Weep, weep, each loyal partisan,
    For Buckley, king of hearts;
  A most accomplished man; a man
  Of parts—of foreign parts.

  Long years he ruled with gentle sway,
    Nor grew his glory dim;
  And he would be with us to-day
    If we were but with him.

  Men wondered at his going off
    In such a sudden way;
  'Twas thought, as he had come to scoff
    He would remain to prey.

  Since he is gone we're all agreed
    That he is what men call
  A crook: his very steps, indeed,
    Are bent—to Montreal.

  So let our tears unhindered flow,
    Our sighs and groans have way:
  It matters not how much we Oh!—
    The devil is to pay.