Again the banner floats as then it flew;
Whilst now the clamorous war-pipes shrilly sound,
And now the Fiery Cross gleams like a meteor round.
The Summer Sun’s effulgent hue
Gilds Scotia’s skies of bluest blue;
Autumn’s at hand, but a brisk breeze,
Born of conflicting policies,
Blows o’er the land, and leisure coy,
And sport’s supreme soul-stirring joy,
Are not for Members sorely prest,