Forgetful that your hunters slay My people, and their bodies flay. That human skins, puffed up with pride, Strut forth in ours—no tongue to chide— We’re grateful for the honour given To beaverhood, since nearer heaven This great Dominion raised our name, Emblazoned on the scroll of fame; A choice that to the world attests The base on which its greatness rests, Our one transcendent, special gift:— Persistency of honest thrift. My sermon may appear to you But wind and chaff, however true; Reject it if you will.—Adieu!
V.
Serenade of Fairies, crowned with ivy.
Scene:—A street in Montreal, West End.
Time:—November.
Welcome home, our Benedict! To duty never less than strict; Welcome thrice thy comely Bride! Spirit of the frozen north! Come not from thy palace forth, Yet a little while abide:
Tarry till the waning moon Mournful, goes, as if too soon Summoned from these lucent skies. Twinkle, joyful, all ye stars! Peeping through your silver bars, Rivalled by their laughing eyes.
Hallowed be their sweet repose When those eyes in slumber close, When they listen, pleasure-haunted, To the melody we pour Down the chimney, through the door, Listen in their dreams, enchanted.