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.
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"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.
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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!