Wayside Weeds

And yet I love thee. Thou dost bring

To me a thousand visions bright

Of joyous birds that soon will sing

Among the hawthorn blossoms white;

Of happy hours

’Mid dewy flowers;

The hum of bees; the silvery gleams

Of leaping trout in amber streams.

Soon as the snows of winter yield

To April sun and April floods,

Retiring from the open field

To strongholds in the thickest woods,

Then like a scout,

Dost thou peep out,

And cheerily lift up thy head

To tell the flowers the foe has fled.

O thou that comest our hearts to cheer,

The first of all the flowers of spring,

Brave herald of the opening year,

Accept the tribute that I bring,

When now once more,

The winter o’er,

Thy honest face has greeted us,

O Symplocarpus fœtidus!^[6]

We have left far behind us the dwellings of men,

We have traversed the forest, the lake and the fen,

From island to island like sea birds we roam,

The waves are our path, and the world is our home.

Juvallera, Juvallera, Juvallera, lera, lera!

Juvallera, Juvallera, Juvallera, lera, lera!

On the lone rugged rocks a rich table we spread,

The balsam and hemlock afford us a bed;

While the gleam of our camp fire illumines the sky,

And the murmuring pines sing a soft lullaby.

Juvallera, etc.

When the orient hues of the dawning of day

Emblazon the clouds and smile back from the bay,

We spring from our couch like the stag from his lair,

And drink in new life with the free morning air.

Juvallera, etc.

Then we launch our light bark on the silvery lake,

That dimples and breaks into smiles in our wake;

While we sweeten our toil with a tale or a song,

Or rest while the winds waft us bravely along.

Juvallera, etc.

At night when the deer to the thicket has fled,

And the scream of the night hawk is heard overhead,

We startle with laughter the wilderness dim,

Or the forests resound with our evening hymn.

Juvallera, etc.

Then Hurrah for the north, with its woods and its hills;

Hurrah for its rocks, and its lakes and its rills!

And long may its forests be lovely as now,

Untouched by the axe, and unscathed by the plow!

Juvallera, etc.

Of all the flies that ever I see

The Cowdung Fly is the fly for me

In cloud or shine, in wet or dry

You can’t find the beat of the Cowdung Fly!

So early in the morning or when the sun is sinking,

So early in the morning or any time of day.

The salmon fly shines in purple and gold

Brighter than Solomon shone of old

But give me the finest that money can buy

And I’ll give it you back for the Cowdung Fly!

So early, &c.

A cute little chap is the silver trout

When the wind is still and the sun shines out!

No maiden so coy and no widow so sly

But he’ll jump like a shot at the Cowdung Fly!

So early, &c.

A tough old cuss is the big black bass

It’s a mighty hard job to bring him to grass

But it makes no odds how hard he may try

He can’t resist the Cowdung Fly!

So early, &c.

There’s many a fly of old renown

Green Drake, Red Spinner and little March Brown,

Coachman, Professor, but Oh my eye!

They ain’t a patch on the Cowdung Fly!

So early, &c.

There are Hackles black and Hackles white

Good by day and good by night

Hackles brown and Hackles red

But the Cowdung Fly is away ahead!

So early, &c.

There’s the little black gnat when the sun shines bright

And the big white moth for the cool twilight

But of all the bugs in earth and sky

I’ll bet my boots on the Cowdung Fly!

So early, &c.

Then anglers all you can’t go wrong

If you’ve plenty of Cowdung Flies along

You never will want for fish to fry

If your book’s well stocked with the Cowdung Fly!

Over the waters, merrily dancing,

Softly glides our light canoe,

While the phantom mirror glancing,

Shines alternate white and blue.

Chorus.

Never can tell when the bass is a-coming,

Never can tell when he’s going to bite;

First thing you know your reel will be humming,

Strike him quickly and hold him tight.

Past the maples, red and yellow,

Crimson oak and purple ash—

Gosh! you’ve hooked a monstrous fellow!

Golly! don’t you hear him splash?

Hold him lightly, reel him slowly

If you wish your fish to save;

Nothing’s gained by hurry—Holy

Moses! what a jump he gave.

Lower your rod; now take the slack up—

Thank your stars you’ve got him yet!

Now he sticks his thorny back up—

Now you’ve got him in the net!

In the basket, wrapped in fern, he’ll

Lie in state in scaly grace;

In the pan, when we return, he’ll

Find a warmer resting place.

Let him fry in crumbs and butter—

Hear the appetizing fizz!

No weak words that I could utter

Can describe how good he is.

Serve him with a slice of bacon,

Quickly to the banquet come,

And unless I’m much mistaken

Your remark will be “yum, yum!”

Would you slay the Maskinongé

In the fastness where he lurks?

Leave a card pour prendre congé

On the town and all its works.

Leave the tram-car’s jarring jangle

For the silent bark canoe;

For the forest’s leafy tangle,

Bid the dusty streets adieu.

As befits her slender tonnage,

In our tiny craft we stow

Cunningly our modest dunnage—

Shove her off, away we go!

Joy once more to grasp the paddle!

Farewell worry, doubt and gloom.

Care, who clings behind the saddle,

Finds in our canoe no room.

Off we go! The lake before us

Stretches far and stretches fair;

Forest scents are wafted o’er us;

Forest voices fill the air.

Paddling past the pebbly beaches

Where the ancient cedar grows;

Toiling in the open reaches

When the stiff nor’wester blows.

Winding down the silent river

Where the scarlet maples blaze,

And the pallid aspens quiver

Through the warm September days;

Past the oily eddies sweeping

Where the hidden boulder lies;

Down the rapid gaily leaping

Where the spray about us flies.

Poling through the gravelly shallows,

Floating ’neath the alder’s shade,

Where the moose at noon-tide wallows,

And the beaver plies his trade;

Shoving through the rustling sedges,

Battling with the autumn gale;

Lifting over rocky ledges,

Sweating on the portage trail—

On we go, with steadfast faces,

Till at last with gladdened eyes,

We behold the secret places

Where the Maskinongé lies.

Shall we find him in the rushes?

Where the waterlilies grow?

Where the roaring torrent gushes?

In the foam-flecked pool below?

Fierce and cunning, bold and cruel,

Is the Maskinongé grim,

Who shall dare him to a duel?

Who shall fight and conquer him?

* * * *

Proudly with his spoil returning,

We with shouts the victor greet;

By the camp-fire brightly burning,

He shall have the warmest seat.

Is he hungry? Pile the platter;

Thirsty? Join the gay carouse;

Weary with his toil? What matter?

Heap his bed with balsam boughs.

Fill his pipe with rare Virginian,

Cheer him till the echoes ring,

Monarch of his new dominion,

Maskinongewagaming.

Let each man praise the river

That’s dearest to his heart,

The Rhine, the Guadalquivir,

The Danube or the Dart.

Let others sing the Tavy,

The Tweed, the Wye, the Lea,

Give me the Magaguadavic,

The Digdeguash for me.

Some men choose lakes for fishing—

Ceceebe or Couchiching,

Namabinagashishing,

Kenongewagaming.

I’ll take my affidavy

That what they say is bosh;

Give me the Magaguadavic,

Give me the Digdeguash!

Beneath the shady willow

Cast cunningly your flies,

His wake a widening billow;

Behold the monster rise!

No dreadnought in the navy

Could make so big a splosh;

You’d hear at Magaguadavic

The trout of Digdeguash!

Behind the purple spruces

The golden sunset dies,

As each his pipe produces

And puts away his flies.

The basket’s full, the slavey

To-morrow morn shall wash

The spoils of Magaguadavic,

The loot of Digdeguash!

And when upon the table

They come to lie in state,

Hardly shall we be able

A decent grace to wait.

They need no sauce nor gravy,

For none can beat, by gosh!

The trout of Magaguadavic,

But those of Digdeguash!

O restless Bay of Fundy,

O mist and fog and rain,

Hope whispers I may one day

Behold you yet again.

How gladly would I brave ye,

Nor ask a mackintosh,

To see the Magaguadavic,

To fish the Digdeguash.

Callirrhoe’s fair daughters

Have fled their ancient grots;

The voice of many waters

Turns shrieking into watts.

But spare, oh! spare, I crave ye,

Amid the general squash,

The falls of Magaguadavic,

The rips of Digdeguash!

How dull these links to me!

Rhona’s not there,

She whom I long to see,

Rhona Adair!

Who has a swing so true?

Who such a follow through?

Who, who can putt like you,

Rhona Adair?

Who drives her ball so far,

Far through the air

Swift as a shooting star?

Rhona Adair.

Who hits her ball so clean,

Landing, whate’er’s between

Dead on the putting green?

Rhona Adair!

Whose strokes, of all who strike

With hers compare?

Who has a waggle like

Rhona Adair?

Of all the girls I’ve seen

Playing across the green

You, Rhona, are the Queen!

Rhona Adair!

“Oh! put me on your waiting list

I’ll be a golfer if I may

And learn the joys too long I’ve missed

Before I get too old to play!”

They gave him on the list a place

And year by year they let him wait,

For golfers are a long-lived race

And very seldom emigrate.

When, after many weary years,

He reached the top his sponsor said,

“The friend (excuse these natural tears)

Whom I proposed has long been dead.”

And when at last in Charon’s wherry,

It was the sponsor’s turn to stand

His friend came down to meet the ferry

A phantom niblick in his hand.

“Welcome to Hades,” thus the shade

In hollow-sounding accents spoke

Then spied a puff-ball and essayed

To loft it, but he muffed his stroke.

“Permit me, pray, to be your guide

Until you’ve learnt your way about

Our golf course is our greatest pride

Old Colonel Bogey laid it out.

“Some people say Avernus stinks

And Acheron smells like a sewer

But Fernhill golfers like our links

They find the air so fresh and pure.

“Cocytus, Styx and Phlegethon

As hazards serve extremely well,

In this particular alone,

The Lambton links are just like Hell.

“The asphodel wants cutting sadly,

The lies are wretched, more’s the pity

But everything is managed badly

By that infernal Green Committee.

“Come, lay aside your shroud and pall

And play a friendly round with me.”

(A Dead Sea apple was the ball,

A pinch of church-yard dust, the tee.)

He took the club of cypress wood

And smote what seemed a mighty blow,

But, though the aim was true and good

The ball remained in statu quo.

“Alack and well-a-day,” he cried,

“A duffer must I ever be,

A duffer I have lived and died

A duffer through Eternity.”

When Potter played in front of me

The other day upon the links,

The mist rolled landward from the sea

(The sleepy Caddie yawns and blinks),

We watched him waggle at the tee

And curl his body into kinks,

When Potter played in front of me

The other day upon the links.

We watched him make the divots flee

And dribble o’er the bunker’s brinks,

The dewdrops sparkled on the lea,

The sun shone through the fog bank’s chinks.

My partner, hopeful, said to me

“He’ll lose, and let us through methinks!”

When Potter played in front of me

The other day upon the links.

The noonday sun looks down in glee

While Potter in the bunker swinks,

He plies the niblick merrily

While Caddie unto Caddie winks.

The crow on yonder tall fir tree

Looks down and caws at such high jinks,

When Potter played in front of me

The other day upon the links.

The shadows fall on land and sea,

The sun to rest in splendour sinks,

And Potter crouched on hand and knee

Thinks out each putt, and thinks and thinks.

We all got home too late for tea!

My mind with grief and horror shrinks

From memory of the day when we

Played after Potter on the links.

Macgregor, always spick and span,

Was quite the military man.

He never walked about the town

Arrayed in sober cap and gown,

But blazed in scarlet, gold and steel,

And clanked a sabre at his heel.

He took no pride in his degree,

In F.C.S. and F.I.C.,

But wrote with joy akin to tears

C.D., Canadian Engineers!

Macgregor had been often sent

His country’s arms to represent,

To Chatham, Woolwich, Aldershot,

Or anywhere, it mattered not.

He always followed, never weary,

“Quo fas et gloria duxere.”

At length, because they thought him yearning

To represent his Country’s learning,

Toronto Universitee,

Knowing how ready he would be

Alike in “bello” and in “pace,”

Despatched him to the I.C.A.C.

He packed his trappings Academical,

And sailed to join the Congress Chemical,

Which met that year in London reeky,

To study “la chimie appliquée.”

Watching the vessel’s fall and rise,

’Twas thus he did soliloquise—

“I may not wear my sword and spurs,

But one glad thought my bosom stirs,

’Tis this that I shall surely be

Presented to His Majesty!

It may be when he sees my face

He will reward me with a place

With my deserts commensurate

The Secretary, say, of State

For War, or give me Chief Command

Of all his troops on sea and land!”

Arrived in town, his journey done,

He took a cab to Kensington,

Sir William Ramsay, honest man,

With kindly words to greet him ran.

“Put on,” he cried, “your cleanest shirt

And free your hands and face from dirt,

To-morrow you shall go with me

To meet His Gracious Majesty!”

When they alighted from the train

They met the Lord High Chamberlain

Who scanned each name with anxious care

Lest some who ought not should be there.

“Here’s Stinkemout from Buda Pesth,

And Sneezetoff, and all the rest,

Ezra P. Binks from Idaho,

But here’s a name I do not know

‘Dr. Macgregor from Toronto,’

That’s something that I’ve not got onto!”

Sir William cried “The College where

My friend Macgregor holds a chair

Is in Toronto, Canada.”

“Ah!” said the Chamberlain, “Ahah!

I’ve heard of Canada, of course,

But that’s another coloured horse.

Your friend, to say it gives me pain,

Will have to toddle back again!

The King, the invitation states,

Receives the Foreign Delegates.

Remove this person from the list

He’s nothing but a Colonist.”

A prophet, says the Holy Book,

Must not at home for honour look,

The greater here includes the lesser,

For “Prophet” therefore read “Professor.”

We be seventy Lyric Poets,

All in the Fatherland,

Our verse is delightful, although its

Not easy to understand.

We’re the flower and crown of the nation,

The crown and flower of the earth,

But we find our remuneration

Inadequate to our worth.

We sing of “Sehnsucht” and “Trauer,”

“Die Liebe,” “Das Herz” and “Die Welt,”

But leider, we haven’t the power,

To sing from the public “Das Geld.”

The plumbers have their Union,

Fast joined the joiners keep,

And sweep hold dark communion,

With sooty brother sweep.

The motormen and switchmen,

The very firemen band,

Alone against the richmen,

The Poets helpless stand.

A fig for the Philistine slander,

Let’s cut from all precedent loose,

What’s sauce for the bus-driving gander,

Is sauce for the quill-driving goose.

We’ll found (because empty our purse is)

A Lyrische Dichterverein;

And we won’t write any more verses,

Under 50 pfennig a line.^[10]

What’s the Soul? throughout the ages

Mystery never yet unveiled

Prophets, poets, saints and sages

All have tried and all have failed.

But at last we’ve got an answer

No vague dream or fancy vaguer

From a scientific man—Sir

Herr Professor Dr. Jaeger.

Printed in his lucid pages

This is what he has to tell

Listen poets; listen sages;

That’s the Soul that makes the smell.

Whoso takes his meat to season

Onions chopped or garlic whole

Shall enjoy a feast of reason

Followed by a flow of soul.

The Reverend Canon Dumoulin

Although he don’t object

To dancing in a room along

With company select

Can’t tolerate the Bal Poudré

I am not surprised at all

For when there’s powder, cannons play

The mischief with a ball.

With weary steps as Wisdom trod

In Reason’s dusty way

Came Fancy with alluring nod

And beckoned him astray.

Laughing she snatched away his books,

And charmed him with her witching looks,

He could not say her nay.

She shook her curls with childlike grace

And all his anger fled,

He looked into her sunny face

And followed where she led.

And lo! his weariness was gone

Fresh vigour filled his soul

She led him up, she led him on

Till he had reached his goal.

I hate your imported Havannahs,

Your perfumed cheroots I decline;

His own special weakness each man has,

A pipe, I confess it, is mine.

Why take from their elegant wrappers

Your gilded cork-tipped cigarettes,

Fit only for militant flappers

Or reckless R.M.C. cadets?

What need for cigars to be pining

When smoking a briar or a clay;

In front of the fire I’m reclining,

And peacefully puffing away.

We stood upon the deck and saw

Mid fog and mist the iceberg loom;

And while we gazed in wondering awe,

It vanished into mist and gloom.

With various skill each tried to draw

What printed on his brain had been

The vision that he thought he saw

Or that he thought he should have seen.

Some drew it flat, some drew it round

And some with many a tower and steeple

And when we shewed our work we found

As many bergs as there were people!

Across each other’s paths we drift

Pale shadows on a misty sea.

The clouds but for a moment lift

Then naught is left but memory.

If then at any distant day

Your thoughts should chance to turn to me

Draw me not as I am, I pray,

But as you think I ought to be.

Colonel, Most worthy President,

Our Club’s chief stay and ornament,

One man who drives with dust and jar

A 40 h.p. motor car,

All other mortals counts but clods,

Himself a rival of the Gods.

The fickle crowd another woos

Him for a threefold term to choose.

A third will lie awake all night

If Manitoba wheat be light.

Not Rockefeller’s treasure chest

Could tempt the Farmer to invest

The savings of his life of toil

In shares of rubber or of oil.

The liner’s skipper when he steers,

The foghorn booming in his ears,

Through thousand dangers all unseen,

Sighs for the peaceful village green;

Yet fog nor ice nor foundered ships

Can stop him making record trips.

Some spurn not, when their throats are dry,

Long drinks of Irish or Old Rye,

Nor scorn to blow through moistened lips

Great clouds of smoke between the sips;

Others in such things find no charms,

And when the bugle calls to arms

Would banish from the tented green

(Bugbear of matrons) the Canteen.

The hunter leaves his tender spouse

For a rude bed of hemlock boughs,

Content to bag a head or two

Of bearded moose or caribou.

But give me rather, if you please,

A score-card full of 4’s and 3’s.

The bunker cleared, the putt gone done,

And, of all joys the flower and crown,

The well-hit tee-shot’s graceful flight

When everything has gone just right!

Alas! Fate holds for me in store

No chances of a bogey score.

I must send in till I am sick

Cards that defy arithmetic;

Nay, Haply, the Etobicoke

May add to every hole a stroke,

Yet, Colonel, if your grace awards

Some place among the minor bards,

Who sing the Game to me—Ah, then,

I am the happiest of men!

If me from this no fate debars

Then my swelled head shall strike the stars.

When you and I were babes, Adam,

In good Prince Albert’s time,

The word went forth that war should cease,

Commerce should link all lands, and Peace

Should dwell in every clime.

When you and I were boys, Adam,

In Queen Victoria’s days,

Those guns that now so silent stand,

Where meet the rulers of our land,

With olive decked and bays.

Roared from the Russian ramparts grim,

Their muzzles all ablaze,

While old Todleben, with his back

Against the wall, foiled each attack

In Queen Victoria’s days.

When you and I were young, Adam,

In good Victoria’s time,

We stood together side by side,

When Mewburn and Mackenzie died,

And Tempest, “ere their prime.”

But say not “they have left no peer—”

That were unwelcome praise

To those three friends of ours long dead,

Whose blood for Fatherland was shed

In good Victoria’s days.

In royal Edward’s time, Adam,

Fresh prophecies were rife.

They told us nickel-pointed shot

And flat trajectories and what not

Would rid the world of strife.

But now that we are old, Adam,

We see with startled eyes

Quick-firing guns won’t stop the Jap,

Nor Serb nor Bulgar cares a rap

Who wins the Nobel prize.

When you and I were young, Adam,

There were no telephones;

There was no ultramicroscope;

And no X-rays for those who grope

And pry among the bones.

But, though with diagnostic aids

They were but ill supplied,

There were a few who shrewdly guessed

(Old What’s-his-name among the rest)

At what went on inside.

When you and I were young, Adam,

It was damnation stark

To doubt that all that breathe the air,

Came, male and female, pair by pair,

Straight out of Noah’s ark.

“Mutantur,” Adam, “tempora

Mutamur atque nos,”

And now we’re not a bit afraid

To tell just how the world was made

In detail and in gross.

In pre-Archæan periods

Of elemental stress

The C and H and O and N

Collide, rebound, combine, and then

React with H₂S.

Colloidal specks from this ensued

Which grew, and grew, and grew,

With lively motion all endued,

Till they attained a magnitude

Of 0·01μ.

Then somewhere over ·01

And under ·05

Amoeboid feelers out they sent

And took some liquid nourishment

And, lo, they were alive!

In pre-Archæan periods

Let fancy have her fling,

But, Adam, will your faith allow

Such goings on can happen now

When George the Fifth is King?

Well, times may change, and we may change,

But find him when I can,

I’ll drink a health to one who’s stood

For all that’s honest, kind and good;

So here’s to you, Old Man!