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.
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!