FOOTNOTE:
[D] Water spring.
A CHRISTMAS DREAM.
——————
On Christmas night I sallied forth,
To the Red Mountain in the north;
The bright abode of men of worth
'Twixt here and heaven;
Where Finlay's stakes in mother earth
Are firmly driven.
I ambled up the village road,
Past many an Irishman's abode,
And carried quite a heavy load—
The most inside;
I faith sincerely thanked the code
The way was wide.
Here conscience loudly whispered, "Dhu,
How oft hath it been told to you,
The end that way would lead you to
Should you persist—
With soldiers of the ribbon blue
At once enlist."
I answered conscience, "give me peace,
The time of pledges draws apace,
When we must swear to shun the glass
And all its riot;
We've but a single week of grace
So let's enjoy it."
I followed up by Keenan's gate
Unto the "turn" where two ways meet,
Thence to the left the mountain street
Would guide me right,
Tho' for my life I could not see't,
Just in that light.
For where two highways ran before,
I saw a dozen tracks or more;
And which to take, I wasn't sure,
By either eye;
'Twas but a chance against a score,
And yet I'd try.
I started on with divers tacks,
And strove to reconcile the tracks
Which darted round, like jumping jacks,
Before my gaze;
'Twould take a dozen crowd a cacks
Their course to trace.
Had I big John's and Eddie's charts,
To tell me where the highway parts,
Reducing by their magic arts
Nineteen to two;
I would have from my heart of hearts
Poured blessings due.
Confusion worse confounded, gee!
On every track a horse I see,
And all alike it seems to me
As barley scones—
I vow, Pete Gagne's cavalry—
Proud, prancing roans!
Their bones were rattling in the cold
Like vales of which Ezekiel told!
A few indeed did seem too old
To nibble corn;
The colt among them all was foaled
Ere "Smoke" was born.
Ah! crippled, gaunt and wild-eyed steed,
Thy woes are great, your want is feed!
Reminds me of D. Bunker's breed
That gasps for breath;
Aye, one and all are built for speed—
To certain death!
I asked the leader of the band,
If he could tell, upon which hand,
The mountain turnpike pierced the land
Around those parts;
I'd shipped a sea, I told him, and
Had lost my charts.
"The left!" he answered with a yell;
"Tis easy, sir, your course to tell;
And that will lead you down to—well,
To "Robert's road."
Then straight away on yonder hill
Is "Smoke's" abode.
"The right hand road you must not take,
As that will lead to Moffat Lake,
Where Cookshire sportsmen saw "big snake"
Through Alden's glass.
And thots of serpents make me quake
From head to cass."
I gave my guide a social wink,
And started on, is cha ro blink,
Till my exuberance, I think,
Broke into song:
I said "good evening" to the "Mink,"
And passed along.
The air was keen, the night was bright,
And in the north that mystic light,
(In my exaggerated sight)
Was one to please;
The whole suggested yellow, white
Or greenish cheese!
I gained momentum down the ridge,
And jumped John Moggish's hump-backed bridge;
Then climbed the mountain, hedge by hedge,
Unto the crest.
And thought it there my privilege
To take a rest.
I could not find the mountain store
Which Channel mentioned in his leor,
My vision's better than before,
I really think:
Aye, C—— accounts for one or more—
And he don't drink.
But stores aside, I wandered on
To where the school house windows shone,
Altho' there seemed to me but one—
A dancing glare:
I thought the northern lights were on
The programme there.
And just within, O "hully gee!"
Is that a single Christmas tree,
Or is my vision still aglee?
For lack of breath—
A moving forest do I see
As saw Macbeth?
And better still the forest gleams
With all a youngster most esteems:
A greater crop, as groaning beams
Did there attest
Than Tupper saw in wildest dreams
Of wheat out West.
And bachelors (might they be fewer)!
I thought I'd see you single, sure,
But there they sit, at least a score,
On benches stuck;
Each one a wilted, lone wall flower
Awaiting pluck.
We pray you, O assultin Turk,
So noted for unholy work,
To send his devilship your clerk
Across the seas:
To drive our single men to kirk
With marriage fees.
Or send Armenians not yet dead
And take our bachelors instead;
Should you then hanker for their head
Just plant their hide:
And thus avoid that hellish dread
Infanticide!
Another Finlay like your own, you'll never know.
Behold! I've reason now to stare!
For are there not two Finlays there—
And only one on earth I swear—
Come off my hat!
A worthier to fill a chair
Has never sat.
Red Mountain, thy neglect condone—
Within that "chair" your bard enthrone:
Instead of bread, don't give a stone
As others do—
Another Finlay like your own
You'll never know.
Sweet singer! may your mother tongue,
Embellished by thy gift of song,
Be ever heard the clans among
While print is read—
May future bards thy notes prolong
When thou art dead.
Thus on and on, while cycles roll,
May Gaelic—language of the soul—
Be heard in song from pole to pole,
From east to west,
Until the final tempests bowl
This earth to rest!
Concluding—I would humbly ask
All hypocrites to shun the task
Of shooting from behind a mask
Their fellow men—
And help us all to fling our flask
To Hinnom's glen!
We've heard the loud, despairing moan
Of sinners, reaping what they've sown,
In midnight fields with thistles grown
Where devils glean.
Yet let the first to cast a stone
Himself be clean.
No living mortal can invite
The gaze of creatures who delight
In showing spots upon the white
Which God hath gi'en.
Alas, alas, a little spite
Will find the stain.
But who's to judge? The serpent's there,
In every breast that breathes the air,
Though some with skill and acting rare
His form conceal;
While others full to view must wear
The squirming eel!