Their proud patronymics, they rightfully hold,
Proclaim them descended from heroes of old.—
Illustrious titles that throw in the shade
The dukedoms and earldoms but yesterday made;
And even the King with his royalty lacks
A lineage as ancient as that of the Macs.
They are old and yet young, with a spirit possest
By the dream of the East and the hope of the West;
The earth is their country, the race is their kin;
In populous cities their guerdon they win,
And in gold miners' cabins and lumbermen's shacks
You will find the ubiquitous, venturesome Macs.
Distinguished they've been with the sword and the pen;
In pulpit and parliament, leaders of men;
Prime ministers, presidents, merchants, viziers,
They have manag'd the business of both hemispheres;
And the Dago day-laborers laying the tracks
Are boss'd by the Macs or the Mics (who are Macs).
'Twas thought by the ancients that Atlas upbore
The sphere on his shoulders—'tis thought so no more;
Prometheus and Atlas and all of their kith,
The Titans, are now but a fable, a myth.
The men who are bearing the world on their backs
Are the Macs and the Mics (who are mixed with the Macs).
THE PARSON AT THE HOCKEY MATCH.
It's very disagreeable to sit here in the cold,
And a sinful waste of time—ah, well, it's too late now to scold;
I'll think about my sermon and my prayers for Sunday next,
And the young folks may be happy—let me see—what was my text?
But what a throng of people—an immortal soul in each:
With such an audience this would be a splendid place to preach.
I'd have the pulpit half-way down—what ice! without a smirch!
Here are the men—I wonder if they ever go to church.
"The teams?" Ah, yes, "the forwards, point, and cover-point and goal";
Thank you, my dear, I understand—is that a lump of coal?
"Rubber?" Ah, yes, "The puck?" just so! One's holding it, I see—
That fellow with his clothes all on—ah, that's the referee.
What was he whistling for—his dog? Why, they've begun to play;
Well, well, that's rough; I really think we're doing wrong to stay.
It's sickening, deafening; dear! I wish this uproar could be stilled.
I do sincerely trust there'll not be anybody killed.
It's a wondrous exhibition of alertness, speed, and strength.
I suppose there's not much danger—there's a fellow at full length.
He's up again; that's plucky. Well, the little lad has pluck—
And now he's master of the ice, possessor of the puck.
He dodges two opponents, but collides with one at last,
A Philistine Goliath—David baffles him and fast
Darts onward o'er the whitening sheet, while from each crowded row
The crazed spectators cheer him on—Look!—has he lost it? No!
He's clear again. Played, played, my boy. I'd like to see him score:—
(I'll have no voice for Sunday if I shout like this much more)—
But there his ruthless enemies o'erwhelm him in a shoal—
Well played, you hero, safely passed. Now for a shot on goal.
Shoot, shoot, you duffer; shoot, you goose, you ass, you great galoot,
You addle-pated idiot, you nincompoop, you—shoot!
You've lost it! Never mind—well tried—that other dash was grand.
Why do they stop? "Off side," you say? I don't quite understand.
That's puzzling. I suppose it's right. I wish they'd not delay.
This is a most provoking interruption to the play.
"Cold?" Nothing of the sort. I was—I'm heated with the game.
I'm really enjoying it; indeed, I'm glad I came.
I'd like to see both ends at once; I can't from where we sit.
They've scored one yonder—What's the row? A player has been hit?
Such things are bound to happen in a rapid game like this;
They'll soon resume the play, my dear; there's nothing much amiss,—
Some trifling accident received in a rough body check,
A shoulder dislocated or a fracture of the neck.
Oh, no, it's nothing serious—the game begins again.
They're here, a writhing, struggling mass of half a dozen men
Battling and groaning with the strife, and breathing hard and fast,
Swayed back and forth and stooping low like elms before the blast,
Changing their places like a fleet of vessels tempest-driven
That blindly meet within the waves and part with timbers riven,
Waving their sticks with frantic zeal—But isn't this a sight?
My goodness! I could sit and watch a game like this all night.
There, dirty trousers, there's your chance. Muffed it! Why weren't
you quick?
This is a sight to make the sad rejoice, to heal the sick,
To rouse the drones and give them life to last them half a year—
Hit him again!—I wish I had my congregation here.
My stars! and this is hockey. Hockey's the king of sports.
This is the thing to come to when you're feeling out of sorts.
This is the greatest holiday I've had for many weeks.
This helps one to appreciate the feeling of the Greeks.
I understand my Homer now—O Hercules, behold
Yon Trojan giant, he that's cast in an Olympian mould,
Ye gods, he more than doubled up that other stalwart cove—
Here comes swift-footed Mercury, the messenger of Jove.
Adown the blue, outstripping all, he speeds. Oh, what a spurt!
His shoulders have no wings, but see, he has them on his shirt.
He's broken through the forward line, baffled the cover-point,
Thrown down the other man and knocked their game all out of joint.
And now he rushes on the goal—this makes the senses reel—
Goal! goal! hurrah! hurrah! well done, men of the winged wheel!