Chapter II: Part 2

"O, de stones on de graves is look white lak de sheep,
An' de fear of ma scare mak' de hair on me creep
W'en he lif' up his head, look aro'nd him an' said,
'There ain't nothin' to it,' an' went back for more sleep!

"Bam by I am get over de mos' of ma fright;
I don' look to de lef, I don' look to de right.
But kip rat straight ahead for more place of de dead--
For ma pals stop for nottings but spirits tonight.

"An' de rat de tat tat of his iron shoe hoof
Soun' lak hail in de gale dat is fall on de roof;
An' de stone dat is pass, an' de dus' in ma face,
Of de speed Boney mak' is one jolly good proof.

"An' at Bury, I guess, Joe is want me to res'
An' put down at de tavern of Peter Gilless;
But I tole to him plain he was on de wrong train--
No way station stop for de lightning hexpress!

"Whoa! Boneyparte, whoa! W'at's de matter wit' you?
Can't you jus for one minute go little bit slow?
But he don't seem to min' any more as de win',
An' pass out through de swamp w'ere de dam-beaver grow.

"Wen de Meadows we reach, lak de dev' he was hump,
An' ol' Chimney de Hill he was climb in t'ree jump;
All de Scotch on de road say 'de glory to God,
It mus' sure be de ghost of ol' 'Caillach de fump!'

"At each place of de dead, I say 'Joe, prinnes garde,
You kip still on dis hill, an' don' yellen so hard.'
But ma Joseph of course, jus' as crack as de horse
Kip on yell to beat tell w'en he see de graveyard!

"At one place as we pass, I t'ink down de Black Eye,
Sleep some dear pioneer--80 year since dey die:
Here ol' Joe yell so loud for de clans in de shroud
Some is jomp up to see w'at de dev' is pass by!

"An' jus' leettle way down, Boney stop in his track,
An' he spy, an' he shy, an' he try to turn back;
But Joe hit him a clip on de hip wit' de whip,
An' somebodda in Scotch is yell 'Frangach a cack.'

"But Boney don' need it de crack of de switch,
As he jomp through de stomp on de top of de ditch,
Yellin' 'Caillach a rad cross! I am los', I am los'!'
An' was chase in de race by de wil' Lingwick witch!

"O de glory to Gordon! her look mak' me chill,
As we shoot over reevers lak wisp-o'-de-will;
An' den down to de mill, an' up over de hill,
W'ere de capitol Gould ro'nd de scales is stan' still.

"But not so de chariot dat's passin', you bet:
Too much hurry to talk to de peop' dat we met--
It's no stop-over right on Joe's ticket tonight--
He is head on for Lampton an' don' you forget!

"Yes, ol' caillach de crossing is scare Joseph blind,
An' I'm t'ink for a while it will help it--his mind--
O you bet he was 'fraid of dat sweet highland maid
Who was squeal lak de deil on our heel jus' behind!

"We was gallop through Galson, till Tolsta approach,
Near de line dat's dividing de French from de Scotch;
Here ol' hag of de fright, scream to Joseph 'Good night!
On de witches of Winslow I mus' not encroach!'

"W'en Joe lose it de vision he's courage come back
An' he ask w'at she mean by de 'Frangach is crack';
W'en I tole him he cry 'Dam Scotch haggis good bye!
De nex' tam dat I trav' I will kip from you track!'

"'Who is said I was 'fraid of de sick or de well?
I am not a bit scare of twin devils from Dell;
Not one man of my day, but de beeg George MacRae
Can lick one of de sides of me, Joseph Trudel!'

* * * * *

"Dat's de way dat you rave, an' behave, an' you boast
On de night dat cheval an' his pal see de ghost:
An' de tremens was goad you so much on de road
I am wonder de load ever get to dis post.

"O, it's joy, for a wife, in dis worl' of de strife,
To be shame of de game till it stab lak de knife;
An' de peop' are all tell 'Dat's de mate of Trudel,
Who is travel lak hell on de jo'rney of life.

"Dat's why you are cry, an' you' heart feel it sore,
An' you ask me to roam from ma home evermore.
Jus' you geeve up one t'ing, an' de birds it will sing,
An' de sonshine will cling w'ere it's shadow before!

"O dat man is de bes' who will cling to his nes'
W'ere he's born an' he's raise an' he's work an' he's res';
If he don' mak' success rat at home, I confess,
Den it's slim hope for him in de Sout' or de Wes'.

"An' dear Joe, don' you know we have got no hexcuse
For de way we offen', an' descen' to abuse?
Me you cannot deceive, for I know you are grieve
Jus' as much as Marie for de dear ones we lose.

"An' de pain is mos' kill, an' it's nevair kip still,
Since dey bury ma Mary an' boy on de hill;
W'en you ask it I fin' dat I can't leave behin'
Lonely grave of ma darlings, Marie and boy Bill.

"An' I'm feel it is true, half of me's bury too,
Since was lay in de clay leettle body from view!
So you do w'at you lak, I will try for to mak'
Jus' de bes' of de bargain, I promise to you.

"But I tole to you, Joe, if you t'ink I mus' go,
It is only half womans be wit' you I know;
For de res' of me stay w'ere de leettle ones lay--
In de summer an' flower, in winter an' snow!"

THE END OF THE TRAIL

I was summoned in the gloaming to the bedside of a friend
Who was passing through the shadows ever lurking at the end:
To the bedside of a comrade I had known long, long ago
Back in dear old Compton County, where the sugar maples grow.
Just a simple son of Lewis, careless, fearless, poor and proud,
As becomes a Highland Scotsman of the royal clan MacLeod.
He could sing the songs of loveland, as I've seldom heard them sung--
Richest treasures of the Highlands flowed in music from his tongue.
What a privilege and pleasure to have heard him in his prime,
Ere his mellow notes were burdened by the cruel strains of time.
When the gentle nurse had brought me to the couch of poor old John
E'en a novice would not question that his race was nearly run.
He was lonely in the city, longing for the spruce and pine,
And his eyes grew bright with pleasure as he placed his hand in mine,
Saying: "Don't forget me, Angus, but come out to see me here,
For the nights are long and lonely, and the days devoid of cheer.
Yes, I know my days are numbered, all the signs to me are plain:
I shall never guide the movements of the skid road boys again.
There's a secret I would tell you that I've never told before,
It was locked up in my bosom fifty years ago or more:
It's of Mary, gentle Mary, whom I loved in years agone--
Loved her then and will forever, and my Mary loved her John!
But there came another wooer, who was rich as I was poor,
And her parents looked with favor on this keeper of a store.
I was wounded, yes, and angry, that their greed should thus deny
Me the place they held for riches, so I bade them all good bye,
And I left my Mary weeping, though she begged of me to stay--
Left her weeping--to my sorrow--and I westward took my way.
Then I drifted hither, thither, like the flotsam of the sea:
Every year a little farther from my home in Tallabharee,
Till at last I came to anchor on the shores of Puget Sound,
Where so many of my comrades in misfortune may be found."
Here his speech grew slow and halting, as he said, amid his groans,
He had feared for what might happen to his "poor old aching bones."
"Do not let them sink my body where the derelicts are thrown,
For although I'm poor in pocket, pride was bred within my bone.
When my limbs refuse their burden and I cannot further go,
And the trail is dark and tangled where the fir and cedars grow;
When the cord of life is severed and in death I'm lying low,
And there's nothing left but tallabh of the John you used to know:
Lay me down amid the shadows of the forest that I love,
With the grey green moss around me and the skies of God above;
Where no noises will disturb me save the whisper of the woods
And the night-birds' dismal hooting in the primal solitudes,
Where the crooning voice of nature chants the glory of the West,
Let the groves of God hold vigil o'er my everlasting rest.
Over there beyond the shadows I will find my Mary dear,
And we'll cruise the trails together that we missed so sadly here."
When again I looked upon him death had wrapped him in its chill,
Songs were silenced now forever and the lilting lips were still.

HOMESICK.

I am tire now of roam', Rosemarie,
An' long to be at home 'mong de tree,
W'ere de Robin redbreas' sing
In de branches every spring,
An' de bes' of everyt'ing, You wit' me!

For de independen' man, Rosemarie,
Farmin' is de bettair plan, seem to me;
W'ere no boss is stan' an' swear
Till you feel lak pull you' hair--
O! ba gosh I want ma fare rat away!

Yes, if man has got one soul, Rosemarie,
Don' it mak' him hot lak ol' Mont Pelee!
To be order' ro'nd his work
Lak some lezzy dog-gone Turk--
By a boss call Barney Burke, O sacre!

O, I long to see my farm, Rosemarie;
W'ere ol' Nature full of charm wait for me--
W'ere de angel painter deck
Ev'ry sod an' stone an' stick:
Ro'nd ma home in ol' Kebec, Rosemarie!

Yes, I dream abo't it all, Rosemarie,
Ev'ry tam to sleep I fall, night or day:
I can see dat bock-wheat fiel'
Dat is soon be turn to meal,
An' I hear de fat pig squeal, "hot gravie"!

O, ma heart is on de jomp, Rosemarie,
For be back among de stomp, You an' me:
Ma potato in de lot,
An' ma onion growin' hot,
An' de sweet pea in de pot, hully gee!

SERGEANT MAJOR LARRY OF THE GALLANT 58TH

In '96 the author served his Queen for two weeks on
the plains of Rockland, near Richmond, Que., as
orderly under the gallant Capt. Peter Gillies, now of
Bury, P. Q. One of the subordinate officers becoming
the butt of his comrades owing to unpopular tactics
the following "Come-allye" resulted. The author may
add that this "drill" ended his military career--he
hasn't been orderly since.

O come all ye loyal volunteers,
You're ordered for review:
Keep your eyes on Sergeant Larry
Of the famous "No. 2".
He's the model of a soldier,
And 'tis worth your while to watch
How he handles the maneuvers
In his drill among the Scotch.

Sure his "honors" sought him early,
He was here but half a week,
When the call came: "Forward, Larry,
You're promoted for your cheek:
Take your stripes and stand for orders
And reveal to No. 2
What a mixture of conceit and gall,
With brass and cheek, can do."

And the "orders" are "Fall in, my men,
Look sharp, and don't be late!
Signed, Sergeant Major Larry,
Of the gallant 58."
Come, my boys, you need not grumble,
You have but to grin and yield,
For brave Kitchener's "not in it"
When bold Larry's on the field.

When we started down from Scotstown
We were just as big as him,
But his honors won so quickly
Made the rest of us look slim.
O, he swelled in regimentals
Till he quite outgrew his tent,
But he'll get the one he asked for
When old Hogan pays his rent.

O we are loyal volunteers,
Our red coats prove us so,
We are ready, aye, and willing now
To meet our country's foe.
Who would not be proud of Canada
And for her sake to bleed?
For success would crown our efforts
If bold Larry took the lead.

Yes, the sword that dangles by his side's
A borrowed one, I know
But it matters not to Larry,
As it helps to make a show!
See him strut around the camp ground,
Like a peacock in the grass!
And the "staff" will send him higher
When it needs a boom in brass.

Such was Larry bold--in peace time--
He was brave as Lochinvar,
But he quickly changed his music
As the bugle called for war;
When the Highlanders grew wrathy,
With their hair straight up on end,
Sergeant Larry dropped at Bury,
As he wished to see a friend!

We were left without a leader
And the riot louder swelled,
Divers Scotsmen drew their bayonets
And for blood they madly yelled.
Ev'ry car was full of soldiers,
Noisy as salvation drum,
On the day we left Camp Rockland
And the troops came shouting home.

After Larry comes the "Colonel,"
And a valiant man is he,
Tho' he never led his forces
From "Atlanta to the sea";
Yet, if e'er the country needs him,
Every clansman will awake,
From old Hampton down to Weedon
And from Lingwick to the Lake.

We will conquer with our music
If our fighting fails to win,
Whom bold Larry cannot vanquish
We will silence with our din;
Thus we'll proudly march to glory
And in midst of all the fray
We'll be cheered by French of Scotstown
As he whistles "Cabar Faidth."

And McLennan with his bagpipes,
He's a brass band in himself,
We will have him with his music
To conjure the fighting elf.
There is nothing so inspiring
As a loyal tune or song,
To arouse a soldier's spirits
And to cheer the "boys" along.

We will have them there from Scotstown,
From Ben gal and Echo Vale,
Men imbued with faith and courage,
Highland traits which never fail;
And to swell the fighting faction
We've the twins of Murray's Clan,
Who can fight their weight in wildcats--
Not to mention mortal man!

And we've armies to fall back on,
Whose supply will never fail,
Troops which cross the wild Atlantic
On all ships of steam or sail;
You will find them throughout Canada,
Wherever you may roam,
And the natives call them "home boys",
For they never stop at home.

Chorus

Beat the drums and blow the bugle, boys,
And whoop it all you're worth,
As a token to the nations
You are rulers of the earth!
If you wish to shine as soldiers
You must all be up to date,
And uphold the reputation
Of Battalion 58.

THE FENIAN RAID WHICH NEVER WAS MADE

During the Boer War a number of prominent gentlemen
addressing a great mass-meeting in New York advised
the Tammany Tiger to go up and clean out the Canadian
jungles, intimating that the majority of the French
Canadians were ready to cast off the "British Yoke."

From de country of de Yankee,
Where de heagle bird is roost,
Where de Star and Stripe is worship
All de way from coast to coast,
Comes a rumble of de danger
Dat is t'reaten us once more,
W'en de Fenian tak' hadvantage
Of our trobble wit' de Boer.

Some crank mans in New York City
Mak' beeg speech dat soun' lak' joke,
And he tell us "what a pity
Canadaw wear British yoke!"
And dey shout out to de people
In de clap-trap of de brave:
"We will send it men and money
For to liberate de slave!"

P'raps dey mean all right for Joseph,
But I t'ink before dey come,
Dat someboda ought to tole it,
"Charata begin at home."
And dey try to move McKinley
In de favor of Oom Paul--
Not because dey love de Boer,
But because dey hate John Bull.

Now if Joe he know de feeling
Of de U. S. at this tam,
All de foe of Queen Victoria
Is de foe of Honcle Sam.
It is hinsult to ma country
For dese men to yell and tell
Dat de Canuck don't is loyal
To de queen he love so well.

Tak' de history of ma people,
From de day of Wolfe-Montcalm,
An' you'll find it patriotic
To de backbone jus' de sam'.
I am sorry for dis fighting,
As I don't dislak de Boer;
But ba gosh w'en its mean troub', boys,
Den I lak' ma country more.

Hip hoorah! for British soldier,
Hip hoorah! for British flag!
And God bless de Canuck forces
Gone to help uphold de rag!
Down wit' all disloyal member
Of de body politik,
French or Henglish, rich or poor mans,
By de power let him trek!
(I'm not onderstan' dis las' word,
Don't hinvent it in Quebec.)

Now I read it on de pepper
Dat J. Tarte is mak' some sneer
On de patrihotic feeling
Of de Canuck volunteer;
So I'll tole ma frien' Sir Wilfrid
For to check his runnin' mate--
T'row heem out de sam' lak Jonah,
Or he'll sink de ship of state!

Long ago w'en I was babby
Fenian mak' it one beeg "raid"
For to capture Canuck country--
Hole an' young an' man an' maid.
Up dey come from state of Var-mont,
Halso from de state of Maine,
To de state of destitution
Pretty near to Stanstead Plain!

Dere dey met two t'ree hole farmer,
Wit' some sickle in her han',
An' she hask hinvading army
W'at dey want on top her lan'.
Dey could mak' no hones' hanswer,
So de farmer tole 'em "leave,"
An' before you say Jack Robin!
Dey skedaddle lak de dev'!

Yes dis rag-tag bob-tail soldier
Start across de "line" on run,
Jus' de sam' lak' Coxey army,
W'en it march from Washington!
Nodder tam two t'ree more Fenian
Come aroun' ma home to tak'
W'en ma fadder an' ma grandpa
Was off fish upon de lak'.

Noboda aroun' but womans
W'en de Fenian come dat day,
An' ma gran'ma wit' de pitchfork
T'rowim over fence lak hay!
No, I don't want Fenian, t'ank you,
For to lif' de British yoke,
I can wear it leetle longer
On ma farm at Centre Stoke.

So, if stranger cross de border
For hinvasion of dis' lan',
We will meet it in good order
Wit' strong weapon in de han'.
Yes, let Finnigan de Fenian
Cross de "line" to hole Quebec,
An' lak chicken of de story
She'll get somet'ing in de neck.

We will grab it by de collar,
And some place dat's near de seat,
An' dere rags will mak' a flutter
In de gutter of de street;
An' ba Christmas she will fin' me
Wit' ma shoulder to de "yoke,"
Waiting for dat rag-tag army
Of hinvasion--watch ma smoke!

A LEAP-YEAR BALL AT LINGWICK

The night before last Hallowe'en
Tho' wet as any ever seen,
Must henceforth mark a date supreme
In Lingwick's social lore.
As on that eve the ladies all
Came forth to give their leap-year ball--
And long ere ten the dancing hall
Was crowded to the door.

Since Scottish heroes sang duans
Upon the field of Prestonpans,
So fine a gathering of the clans
Was surely never seen.
And brilliant Byron's "ladies fair"
Who danced in Belgium's balmy air
Could never with our girls compare
In beauty's realm, I ween.

Were I a Burns I'd sing their praise
In grateful sympathetic lays,
And tell them how a bard repays
The smiles on him bestowed.
O! for a pure poetic drift,
Or bard McRitchie's splendid gift,
To give those charming girls a lift
On chummy Hymen's road.

Since first the red man trod those lands,
In happy, reckless, roving bands,
Where now the town of Lingwick stands,
Until the present time.
No festal scene deserved such note,
Of such a scene no poet wrote,
Tho' painted with a double coat
Of stirring prose or rhyme.

The lively Galson girls were there,
With dancing eyes and wavy hair,
And roses stamped by caller air
On every blooming cheek.
And other ladies, fair and bright,
Who live near by, were there that night,
Contributing the keen delight
Of beauty, so to speak.

Oh bachelors, how sweet to glide
With such bright charmers by one's side!
And ev'ry heart a surging tide
Of leap-year sentiment!
You might perambulate around
Until you'd hear the trumpet sound--
No better quarters could be found
To pitch your earthly tent.

At 12 o'clock the ladies came
And took each blushing(?) humbled swain
Across the road, where Eddie's dame
Had placed a royal feast.
Each charmer paid (alas how rare!)
Her own and hungry fellow's fare,
And splendid food was furnished there
For o'er an hour at least.

We must congratulate each belle
From mountain, vale and Fisher Hill,
Who paid her leap-year tax so well
Last Friday night at Gould.
Had we our wish we'd gladly call
Twice yearly for a leap-year ball,
For surely we were happy all
The while the women ruled.

And we beseech you throw your charms
Around the lonely mountain farms,
Where bachelors are up in arms
Against your luring spell.
Fan to a flame the sluggish smoke,
Place Gibourd in a double yoke,
And give friend Finlay Ian a poke
To keep him hale and well.

Dear girls, keep up your enterprise
And dazzle all those "bache's" eyes,
Before the present leap-year dies
And robs you of your rights.
Take pity on the lonely men
From "Midnight" to big corner "Ken,"
Or later on "it might have been"
Will rob your sleep o' nights.

The 'legibles we'll briefly scan:
There's Merchant Donald B. Buchan,
Who is a dear, good-natured man,
And not too old to mend;
And Layfield, too, by George! you bet,
A closer friend it's hard to get--
Besiege their hearts, they're both to let,
And bliss will rule the end.

And finally O'Norman "Hoe",
Can Cupid's dart e'er conquer you,
And penetrate your bosom through
To kindle there a flame?
Shall living mortal ever see
A bouncing baby on your knee
Whose lisping tones will add with glee
"Papa" unto your name.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER Or THE HOLLERIN' HOHENZOLLERIN

Dear Gott! der weight of "right divine"
Iss on my shoulters heavy yet;
Und worries grow for me und mine
For fear our thrones should be upset.

Democracy disturbs my dreams
Und leaves Thy Villiam veak und vorn;
Der worldt iss upsite down, it seems,
Since Chermany was made to mourn.

Ve deemed der throne of "Nick" secure
From Gottless hordes who scheme and scoff;
But foes of mineund Thine, impure,
Rebelled und bowled der Romanoff!

Und also Greece went on der skids,
For Constantine, my Constantine!
Und other kinks may lose their lids
Till all are gone safe mine und Thine!

If von by von ve lose our crown
My schemes on earth vill be upset;
Und Gott! if Ireland turns us down
Ve're in der soup alretty yet!

Der Yankees, too, are now in France,
To aid der hateful Philistine,
Und swear they'll make der Kaiser dance
Der Turkey trot across der Rhine!

(Aside)
Yes, I vill dance und I vill trot,
Der Shottiss und der minuet,
But, by der power of "Me und Gott"
U. Sam vill pay der piper yet!

Gott, I've been faithful to my trust
Since Thou dids't place me on der throne;
My sword wass neffer known to rust
Vile it coult yet extract a groan.

Wheneffer yet I drew dot sword
To make der helpless victim bleed,
I alvays called upon der Lort
To guide my arm und bless der deed!

I sink der ships on all der seas,
My submarines are on der chob!
Despairing cries invade der breeze
Und music's in der dying sob!

I rain der pombs from oudt der sky,
On schools and hospitals below;
Der vimmen und der chiltren die--
For thus do ve reduce der foe!

Lort help me mit my war to prove
To all der swine as they shoult know,
Thou are der ruler up above
Und I am ruler down below!

I am der Moses as of oldt,
I smite der heathen hip and thigh--
Lort send me Aaron yet to holdt
Thy fainting servant's handts on high!

On Gideon still holdt der sun--
Thou dids't for "Josh" in years agone;
Und let der melancholy moon
Still flood der vale of Ajalon!

(Aside)
O Chermany! dear Chermany!
Der Lort of Hosts vill see you through!
Ve are der chosen people ve,
Und not der Scotch or cunning Jew!

Vonce, Lort, Thou knowest ve vere chums,
Und everything did come my vay;
But now Thou'rt turning down der thumbs,
No matter how so loudt I bray!

Remember, Chermany's Thy friendt;
Upholdt it, Lort, for our dear sake;
Der line of Hintenburg is bent--
O help us, Gott, before it break!

I'm trusting in Thine aid divine,
Und bray und fight mit shot and shell,
But Himmel fails to hold der line
Against Canucks dot fight like hell!

I bray at morning, bray at night,
Und bray at noon ven it is hot;
But Gott is keeping oudt of sight--
He answers not, He answers not!

O! can it be, as scoffers say,
Der race iss for der von who runs?
Und dot no matter how ve bray
Der Lort is mit der biggest guns?

If so it be, then all iss lost;
Farewell, farewell, dear Chermany!
Lloyd Chorge can figure up der cost
And charge it all to Gott und me!

HOW WE SETTLED THE ALASKAN BOUNDARY QUESTION

These lines were penned long before the breaking out
of the present great war. Note the remarkable spirit
of prophesy which pervaded the poem, especially its
allusion to the Armenians.

Now that little Venezuela
Has her navy back in tow,
With the "allies" in the distance
Waiting for the promised "dough",
It may not be deemed improper
For the mind that loves to roam,
Just to focus its attention
On some matters nearer home.

We are also growing weary
Of the "war clouds in the East",
Which bob up to entertain us
Once or twice a year at least.
And we'd bear the "bobbing" better
If it did not always bring
To the "concert of the Powers"
An unfailing chance to sing.

They are masterful musicians
With chin music as their forte,
And a penchant strong for love songs
When they serenade the Porte!
While they sing the Sultan dances
Like a strolling Dago's bear,
Till one really feels the presence
Of roast Turkey in the air!

Thus they exorcise the spirit
Of destruction in the Turk,
And adjure the imp to vamoose
And forego its bloody work.
Doth he vamoose? Yes, a season,
To return with "seven more,"
While the Sultan's still insultin'
And his fingers still in gore.

But we'll leave this doubtful concert
And its harem-scarem tones,
Meant to drown the voice appealing
In the dying Christian's groans;
And examine rather closer
Into troubles of our own.
To uproot the crops of mischief
Which old Satan may have sown.

People must with friendly feelings,
And the best intentions, try
To elucidate the muddle
Termed "Alaskan boundary."
There's a rumble in that region,
And it shouldn't louder grow--
Just a little cloud of worry
'Mid the flurry of the snow.

Why, oh why, should kindred people
Quarrel over hunks of ice?
If they knew each other better
They would settle in a trice.
But Miss Canada is frigid
And Columbia is cold,
So in presence of the couple
There's an iciness untold.

Harken to the one bemoaning
Up among the northern lights,
How that 'tother is a "squatter"
And encroaching on her rights.
"It is mine by deed and title,
For as everybody knows--
Not to mention Rudyard Kipling--
I am 'Lady of the Snows'.

"See my cousin, Hail Columbia,
Who has settled thereabout,
She will soon take Root and Lodge there
If I do not Turner[C] out.
When I asked her 'please to vacate',
Can you guess the jade's response?
Why, she sweetly smiled and answered,
'After you, my dear Alphonse'!"

Thus the question rests at present,
Till the arbitrators meet;
And we trust when said time cometh
They will gravely take their seat
Near the base of all the trouble,
On the apex of the Pole,
Where they'll exercise the virtue
At the least of keeping cool!

Furl your "colors," then, ye fair ones,
In a truce of amity,
Till this august body settles
Where the "boundary" should be;
We've emerged from clouds of discord
And should never more go back
Whether Skagway's 'neath Old Glory
Or beneath the Union Jack!

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote C: Root, Lodge and Turner, the three American arbitrators.]

DE GUARDS OF LAFAYETTE

Ma Rosie say to me today,
"You mus' prepare, ol' man,
For to join de Allied army
In de ranks of Honcle Sam.
De worl' is full commotion
Since explosion of de Hun,
An' de dev's to pay for Belgium
An' "position in de sun".

I say, "all rat, ol' woman,
Let de summon come today,
An' you'll fin' ol' Joseph ready
For to arm an' march away!
I'm as good for carry knapsack
An' to shoulder up ma gun
As I was in Reil rebellion
On de far Saskatchewan."

De home of ma adoption
Is as good a place for me
As across de line in Canadaw,
Ma native counteree.
Ma work, ma home, ma frien's, are here--
In fac', de whol' dem set!
So w'at can I do but join wit you
In de Guards of Lafayette!

I don't care me for nobodda
But stan' up for w'at's right,
An' if Honcle Sam he geeve de word
An' say we got to fight:
Good-bye ma work on Amoskeag,
I leave it quick you bet,
An' join de boy wit' utmos' joy
On de Guards of Lafayette!

So don't mak' fuss abo't dis cuss,
An' don' be tak' it hard
If I, ol' Joe, go soon to show
Ma colors in de Guard.
You say I got some babby--
I mus' stay rat by dem? Nit!
I will march beneat' ol' Glory
In de Guards of Lafayette!

O ain't it mak' sensation
On de streets of Manchestar
W'en de order come from Honcle Sam
To march us off to war.
Nobodda'll know dat dis is Joe
From dear ol' Nicolet,
W'en off I march jus' stiff lak starch
In de Guards of Lafayette!

Dear Woodrow, would you be so good
As send us Teddy R.,
To be commander of de chief
An' leader of de Guar'?
Dis war, ma friend, is quick to end
If battle stage is set
For bol' Ted, on Armageddon
Leading Guards of Lafayette!

O sure it's be proud day for me
I nevair saw before,
W'en Johnny Bull an' Honcle Sam
Fight sides by side once more!
It's mak' one combination
Dat's tarnation sure to win
W'en Old Glory joins de Allies
On dat rough road to Berlin!

Mos' place I go dey ask me, "Joe,
Who start dis gol darn war?
Was it de Sultan-Kaiser,
Or de Austro Hungry Tsar?"
I hanswer, "well, it's hard to tell
Who start dis hell abroad,
But spite of Hun, de gas an' gun,
We'll finish it, ba God!"

Den Rosie, dear, dry up de tear,
An' cheer up lak ma joy--
You know de Hun is turn his gun
On leetle girl an' boy!
Now dat we mus' join in de fuss
And Honcle Sam say, "Get!"
Jus' wish us well an' shout lak hell
For de Guards of Lafayette!

THE LUMBERJACK

We have songs on many topics,
New and old, beneath the sun,
But, alas, in many cases,
Minstrelsy is overdone;

So I'll sing a song of labor--
Where the muse is rather slack--
And my theme shall be of timber
And the hardy lumberjack.

Now republican traditions
Are so grafted in our bones,
That e'en monarchs of the forest
Must be tumbled from their thrones.

And to raze those ancient strongholds
We have armies of the axe,
Plucky pioneers of progress,
Known to all as lumberjacks.

He may lack the wings of angels
And the sanctity of saints:
If a town's in need of painting
He may furnish all the paints.

Yet he lapses but a moment
And again he hies him back
Close unto the heart of nature,
Does the lonesome lumberjack.

There amid his wild surroundings
And the crooning of the trees,
He finds balm for mind and body
Borne on every passing breeze.

There is something strangely healing
In the magic of the myrrh,
In the odor of the cedar
And the fragrance of the fir!

Grind your axes, O my heroes,
Point your peavies, file your saws;
Let your ropes and chains and cables
Be examined now for flaws.

Fire up the iron donkey,
Till each rivet feels the strain,
Lumberjack has had his outing
And returns to camp again!

There is music in the axe fall
As it sounds upon the ear;
There is music in the sawing
When the dust is flying clear--

Aye, there's music for the lumberjack
Magnificent of sound,
In the crashing of the timber
As it thunders to the ground.

He will never lack for music
While the owl is keeping time
With the ceaseless serenading
Of the frog within the slime.

But the music ever sounding,
With the sweetest of appeals,
Is the ding-dong of the iron gong
That calls him to his meals!

He's a credit to his calling,
To his country and his clan:
There is not a dude among them--
Every lumberjack's a man.

And you'll find him ever cheerful,
In the sunshine or the rain,
From the camps of B. Columbia
To the lumber camps of Maine.

He may show a rough exterior,
But his heart is warm within--
Mark him poring o'er that letter,
Just received from home and kin:

Tears will gather hot and blinding
And he cannot hold them back,
Reading words from distant loved ones
to their absent lumberjack!

'Tis, perchance, a loving message
From a sweetheart far away,
Or a tender admonition
From a mother old and gray.

O, ye lumberjacks, remember,
That wherever ye may roam,
There are anxious hearts awaiting
For an answer "back at home"!

When the sun in golden glory
Hath descended in the west,
They indulge in song and story
Till they seek their bunks for rest:

There to dream of scenes of childhood,
Amid mountain stream or glen,
Till old Sol in morning splendor
Calls them to their tasks again.

Soft and soothing are the voices
As the shades of evening fall,
Stealing gently through the forest--
Brooding calmly over all.

By yon lake a loon is calling
And the night bird answers back,
Keeping vigil o'er the slumbers
Of the weary lumberjack.

O, the lumberjack is loyal
And he'll surely see to it,
In the grind against the Kaiser
That each axe will "do its bit";

He will spruce up for the allies
Till ten thousand airplanes hum,
All to win the war for freedom
And democracy, by gum!

Chorus

Grind your axes, O my heroes,
Point your peavies, file your saws,
Let your ropes and chains and cables
Be examined now for flaws:
Fire up the iron donkey
Till each rivet feels the strain,
Lumberjack will help the Allies
Win the war with ship and plane!

PADDY THE BOOK AGENT

Air

LARRY O'GAFF

The sun rose in splendor one foine summer morning
That marked me first effort at selling a book.
It's rays with soft beauty the landscape adorning
Sint thramps to seek bliss in some cool shady nook.
But no such rethrate the hot moments beguiling
Afforded relief to poor Pathrick O'Reilly,
Who canvassed that day epidermis parboiling
In air that would stifle a Florida cook.

I ambled along wid me pack on me shoulder,
And prayed for a cloud to o'ershadow me path:
Says I to meself, if it doesn't grow cowlder
Poor Pat you'll be afther sure milting to death.
I entered a town an' the first house I came to
Looked much loike O'Grady's, I intered the same to,
And called for the misthress, though troth half ashamed to,
An' sat for a moment to catch at me breath.

Be the council o' Cork I was not long awaiting,
The misthress appeared, looking black as a rook.
"The devil ye are wid yer impertince satin,
Yerself in me kitchen," she said wid a look.
Says I, "How is your rheumatiz, Mrs. O'Grady?"
And then quite politely I asked, "Can ye rade ye
Ould hathen, if not be me troth ye are nady;
Ye want to be afther sure buyin' a book."

She looked quite intint at aich bould handsome fature,
And warm as it was, I could see that she shook.
"O'll tache ye a lesson," she scramed, "Ye vile crature,
Ye cross twixt an ape an' a Bowery street crook!"
She jumped at me troat thin an' would you belave me,
As quick as a wink through the dure did she have me,
And howled as I struck--will her tones ever lave me?--
"The divil fly off wid yerself an' yer book."

I left a square inch of me cheek at O'Grady's,
An' limped wid the rest to the house just fornint.
A winch in the dureway was paling some praties,
Who watched me approach wid a quizzical squint.
Says I wid the best of me Chesterfield graces,
"Good day me fair maid, ain't it hotter than blazes,"
An' coaxingly swate I did ask, "If ye plaze, Miss,
To ordher a piece av me illigant print!"

Thank God for his gifts! this colleen was a daisy,
Who flashed me a glance from her eyes of deep blue;
And smiling so swately said, "Pathrick, go aisy,
I see ye were born where the blarney stone grew."
"O yes, I was born in ould Ireland, God bless ye,
The compliment sure makes me long to caress ye,
And now be me troth I am timpted to press ye
To take all me books an' the book agent too!"

We published the bans then to tell Oi'm not minding,
Our lips did the printing as ach wint to press--
The type was O. K. and O. K. was the binding,
The sthrongest av bonds are two hearts that caress.
The saints be adored for the joys they were sending--
The angels be bless'd on our nuptials attending--
For nothing can aquel in loife till its ending
The gift of a mate loike the wan I possess!

JEAN LABONNE.

I am now one lumberjack,
Rosemarie,
An' I live in tumble shack
By some tree;
Twice a year I leave ma lair,
Wit' the fir spines in ma hair,
An' win' up at Totem Square,
Seattlee.

CHORUS

O, I'm good wan all aroun',
Rosemarie;
I'm de bes' man on de Soun'
Wit' peavie.
In de sunshine or de wreck
I am always on de deck,
Jean Labonne from ol' Kebec--
Dat is me!

On de fourt' of each July,
Rosemarie;
An' w'en Chris'mas day come nigh,
You can see
Ev'ry lumber son of gun
On de States of Washington
Jus' lak Jean Baptiste Labonne,
On de spree!

I am call' de "Skookum Kid,"
Rosemarie;
I'm grease lightning on de skid
Yes siree;
I can "team" or "tend de hook,"
I can "bark" or "fall" or "buck,"
An' w'en whisky's down de cook
I'm "cookee!"

O, you'd lak for tak' one ride,
Rosemarie;
Do'n de steep ol' mo'nta'n side
'Long wit' me;
Dare is notting lak a jog
Do'n dat mo'nta'n on a log
Clinging to an iron dog,
Hully gee!

But w'en Skookum leave de rail,
Rosemarie;
For an independen' trail
Thru de tree;
Den you see somebodda jomp
Lak de dev' along de dump,
An' climb up on wan beeg stump,
Dat is me!

CANADIANS GUARD YOUR OWN.

During the Boer War at a time when the British forces
were suffering severe reverses a certain Quebec paper
stated that the British Empire was built on "feet of
clay" and predicted that it would, like its Babylonian
prototype, suffer a sudden fall.

We trust it's a long long way to that "fall," and
thank God the dear old flag still waves.

"On feet of clay," false prophets say,
"On feet of clay, the Empire stands";
Great Power which braves tempestuous waves
For Freedom's cause in many lands.

Write not again, misguided pen,
Write not again our "woes" upon.
Compare us not with that vain sot
Whose misrule doomed old Babylon.

Is it because you love their laws,
Is it because you love the Boer,
You thus assail with bitter wail
The flag which waves your country o'er?

Flag of the brave, long may it wave!
Flag of the brave still rule the sea!
While Britain fights for human rights--
For progress and for liberty.

Reverses may be ours today;
Reverses may our arms attend:
But Britain's might--with Britain's right--
Will surely conquer in the end.

Unwise Semaine why thus complain?
Unwise Semaine why idly rave?
If it be "sin" for us to win
'Tis sin to liberate the slave!

Pray cant no more anent the Boer,
Pray cant no more, 'tis but a ruse
For venting rage against an age
Ahead of Semaine Religieuse.

Our country needs no clashing creeds,
Our country needs no cliques nor clans.
United all to stand or fall,
Let's still be true Canadians!

A glorious name our children claim,
A glorious heritage is theirs;
Then why should we thus disagree,
And strew their path with racial snares?

The time is near, the edict's clear,
The time is near when racial strife
Will vanish quite before the light
That ushers in a nobler life.

Your destined lot, deny it not,
Your destined lot is clear and plain;
Nor vicious kicks against the pricks
Can e'er retard the coming reign!

No bigot's sway shall rule our day;
No bigot of a bygone age
Shall ever stand in this free land
To preach a gospel born of rage.

Proclaiming peace, let rancor cease;
Proclaiming peace, let strife be slain.
Let Saxon trait and Gallic hate
Be merged in strong Canadian strain!

GUARD THE GAELIC

An Exhortation to the Gael.

Is it not our bounden right
To uphold with all our might,
And with tongue and pen to fight
For our native Gaelic?

Guard the language known to Eve,
Ere the Serpent did deceive--
And the last one we believe,
Mellow, matchless Gaelic!

Pity the disloyal clown
Who will dwell awhile in Town,
And returning wear a frown
If he hears the Gaelic.

'Tis amusing to behold
Little misses ten years old,
When they leave the country fold
How they lose the Gaelic.

Some gay natives of the soil,
Cross "the line" a little while
And returning, deem it "style"
To deny the Gaelic.

Lads and lassies in their teens
Wearing airs of kings and queens--
Just a taste of Boston beans
Makes them lose their Gaelic!

They return with finer clothes,
Speaking "Yankee" through their nose!
That's the way the Gaelic goes--
Pop! goes the Gaelic.

Tho' the so-called "tony set"
Teach them quickly to forget,
They will all be loyal yet
To their mother Gaelic.

Then abjure such silly pride
Cast the ragged thing aside--
Let your mongrel "English" slide
Rather than the Gaelic.

What a dire calamity
And how lonesome we would be
If our honored Seannachie,
Failed to charm in Gaelic!

Better far the "mother tongue"--
Language in which mother sung
Long ago, when we were young--
Ever tender Gaelic!

Findlay's ever ready muse,
Stricken dumb, would soon refuse
People further to enthuse,
If he lost his Gaelic!

And Buchanan, how could he
Sell his soda or his tea
On this side of "Talamh a righ,"
If he lost his Gaelic?

Also Merchant Edward Mac
Would not sell so much tomac
If his stock was found to lack
Lusty Lewis Gaelic!

And Pennoyer, what would you
At the Gould post office do
When you'd hear from not a few
"Ca mar u ha u fean a diubh,"
If you lost your Gaelic?

Little Donald with the plaid
O'er his buirdly shoulder laid,
Would go dancing in the shade,
And his glory soon would fade
If he lost his Gaelic.

From O'Groat's to lands' end, too,
What would brother Scotsmen do--
All the loyal clansmen who
But a single language know,
If they lost their Gaelic?

What would then become of those
Poems grand, in rhyme or prose,
Which in stately measure flows
From "Beinn Oran's" spotless snows!
"Chaibar Faidth"--the best that grows--
"Fhir a baitha"--how he rows!
What, I ask, would happen those
If we lost the Gaelic?

Then uphold the magic tongue
Which through mystic Eden rung
When Creation still was young--
Language in which Adam sung
To his Eve, Earth's first love song;
When the morning stars were flung
Into space, where since they've clung--
Ancient, Glorious Gaelic!

THE AMERICAN EAGLE

Lofty is his habitation, peerless dweller of the skies--
Unafraid of all creation, where his rock-ribbed turrets rise;
There's a confidence unbounded hedging 'round his solitude
That should warn marauding mongrels with designs upon his brood!

O, the outlook from his aerie is a grand one, it is true--
Matchless beauty in the vistas which unfold before his view;
Might and right and wealth and glory that shall never know decline
Are his attributes to conquer ruthless robbers of the Rhine!

You invaded his dominions, sowing discord on the way;
Your besotted agents plotted to o'erthrow his mighty sway:
Using all the wiles of Willie on pacifist Bob and Pat,
Till some eaglets oversilly scarcely knew where they were at.

He was patient with your pirates since you first began to raid
And usurp his habitation to pursue your hell-born trade;
He was patient with your plotting till you piled the final straws
Which broke down his toleration--now, ye devils, mind his claws!

He looked on in consternation, scarce believing what he saw.
When you sank his ships in anger in defiance of all law:
Killing women and their children with a fiendishness unknown
Since the first bloodthirsty monster was misplaced upon a throne.

Now the eagle's wrath is burning, he is eager for the fray,
And the robbers who aroused him long will rue the bitter day
When he sweeps down from his aerie in the fury of his fire--
Sudden death will clutch the vitals of the victims of his ire!

Yea, the eagle's wings are spreading, nobly spreading to the breeze,
And their awful sweep shall bear him over land and over seas:
Men and money move in millions where those mighty pinions rest,
And God help misguided minions who have monkeyed with his nest!

Brave, determined northern neighbor, hold the "hills" so dearly won--
Hold the hills until the Eagle strikes with you to crush the Hun!
Courage! Allies, friends of freedom, in this war we're all akin--
Carry on! Old Glory's with you on the red road to Berlin!

IN MEMORY of DONALD McLEOD

Of North Hill, Lingwick, Who Died of Smallpox, at
Flagstaff, Arizona, on the 2nd day of March, 1882.

The sun hath set and leaves the day, as when the soul hath left
its clay,
The pale soft tints of twilight spread from east to west.
The evening breeze that fans my cheek with mellow cadence seems
to speak,
Then sighing onward through the dusk it sinks to rest.

On nights like this my fancy strays, to loved ones lost in
other days;
Whom gold had tempted to the sunset land afar;
Brave boys whose hopes of future wealth were blasted by thy power
O Death,
Whose mandates wage on old and young a constant war.
Among the lads so kind and true, who sought the land of golden hue,
To meet amid its glittering hopes an early doom,
Was Lingwick's strongest, lealest man, the joy and pride of all his
clan,
As brave a youth as ever graced a Compton home.

Dear comrade of my younger days, my muse is weak to sing thy praise,
But love is strong howe'er so feeble be my strain;
And though you're sleeping cold and still, on Flagstaff's distant
pine-clad hill,
Fond memory often flits to thee across the plain.

I loved e'er childhood's days were passed: I'll love you on until
the last;
E'en when the clouds of death approach I'll think of thee;
Oh, bitter fate! Oh, woeful hour! that cut thee down in manhood's
power;
Thrice bitter if death's chains could bind eternally.

But blessed promise, hopeful friend, that tells us death is not
the end,
That brighter prospects loom for all beyond the wave.
Oh, sing aloud the glad refrain, that friend with friend will meet
again!
For love like this can ne'er be conquered by the grave.

What though the red men roam at will, from arid plain to cooler hill,
Regardless of the mounds that lie amid the groves:
What though our children find their graves with ghosts of long
departed braves,
The spot is one the God of nature dearly loves.

In Arizona's distant land, where cyclones drift the heated sand,
And where the tall, majestic pine tree branches wave;
Where gaunt coyotes prowl for prey, through storm and calm, by night
and day,
There in their midst there lies a lone, neglected grave.

Were eloquence immortal mine I'd sing of scenes the most sublime,
Of any nature ever lavished here below.
God's majesty seems here unfurled as elsewhere not in all the world,--
An earthly paradise o'erspread by heaven's glow.

How fitting that thy sun went down, so near the spot that wears
earth's crown,--
The Colorado Canyon country, weird and dim;
No grander land beneath the skies in which to die, in which to rise;
And nature's God will care for all who sleep in Him.

What though, alas, fond earthly hopes are buried in yon western
slopes,
And gentle mothers grieve for loved ones lying there:
Though maidens sigh with sad unrest, for lovers true who died out
west;
The bitter heartache soon will cease and all be fair.

But Donald's manly voice still rings within our ears, and memory
clings
To all the charms that marked his life while still below:
And often now our fancy's flight doth wing its journey to that night,
That marks his lonely death amid the mountain snow.

The prairie wolves of stealthy tread already seemed to scent the
dead;
Their fitful howls were borne upon the midnight air;
The western world was wrapped in gloom, from sandy waste to heaven's
dome,
When Donald closed his weary eyes and passed from care.

The air within the mountain camp was uncongenial, cold and damp:
And springtide gales were moaning dismally outside:
No loving hand was there to press his fevered brow with fond caress,
No gentle voice to whisper comfort when he died.

Dear Balloch Ban, thou'rt now at rest; thy sun went down far in the
West.
Alas! no more to rise, until the Judgment Day;
No truer heart e'er ceased to beat, no braver soul O Death did greet,
Thy awful presence since the earth hath owned thy sway.

And now he sleeps beneath the sod, where grand old mountain pine trees
nod
Their lofty plumes beneath the far-off, distant dome!
Oh, stranger, should you linger near, drop on this lonely grave a
tear,
In memory of the boy that sleeps so far from home.

OVER THE TOP

A lusty lad from Lewis,--
Bright gem from Britain's crown--
Assailed by Huns with gas and guns
In "No Man's Land" was down.

No power on earth can save him,
'Tis madness, then, to try;
Still to the deed sprang forth with speed
A balloch ban from Skye!

He volunteered to enter
That zone of certain death,
And unafraid went forth to aid,
While thousands held their breath.

Thru all that hell of fire
He sped like mountain deer--
On shell-torn ground his comrade found,
And bore him to the rear.

Their comrades gather 'round them
To do what mortals can:
But--cruel fate!--they found them
Beyond the help of man.

One whispers, "Da mar ha u?"
"Gla vadh," the friend replied;
Then rescuer and rescued
"Went over" side by side!

How marred the manly beauty!
Now torn by shot and shell--
Ye Huns have done your duty
And served your master well!

Poor bleeding, broken bodies
To mother earth consign--
The spirit of the laddies
Ye cannot more confine.

Over the top together--
Over the great gray host--
Homing like birds of freedom,
Back to their rock-bound coast.

Over the top together!
Out from the fighting list:
Home where the purple heather
Blooms in the Highland mist.

Sons of mothers returning--
Souls from the clod set free:
Back where the home guards, yearning,
Pray that their eyes might see--

See through the veil between them,
Though but a brief, brief glance,
Into the eyes of loved ones,
Dead on the fields of France!