fell asleep--
And snored to beat the band!

And while Eitel was dreaming,
Of something or other,
The son of the Sultan
Wrote home to his mother.

"On Linden when the sun was low,"
The Sultan's second wrote.
These mild impressions of the foe,
That has his father's goat:

"Dear ma, according to my pledge,
I write these lines to thee,
While sitting on the ragged edge
In dear old Germany.

"I'm at the court of last resort,
Our royal Ali Bill's:
And found my father at the port
Forgetting all his ills.

"Compared with livers over here
Dad's health is fairly good,
And sure, that boy was full of cheer,
On 'burning deck' that stood.

"Great doctor Kaiser, best of men!
To cure dad's mal-a-dy;
Injects his Kultur now and then
In dad's anatomy.

"This Kultur is a German germ
That germinates a juice,
Which in its turn creates a worm
That generates the duce!

"I'm not well up on wormy laws,
Nor how this Kultur's spread,
I only know its use will cause
A swelling of the head!

"I think we'll not prolong our stay,
There are no harems here;
The women have no time for play,
The men no time for cheer.

"They's raising crops, but none to sell,
As few would want their goods:
The men are busy raising hell--
The women raising spuds!

"The spuds are raising women's sons--
The sons all fight for Bill,
And thus it runs that all the Huns
Are simply raising hell!

"I heard a 'concert of the Powers'
One stormy night of late,
And there, of course, the joy was ours
To hear the 'Hymn of Hate.'

"It seems to be the only song
That all the boches know,
And slips with ease from every tongue
Where 'Uber alles' grow.

"They sang the 'Hymn' with awful vim,
And turning round our way,
They looked at me and smiled at 'him,'
As much as if to say,

"'There's not a Turk can beat that work,
'Twas made in Germany!'--
'That may be so, but by my dirk,
I think the Turk will try!'

"Yea classed with watchdogs of the Rhine,
And dastard deeds they've done,
Our dad, I swear, doth really shine
A saintly paragon!

"He felt ashamed that any race,
Of earth or Hell below,
Could so outshine him to his face--
In hatred of a foe!

* * * * *

"I pity the Armenian
When dad gets back to work again;
For he has tortures now in store
Eclipsing all he knew before!"

Enter the Clown Prince.

"The next upon the program was
The Kaiser's eldest son,
Who sang to thunders of apeplause
'Der land vare ve ver-dun'!

"And as his tears on Brussels flow,
His voice pathetic grew,
While singing solemnly and low
'I see my Waterloo!

"'I'm sick and sore and sorry and
I'm licked and lonely, too:
Vile odders see der Vaterland
I see mine "Vaterloo"! Boo-hoo!'

"Dear mother it was sad I claim
To hear him blubber so;
The blooming boob is not to blame
For what he doesn't know.

"From infancy they taught the kid
To bank on 'right's divine';
And that no matter what he did
The Lord was with his 'Line.'

"And so, when shot and shell and trench,
And 'Me und Gott' und Co.
Had failed to crush the hated French,
It queered his status quo!

"But Kaiser Bill was on the job,
And said 'it's getting late;'
We'll dry the tear and swab the sob
And sing the 'Hymn of Hate.'

And so they sang the 'hymn' again
To stimulate the prince:
And encored with that sad refrain
'The days of auld lang since.'

"Then Kaiser rising with a spring
Said, Gentlemen a-hem--
Our friend, the Sultan, now will sing
The 'New Jerusalem'"!

"'And after that, excuse the joke,
He'll sing that song of caste,
The "Turkey in the Straw, that broke
The Camel's back at last."'

"The Kaiser's kounsel knocked the spots
Off father's self command,
For he had such unholy thots,
Anent the Holy Land.

"But he was game as old McBeth,
Resolved to do or die;
The odor of his very breath
Was 'comin' thru the rye':

"'My breath is hot enough to stew,
My blood is hot within
From being chased like Moses thru
The "Wilderness of Sin."

"'They're chasing me across the sand--
Don't mention Waterloo!--
From Dan unto Beersheba and
A little further, too.

"'The sand is hot along the trail,
Jerusalem how hot--!
And as I hear those bagpipes wail,
I murmur, Oh great Scot!

"'Behind each chanter blows a Gael,
Loud, strong and piping hot;
And those en-chanters never fail
To make me, Turkey, trot!

"And woe betide deluded ones
Who meet this kilted race,
And deem the grim denuded ones
But females out of place!

"Engage them in a bayonet charge
And dupes will quickly find,
Those skirts are worn to camouflage
The dynamite behind!

"O demons of the fighting line,
Whose limits are the earth;
The empire great in which you shine
Doth bless thy place of birth.

"Ubiquitous, pugnacious Scot,
You've nobly done your share;
For, ever where the fighting's hot,
The Tartan flutters there!

"Yea Turkey Trot and Tanko tune!
Those dances are the style,
We hop to their compelling rune
From Baltic to the Nile.'

"The Kaiser didn't quite approve
The course the Sultan chose,
And deemed it time that he should move
The Turkish mouth to close.

"'He's taken too much Scotch in tow
Their praises thus to sing:
The next we know he'll queer the show
And dance the Highland Fling!'

"And as they led the Turk to bed,
He said the deal was raw--
Yes raw and red, 'pipe up,' he said
With 'Turkey in the Straw!'

"Here Sheik-Ul-Islam bang arose
And cried it wasn't fair,
To stem the golden flood that flows
From Allah's chosen heir.

"'Mine is the will,' said Kaiser Bill,
'That rules the world today;
No kings or khans or Gods or clans
Can these my words gainsay.'

"And then to prove that he was king
And Ruler over all,
He ordered Hindenburg to sing!
Or rather lead the bawl.

"Then Hindenburg mid many raus
Essayed a clever line;
The song he sang with fervor was,
'Fair Byng-in on the Rhine.'

"The song a sad one in its day,
Brought some to verge of tears:
But when they heard Von Hinden bray
The place was near all jeers!

"'You're off your line,' the singers laugh,
Von Hindenburg said 'Nay,
I'm only wobbling on the staff,
My bass is weak today.'

"'Your vocal chords are out of joint,
Your lines are running wrong,
Therefore I think I will appoint
Myself to sing a song.'

"So saying, Kaiser Bill arose
And clearing out his throat,
Assumed that well known lordly pose!
And sang without a note.

"The music with me still abides,
My ears with discord ring:
Dear mother you would split your sides,
To hear the Kaiser sing.

"O, why the agony prolong?
This was the burden of his song:

"'On der shore of Italy
Mine Spag-etta vaits for me,
I am longing so for thee
Mine dear Venus by der sea.

"'Und anodder maiden fair,
She vos vaiting 'over there,'

"Und I'll take mine supmarine,
Und mine super-air-machine,
Und 'Columbia der Chem of der Ocean'
Vill soon be mine own Kaiserine!'"

Here Eitel woke and poked my ribs,
And whispered in my ear,
"The words to suit his royal nibs
Would thusly run, I fear."

"Fair Saint Helena is the maid,
That calls thee to her side--
She is lonely, I'm afraid,
Since her former war-lord died!"

'Twas at this point a warning dire
Came Hertling thru the hall,
And danced in words of lurid fire
Upon the gilded wall.

And "Mene, Mene," once again
A tyrant's eyes behold,
The writing on the wall was plain
As in the days of old.

And gazing on that fiery scroll
The guilty Kaiser quakes--
May God have mercy on his soul
When Germany awakes!

JOHN LABONNE'S DREAM

Or

A SAD AWAKENING

A Song of the Trenches

All las' night I was me dreamin',
Dreamin' where de cannon's roar,
An' my spirit, so it's seemin',
Wend its flight to home once more.
Dare I heard de church bells ringin'
An' de robin red breas' singin',
Back to me de tam was bringin'
W'en I part wit' Rosemarie.

Rosemarie! De bells are ringin', oh how sweet de melodie!
Rosemarie! De robin's singin', an' it's always callin' me!

It was springtam an' all nature
Seem to join de robin's song,
All de sheep an' cattle feel it,
For de winter was so long.
O, it was one joyful meetin',
Ev'ry creature give me greetin',
An' ma heart tattoo was beatin'
W'en I t'ink of Rosemarie.

Rosemarie, ma heart is beatin', O how sweet dat pain can be!
Rosemarie, it kips repeatin', an' each beat is true to thee.

Springtam creep along de meadow,
Springtam whisper on de hill;
W'ere de sunshine chase de shadow
Ro'nd ma home at St. Camille.
Dare it stood, ma well known dwellin',
Dat I love beyond de tellin',
And ma heart in me was swellin'
W'en I see ma Rosemarie.

Rosemarie, my heart is swellin', and it's all for love of thee!
Rosemarie, it kips on tellin' dat you're all de worl' to me!

Joyfully she come to meet me,
Wit' de love light in her eye;
Smilin' tru' de tears she greet me--
Nevaire more to say good bye.
W'en I see dem tear drop fallin',
Jus' lak dew of early mornin',
Hangel voices seem lak callin',
Callin' Joe to Rosemarie!

Rosemarie, de angels' callin', O how sweet dat soun' to me!
Rosemarie, you' tear drops fallin' coax ma heart across de sea!

Paradise den open to me,
As she whisper, "Welcome home."
To my arms her form I drew me--
Den, Sapre! I wake, an' boom!
Roar of gun for church-bell ringin',
Howl of Hun for robins' singin'--
Loving arms no more are clingin':
War is hell, sweet Rosemarie!

Chorus

Rosemarie, de bells are ringin',
O, how sweet dat melodie!
Rosemarie! de robins' singin'
An' it's always callin' me!

THE DERELICT

(When Seattle Was Wide Open.)

I will write a short sketch
Of that free hearted wretch
Whom all fakirs delight to espy.
He is seen every day
Just below Yesler Way,
Either "full" or distressingly "dry".

He alights from the train,
Or a boat from the main,
With intentions both honest and clear.
But the weak-minded wight,
Led astray before night,
Is filled full of doped whiskey and beer.

How alluring and bright
Is each glittering light,
As he joyfully watches the throng;
And his spirits are gay
As a bird's are in May,
And as gayly conducive to song.

How seductive the speech
In which sirens beseech
Him to share the delights of their spree.
Ev'ry man in the set
Is "hail fellow well met",
And each woman delightfully free!

There's a wink from the "traps",
And a meal with the Japs,
And a shuffle of cards as they go.
There's a trip to the play,
A few "smiles" by the way,
And a box by themselves at the show.

O how slyly they wink
As they sip at their drink,
And maliciously help him to his;
And he drinks it, alas!
'Though the foam on the glass
Floats around with a death-dealing fizz.

Thus the night passes by
Till the victimized "guy"
Is sufficiently "doped" to "go through";
And the stupefied lout,
When he's finally out,
Will possess but a nickel or two.

Wholly drunk, and half blind,
With confusion of mind,
And to rum-selling vultures a prey,
He is found at the "Mug"--
Takes a ride to the jug,
And there slumbers his potions away.

Coming out the next morn,
Sober, sick and forlorn,
To a world that has quickly grown cold!
A poor outcast he roams
While in sumptuous homes
Whilom friends(?) are enjoying his gold.

Where is now the glib friend
Of his bounty to lend
The poor devil the price of a plate?
He has vanished like mist
Of the morning, sun-kissed--
And the victim is left to his fate.

Not a wink from a lass,
Nor a clink from a glass,
With "your health", as it's borne to the lips;
Not a sign from a trap,
Not a bite from a Jap--
All his sunshine has suffered eclipse!

Not a kindly "invite"
From the friends of the night,
To "step in and have something on me."
Not a drop from the fakes
Just to steady the shakes,
And to "knock" the effects of the spree.

As he wanders the street
Not one friend does he meet,
Not a soul that will greet him today;
"Broke" and hungry--alone,
With a heartrending moan,
He must totter along to the bay.

O, the groans which now surge
With the tones of a dirge
From that soul so late given to song,
And how scenes long since fled
Like a wail from the dead,
Rise to hasten his footsteps along.

Yea, dim memories rush
To his mind, and a flush
Of deep shame drives all pallor away,
As he thinks of the East
And the home he has lost
By the life that leads on to the bay.

"Robbed and wronged all around,"
Is the sob of the sound,
But no mortal comes forward to save;
So with mutterings of wrath
He goes down to his death
Through the green, clammy depths of the waves.

Hark the tones of despair
Which arise on the air
From the shades of the low moaning bay;
They will float through the years
And encircle the spheres,
And be heard at the great Judgment Day.

Soon a poor, bloated form,
Tossed about by the storm,
Floating 'round on the crest of each wave,
With seaweed for a shroud,
Is beheld by the crowd,
And a failure is borne to his grave.

'Tis a jump from the train
And a trip up on [A]Main,
And a sip with a friend (?) on the way.
Just a step to the "Mug",
And a ride to the "jug"--
Then a leap to his death in the bay.

But the Lord from his seat
Looketh down on each street,
Where such hell-born inventions are on,
And with infinite wrath
He will sweep on their path--
And they'll reap on that day what they've sown.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote A: Main Street, Seattle.]

GAGNE'S CAVALRY

or

THE CANADIAN HABITANTS' ANSWER

to

THE FAMOUS "CLEVELAND MESSAGE."

My Rosie read to me somet'ing,
In pepper week ago.
She say, "De States he want to fight
On Canada and Joe;
An' dat de Yankee Presidon,
He write to Johnnie Bull,
An' tole him kip his nose at home,
Or it would get one pull."

An' two three Yankee Senator,
He mak' one Yankee speech,
An' t'ink dat all de Canaya
Will tremble in his breech--
He say to Honcle Sam, "Go up,
An' lick de hole dem crew--
Go, tak' Quebec an' Hottawa,
An' Lac Megantic too."

I jomp on top ma moccasin,
An' dance aroun' de floor;
I grine ma teet', I pull ma hair,
An' den I jomp some more;
I say, "hurrah for Canada!"
So loud as I can't yell,
Till Rosie say, "Ba gosh, hole man!
You're crazy I can tell."

"Oh I'm not crazy, Rosie,
I am only patriot--
Dat mean a man who never want
His country go to pot--
Yes, I'm 'hole man,' but don't you fret,
I'm not yet invalid,
I'm good for fight on any war
As ten men when she's dead.

"I can't fight? Me? Ba gosh you hask
Ma honcle Polyeaux;
He used to fight lak' tiger
On de war of Papineau;
You know I'm just the sam' lak' him,
I'll do what he can done;
An' I can fight lak' tiger, too,
Dat Yankee son-of-gun."

Ma Rosie say: "You crack hole man,
Such tom fool speech to mak',
I t'ink you are most crazy man
Dat live on top de lac--
Your boy is in de State, you know,
An' work in Yankee mill,
An' w'at you do he lose his job,
His bread an' greenback bill?"

"Baa, you mak' mistak', dear Rosie,
If you t'ink we starve to dead;
If we can't get de Yankee work,
His brown bean an' his bread,
Grease pie, hot doughnut--biscuit,
Is good t'ing for mak' a dude;
But we got somet'ing better here
Den Yankee 'speptic food."

Chorus:

Ma peasoup am bully, boys,
An' buckwheat is good,
You nevair get one better t'ing
To work upon de hood;
W'en it get hold de handle axe,
It mak' de chip to fly
T'ick as snowflak' in de winter,
Or mosquito on July.

Paul will come from Manchester,
An' Xavier from Lowhell;
Joe will come from River Fall,
Immediate--pell mell;
An' every mill of Honcle Sam
Will have to close de loom,
W'en all our boys aroun' de State
Will come to fight at home.

O by de jomp up hooricane!
If Yankee don't stop brag;
She'll fin' more star on top his head,
Den he got top his flag;
She'll fin' one tiger on his track,
Wit' blood-shot on his eye,
And ev'ry Yank dat cross de line
For fight, is sure to die.

De Lac Megantic m'litia man
Is sure to tak de lead,
You bet your life w'en he get rouse
Someboda got to bleed!
An' w'en from Lac St. Francis
Come de Greenland Grenadier
He'll mak' all Yankee man he meet
Go home de top his bier.

De Horseman from La Patrie too,
Will come an join de fray,
An' blow his tin horn bugle,
On de top Canada gray;
De Voltigeurs from Weedon,
An' de Lampton Light Brigade,
Will come an' show to Jameson
De way to mak a raid.

O' we can fight dat Yankee man
As fadders fought before!
On battle of Chateaugay,
W'en five Frenchman kill a score!
De Hinglish, Scotch, an' Hirish, too,
Will join us, don't you fear--
Dere's notting top dis earth can lick
Canadian Volunteer!

An' for one more good leader man,
We'll send for Louis Cyr,
An' he'll tak' charge de Chesham Corps
An' Ditton Fusileer;
De Hinfantry from Emberton
Will join de Yankee hunt,
And Peter Gagne's Cavalry
Will gallop on de front!

THE GRIPPE

To see us now, deceivers
Would say this land of beavers
Was full of fitful fevers
And other chills.
On all the passing breezes
There's nothing heard but wheezes,
With hacking coughs and sneezes,
And other ills.

The bear, that northern prowler,
The 'Oonalaska howler,
And every other growler
We read about,
With us have caught the churning
Whose cause is past discerning,
The demon that is turning
Us inside out.

The monster's exultation
Is heard throughout the nation,
He stops at every station
To spread himself;
And no one can avoid him,
'Tis useless to deride him,
Impossible to hide him
Upon a shelf.

Whence come those sudden changes,
With all their train of twinges,
Grim foes of health that hinges
On atmosphere?
There surely is a reason
For this fantastic season,
That sets the world a sneezin'
About us here.

This "rushing" influenza,
Just taken for a mensa,
Most certainly will cleanse a'
Your system, man.
It has the knack to stick, too--
'Twould surely turn "Old Nick" blue
And draw his toenails quick through
His diaphragm.

No power can avail, man,
To drive him from the trail, man;
The patent drugs for sale man,
Can never cure.
He comes against your will, man,
And sneaks around to kill, man;
The rippling of his rill, man,
Is never pure.

It droppeth like the rain, man,
Extracted by the pain, man,
And driveth one insane, man,
To think of it.
It robs us of our food, man,
And freezes up our blood, man--
And sleep! Nary a nod, man,
Or wink of it.

The old world it's been tearing--
Now we must have a hearing;
It crossed the strait of Behring--
Yes, bound to win.
Ah! now it overtakes me,
The shivering that shakes me
Is one that surely makes the
Whole world akin.

Across from coast to coast, sir,
You wander like a ghost, sir;
Every one can boast(?), sir,
Of having you.
You strike at high and lowly,
The wicked and the holy,
The poor, and they who roll thee,
Fifth avenue!

No doubt our friend bold "Fairman",
And also John his chairman,
Are pulling out their hair (?), man,
And looking wild.
If influenza has them,
My writing will not please them;
So, Oscar, pray don't tease them
Or get them riled.

Gu'tchew! gu'tchew! gu'tchew! man;
"Good day, mar ha u diugh, man;
'Sda chuin [B]neanaib na shruth, man,
Le-uiske beatha."
That's what I hear around me
Wherever Celtic sound be,
And also, O confound thee,
America!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote B: Water spring.]

TRUDEL'S TRAVELS

Joe

Said Joe, "I mus' go w'ere de win' she don' blow
For six mont' in de year, wit' its mout' full of snow:
W'ere t'ermom' at de door don' sink down to de floor,
Yes, to 40 degree below razo, or so.

"W'ere de breeze mak' you sneeze, an' de pump-handle freeze,
An' de snow she is go up above to you' knees,
Is no place for me Joe, so I'm t'ink I will go
Lak de Hun to de sun, wit' ma wife an' Louise.

"I got pos' car' today from Eugene, an' he say
To sell out on de farm, an' go down rat away
To Lowhell on de mill w'ere I earn de green bill,
An' de Merri-mac sing, tra la ling, all de day."

Marie

But Marie said, "Oui, I am not jus' agree
Wit' de plan dat you han' for dat gran' beeg movie;
If you start for de State jus' be sure not be late:
I will stay rat at home till you come, don' you see?

"So skedad," she is yell, "an' go down to Lowhell,
W'ere de snow she don' blow and no ice clog de well!
I will freeze if I please, or go sout' wit' de geese,
An' live 'long wit' ma niece in 'at ol' Lennoxvell."

Joe

"Yes, ma dear, I can hear, if you don' spik so clear,
An' break in lak a bomb on de drom of ma ear;
You may fly wit' you' niece an' go live wit' de geese,
If you promise to write in you' flight once a year.

"She is give me one glance an' at once I can see
It's more safer in France den at Lampton for me;
In her face it is war an' I notice, by gar,
It's more cold in her eye den de 60 degree!

"An' Marie, is she froit? Not to notice it yet!
For she scream till she steam an' she steam till she's wet;
An' I notice once more as she stamp on de floor:
She is build on de line of de fin' suffragette!

"Ah! So cold lak de pump, or de frost on de stump,
An' her beautiful back is rise up in de hump;
Quick I mak' up my min' w'en I look on dat sign,
It is jus' 'bout de tam for me Joe mak' a jomp!

"In de quarr'l of a fam' don' it sure beat de ban'
How de neighbors butt in, jus' lak one of de clan--
If ol' Liz' an' her phiz would kip out of my biz',
It is sure not be half de divorce in de lan'.

"Did I jomp? Well, I'm not geeve it secrets away
Dat's between man an' wife an' de pump any day,
But Marie w'en she's woun', tak's some tam to run down,
An' before she collapse she me raps in dis way:"

Marie

"I am born for to toil, I am tie to de soil,
An' you t'ink it's enough if for once in a while
I can ride to Shalbrooke, wit' cheval dat you took
From de crows in de spring, jus' to show it my style!

"Lak de queen I am feel wit' no grease on de wheel,
An' t'ree pigs in a box nottings lef' but de squeal!
Wit' his snout stick it out through de slat lake a spout--
An' his body come too but got knot on de tail!

"An' I know I am show lak de scare of de crow,
W'en down Wellington street to de market we go;
An' garson in bare feet--all de blaggard I meet
Mak' me squirm lak de worm from ma head to de toe.

"O ge whizz I am proud w'en we come on de crowd,
An' damfool out of school, he is laugh it out loud;
But de glory to God w'en I t'ink of de load
An' de boneyard dat carry it over de road,
An' de squeak of de gig, and de squeal of de pig,
I don' blame it for laugh w'en he look at de rig!

"'Ha! ha!' he is cry, 'hope to die, how you feel?
Ain't it tam to give pig in dat box some more meal?
You' horse it's too fat lak de edge of de slat;
Not 'nuff grease in de pig for to put on de wheel!
W'at you tak' it in cash for you' automosqueal?'"
"Dat's de cry dat I hear on de top of ma ear
W'en Marie, dat is me, an' her chariot appear.
An' as sure I'm rebel as you' name is Trudel
If it's not some improvement in movement nex' year."

Joe

"O, I know very well, ma cheval is poor breed,
But for trav' lak de dev' he is very fine steed;
It is true he is slim, but jus' look at his limb--
He is build lak de fly-machine--all for de speed!

"Yes, Marie, I agree dat ma rig is look tough,
So I'll spik it to Ingram, or else to Ren Clough:
I will horder cheval of de bes' in his stall,
An' nex' trip you'll be queen of de May, sure enough."

Marie

"You' sarcast' is not ask it is soun' lak de clown,
If you see you'se'f once as you look to de town
You would pull in you' horn jus' as sure you are born,
For you haven't got sense enough sure to go roun'.

"Yes, sir, ma dear Joe, you don't seem, for to know,
On las' trip to de town you was mos' of de show:
Wit' t'ree quart whiskey blanc dat you pour down you' craw--
O you bet you forget all 'bout 60 below!

"In Shalbrook on each trip you complain of de grippe,
Dr. Bum is soon come wit' a "nip" on de hip:
You get sick very quick jus' before de physic,
But de cure is work sure after tak' de firs' nip.

"Las' tam you was in you begin de ol' trick,
An' you' frien' soon atten' to tak' charge of de sick;
Soon you smug' a beeg jug to de stall of you' plug--
But Marie' dat is me, an' cheval mak' a kick.

"O dat 2-gallon stein of de jolly highwine,
In de provender mix, mak' a bully combine!
If it's good for a fool sure it's good for de mule,
An' dat is as true as twice four it is nine.

"I am t'ink if you drink till you' loaded for wreck,
I will geeve de ol' nag de sam' jag on de deck;
So I pour a few peck of de stuff down his neck
An' start in to smash record for trot in Kebec.

"Yes, I mix it de stuff, jus' de full of beeg pail--
Will he eat it or drink it? It's puzzle to tell:
But he gobble an' gobbed an' he slobber and slobbed
Until nottings was lef' of de stuff but de smell!

"Bam by it was sly in de eye dat was dull,
An' he sneeze an' he wheeze an' de halter he pull;
Pretty soon he is grow to ac' jus' lak ma Joe--
Yes a man an' cheval is de sam' w'en its full!

"Come hop on de wagon, it's ready for flight;
Load is leaving for Lampton, ol' Joseph sit tight.
Whoa, Boneyparte, whoa! An' Calamity Joe!
Kip still till you bid (hic) ol' Shalbrooke good night.

"An' de soun' of his feet as he dance on de street,
Seem to me lak de play of de drum w'en she's beat;
An' he rattle his bones on de pavement of stones
Till it mak' me feel sure I am winning de heat!

"Wen we pass it pell mell thru' on ol' Lennoxvell,
Peop' is t'ink dat de college is practice hees yell;
I am know it's disgrace on such educate place--
But it mak' leetle differ to Joseph Trudel.

"For, more loud as before he is roar on de spot,
Boneyparte is respon' an fly on lak de shot--
Frank Bogash is stan' still on de top of Sand Hill,
An' say, 'glory to God, he can beat me for trot!'

"An' his tail in de win' is fly up wit'out bend,
Jus' as straight lak de pole dat de trolley car send.
Yes, it stick up behin' lak de mos' of its kin',
An' I'm t'ink dat de spark is fly out at de end!

"He is wheeze on de breeze till I'm 'fraid he will bus',
An' ma Joe, de ol' fou, is yell 'Go it, you cuss!'
Jus' as soon as he yell Boney do as he tell,
An' de city of Cookshire we leave in de dus'.

"It's rat here I got scare, an' declare to him 'Hi!
Can't you steady you nerves an' come down from de sky?'
But I fin' it's no use, for de dev' is seem loose,
An' de more as I coax it de louder he cry!

"On de top of de slope w'ere dey bury de Pope
I say, 'Joe, you go slow through dis precinct I hope.'
But he yell for protection--'Hoorah for 'lection,
Free trade will be hang if it get some more rope!'

"An' I know rat away dat de dev' is to pay,
W'en he cry to de sky in dat blood curdle way
For John Henry arose, to meet frien' or de foes--
An' said, 'Ladies an' gentlemen, where's Laurier?'