Flannigan cleared his throat. "Ye do me honor," he said; "but I shall be happy to plase ye. I will at this time give yez the song I composed when I quit the sarvice and had made up my mind to come to Canada." He then, in high cracked notes, sang:
THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL!
I'll put by my musket,
Also my red coat;
On war and its glory
I'll no longer gloat.
CHO.—I'll go to the land
Of the green maple tree;
Whose emblem's the baver,
Whose paple are free.
No thoughts of ambition
Inspires now my breast.
My solduring's o'er—
In peace I'll now rest.—Cho.
And now I heed not
The trumpet or drum.
My battles are ended—
No more will now come.—Cho.
They greeted his song with uproarious applause, which he drank in as a genuine tribute to his genius as a poet, and also to his power in the realm of song.
It was really strange that a man with his, in some respects, sharp intellect and native wit, should be so weak as to imagine the trash he jumbled together was poetry, and thus leave himself open to be laughed at by even his own cronies. But it is said we all have a weak point—this was his.
After the applause which greeted his song had somewhat subsided, he said: "Come, now, each man of you saze his glass and let us drink to the toast—'Prosperity to our cause, and bad luck to the Dunkinites.'" After they had all drunk, he said: "Now, boys, let us have a talk of these cold-water men."
"If they are 'cold-water' men, as you contemptuously dub them, you'll find they will fight like heroes for what they believe to be right," remarked Dr. Dalton.