"The next upon the program was
The Kaiser's eldest son,
Who sang to thunders of apeplause
'Der land vare ve ver-dun'!

"And as his tears on Brussels flow,
His voice pathetic grew,
While singing solemnly and low
'I see my Waterloo!

"'I'm sick and sore and sorry and
I'm licked and lonely, too:
Vile odders see der Vaterland
I see mine "Vaterloo"! Boo-hoo!'

"Dear mother it was sad I claim
To hear him blubber so;
The blooming boob is not to blame
For what he doesn't know.

"From infancy they taught the kid
To bank on 'right's divine';
And that no matter what he did
The Lord was with his 'Line.'

"And so, when shot and shell and trench,
And 'Me und Gott' und Co.
Had failed to crush the hated French,
It queered his status quo!

"But Kaiser Bill was on the job,
And said 'it's getting late;'
We'll dry the tear and swab the sob
And sing the 'Hymn of Hate.'

And so they sang the 'hymn' again
To stimulate the prince:
And encored with that sad refrain
'The days of auld lang since.'

"Then Kaiser rising with a spring
Said, Gentlemen a-hem—
Our friend, the Sultan, now will sing
The 'New Jerusalem'"!

"'And after that, excuse the joke,
He'll sing that song of caste,
The "Turkey in the Straw, that broke
The Camel's back at last."'

"The Kaiser's kounsel knocked the spots
Off father's self command,
For he had such unholy thots,
Anent the Holy Land.

"But he was game as old McBeth,
Resolved to do or die;
The odor of his very breath
Was 'comin' thru the rye':

"'My breath is hot enough to stew,
My blood is hot within
From being chased like Moses thru
The "Wilderness of Sin."

"'They're chasing me across the sand—
Don't mention Waterloo!—
From Dan unto Beersheba and
A little further, too.

"'The sand is hot along the trail,
Jerusalem how hot—!
And as I hear those bagpipes wail,
I murmur, Oh great Scot!

"'Behind each chanter blows a Gael,
Loud, strong and piping hot;
And those en-chanters never fail
To make me, Turkey, trot!

"And woe betide deluded ones
Who meet this kilted race,
And deem the grim denuded ones
But females out of place!

"Engage them in a bayonet charge
And dupes will quickly find,
Those skirts are worn to camouflage
The dynamite behind!

"O demons of the fighting line,
Whose limits are the earth;
The empire great in which you shine
Doth bless thy place of birth.

"Ubiquitous, pugnacious Scot,
You've nobly done your share;
For, ever where the fighting's hot,
The Tartan flutters there!

"Yea Turkey Trot and Tanko tune!
Those dances are the style,
We hop to their compelling rune
From Baltic to the Nile.'

"The Kaiser didn't quite approve
The course the Sultan chose,
And deemed it time that he should move
The Turkish mouth to close.

"'He's taken too much Scotch in tow
Their praises thus to sing:
The next we know he'll queer the show
And dance the Highland Fling!'

"And as they led the Turk to bed,
He said the deal was raw—
Yes raw and red, 'pipe up,' he said
With 'Turkey in the Straw!'

"Here Sheik-Ul-Islam bang arose
And cried it wasn't fair,
To stem the golden flood that flows
From Allah's chosen heir.

"'Mine is the will,' said Kaiser Bill,
'That rules the world today;
No kings or khans or Gods or clans
Can these my words gainsay.'

"And then to prove that he was king
And Ruler over all,
He ordered Hindenburg to sing!
Or rather lead the bawl.

"Then Hindenburg mid many raus
Essayed a clever line;
The song he sang with fervor was,
'Fair Byng-in on the Rhine.'

"The song a sad one in its day,
Brought some to verge of tears:
But when they heard Von Hinden bray
The place was near all jeers!

"'You're off your line,' the singers laugh,
Von Hindenburg said 'Nay,
I'm only wobbling on the staff,
My bass is weak today.'

"'Your vocal chords are out of joint,
Your lines are running wrong,
Therefore I think I will appoint
Myself to sing a song.'

"So saying, Kaiser Bill arose
And clearing out his throat,
Assumed that well known lordly pose!
And sang without a note.

"The music with me still abides,
My ears with discord ring:
Dear mother you would split your sides,
To hear the Kaiser sing.

"O, why the agony prolong?
This was the burden of his song:

"'On der shore of Italy
Mine Spag-etta vaits for me,
I am longing so for thee
Mine dear Venus by der sea.

"'Und anodder maiden fair,
She vos vaiting 'over there,'

"Und I'll take mine supmarine,
Und mine super-air-machine,
Und 'Columbia der Chem of der Ocean'
Vill soon be mine own Kaiserine!'"

Here Eitel woke and poked my ribs,
And whispered in my ear,
"The words to suit his royal nibs
Would thusly run, I fear."

"Fair Saint Helena is the maid,
That calls thee to her side—
She is lonely, I'm afraid,
Since her former war-lord died!"

'Twas at this point a warning dire
Came Hertling thru the hall,
And danced in words of lurid fire
Upon the gilded wall.

And "Mene, Mene," once again
A tyrant's eyes behold,
The writing on the wall was plain
As in the days of old.

And gazing on that fiery scroll
The guilty Kaiser quakes—
May God have mercy on his soul
When Germany awakes!

All las' night I was me dreamin',
Dreamin' where de cannon's roar,
An' my spirit, so it's seemin',
Wend its flight to home once more.
Dare I heard de church bells ringin'
An' de robin red breas' singin',
Back to me de tam was bringin'
W'en I part wit' Rosemarie.

Rosemarie! De bells are ringin', oh how sweet de melodie!
Rosemarie! De robin's singin', an' it's always callin' me!

It was springtam an' all nature
Seem to join de robin's song,
All de sheep an' cattle feel it,
For de winter was so long.
O, it was one joyful meetin',
Ev'ry creature give me greetin',
An' ma heart tattoo was beatin'
W'en I t'ink of Rosemarie.

Rosemarie, ma heart is beatin', O how sweet dat pain can be!
Rosemarie, it kips repeatin', an' each beat is true to thee.

Springtam creep along de meadow,
Springtam whisper on de hill;
W'ere de sunshine chase de shadow
Ro'nd ma home at St. Camille.
Dare it stood, ma well known dwellin',
Dat I love beyond de tellin',
And ma heart in me was swellin'
W'en I see ma Rosemarie.

Rosemarie, my heart is swellin', and it's all for love of thee!
Rosemarie, it kips on tellin' dat you're all de worl' to me!

Joyfully she come to meet me,
Wit' de love light in her eye;
Smilin' tru' de tears she greet me—
Nevaire more to say good bye.
W'en I see dem tear drop fallin',
Jus' lak dew of early mornin',
Hangel voices seem lak callin',
Callin' Joe to Rosemarie!

Rosemarie, de angels' callin', O how sweet dat soun' to me!
Rosemarie, you' tear drops fallin' coax ma heart across de sea!

Paradise den open to me,
As she whisper, "Welcome home."
To my arms her form I drew me—
Den, Sapre! I wake, an' boom!
Roar of gun for church-bell ringin',
Howl of Hun for robins' singin'—
Loving arms no more are clingin':
War is hell, sweet Rosemarie!

Rosemarie, de bells are ringin',
O, how sweet dat melodie!
Rosemarie! de robins' singin'
An' it's always callin' me!

I will write a short sketch
Of that free hearted wretch
Whom all fakirs delight to espy.
He is seen every day
Just below Yesler Way,
Either "full" or distressingly "dry".

He alights from the train,
Or a boat from the main,
With intentions both honest and clear.
But the weak-minded wight,
Led astray before night,
Is filled full of doped whiskey and beer.

How alluring and bright
Is each glittering light,
As he joyfully watches the throng;
And his spirits are gay
As a bird's are in May,
And as gayly conducive to song.

How seductive the speech
In which sirens beseech
Him to share the delights of their spree.
Ev'ry man in the set
Is "hail fellow well met",
And each woman delightfully free!

There's a wink from the "traps",
And a meal with the Japs,
And a shuffle of cards as they go.
There's a trip to the play,
A few "smiles" by the way,
And a box by themselves at the show.

O how slyly they wink
As they sip at their drink,
And maliciously help him to his;
And he drinks it, alas!
'Though the foam on the glass
Floats around with a death-dealing fizz.

Thus the night passes by
Till the victimized "guy"
Is sufficiently "doped" to "go through";
And the stupefied lout,
When he's finally out,
Will possess but a nickel or two.

Wholly drunk, and half blind,
With confusion of mind,
And to rum-selling vultures a prey,
He is found at the "Mug"—
Takes a ride to the jug,
And there slumbers his potions away.

Coming out the next morn,
Sober, sick and forlorn,
To a world that has quickly grown cold!
A poor outcast he roams
While in sumptuous homes
Whilom friends(?) are enjoying his gold.

Where is now the glib friend
Of his bounty to lend
The poor devil the price of a plate?
He has vanished like mist
Of the morning, sun-kissed—
And the victim is left to his fate.

Not a wink from a lass,
Nor a clink from a glass,
With "your health", as it's borne to the lips;
Not a sign from a trap,
Not a bite from a Jap—
All his sunshine has suffered eclipse!

Not a kindly "invite"
From the friends of the night,
To "step in and have something on me."
Not a drop from the fakes
Just to steady the shakes,
And to "knock" the effects of the spree.

As he wanders the street
Not one friend does he meet,
Not a soul that will greet him today;
"Broke" and hungry—alone,
With a heartrending moan,
He must totter along to the bay.

O, the groans which now surge
With the tones of a dirge
From that soul so late given to song,
And how scenes long since fled
Like a wail from the dead,
Rise to hasten his footsteps along.

Yea, dim memories rush
To his mind, and a flush
Of deep shame drives all pallor away,
As he thinks of the East
And the home he has lost
By the life that leads on to the bay.

"Robbed and wronged all around,"
Is the sob of the sound,
But no mortal comes forward to save;
So with mutterings of wrath
He goes down to his death
Through the green, clammy depths of the waves.

Hark the tones of despair
Which arise on the air
From the shades of the low moaning bay;
They will float through the years
And encircle the spheres,
And be heard at the great Judgment Day.

Soon a poor, bloated form,
Tossed about by the storm,
Floating 'round on the crest of each wave,
With seaweed for a shroud,
Is beheld by the crowd,
And a failure is borne to his grave.

'Tis a jump from the train
And a trip up on [A]Main,
And a sip with a friend (?) on the way.
Just a step to the "Mug",
And a ride to the "jug"—
Then a leap to his death in the bay.

But the Lord from his seat
Looketh down on each street,
Where such hell-born inventions are on,
And with infinite wrath
He will sweep on their path—
And they'll reap on that day what they've sown.

My Rosie read to me somet'ing,
In pepper week ago.
She say, "De States he want to fight
On Canada and Joe;
An' dat de Yankee Presidon,
He write to Johnnie Bull,
An' tole him kip his nose at home,
Or it would get one pull."

An' two three Yankee Senator,
He mak' one Yankee speech,
An' t'ink dat all de Canaya
Will tremble in his breech—
He say to Honcle Sam, "Go up,
An' lick de hole dem crew—
Go, tak' Quebec an' Hottawa,
An' Lac Megantic too."

I jomp on top ma moccasin,
An' dance aroun' de floor;
I grine ma teet', I pull ma hair,
An' den I jomp some more;
I say, "hurrah for Canada!"
So loud as I can't yell,
Till Rosie say, "Ba gosh, hole man!
You're crazy I can tell."

"Oh I'm not crazy, Rosie,
I am only patriot—
Dat mean a man who never want
His country go to pot—
Yes, I'm 'hole man,' but don't you fret,
I'm not yet invalid,
I'm good for fight on any war
As ten men when she's dead.

"I can't fight? Me? Ba gosh you hask
Ma honcle Polyeaux;
He used to fight lak' tiger
On de war of Papineau;
You know I'm just the sam' lak' him,
I'll do what he can done;
An' I can fight lak' tiger, too,
Dat Yankee son-of-gun."

Ma Rosie say: "You crack hole man,
Such tom fool speech to mak',
I t'ink you are most crazy man
Dat live on top de lac—
Your boy is in de State, you know,
An' work in Yankee mill,
An' w'at you do he lose his job,
His bread an' greenback bill?"

"Baa, you mak' mistak', dear Rosie,
If you t'ink we starve to dead;
If we can't get de Yankee work,
His brown bean an' his bread,
Grease pie, hot doughnut—biscuit,
Is good t'ing for mak' a dude;
But we got somet'ing better here
Den Yankee 'speptic food."

Ma peasoup am bully, boys,
An' buckwheat is good,
You nevair get one better t'ing
To work upon de hood;
W'en it get hold de handle axe,
It mak' de chip to fly
T'ick as snowflak' in de winter,
Or mosquito on July.

Paul will come from Manchester,
An' Xavier from Lowhell;
Joe will come from River Fall,
Immediate—pell mell;
An' every mill of Honcle Sam
Will have to close de loom,
W'en all our boys aroun' de State
Will come to fight at home.

O by de jomp up hooricane!
If Yankee don't stop brag;
She'll fin' more star on top his head,
Den he got top his flag;
She'll fin' one tiger on his track,
Wit' blood-shot on his eye,
And ev'ry Yank dat cross de line
For fight, is sure to die.

De Lac Megantic m'litia man
Is sure to tak de lead,
You bet your life w'en he get rouse
Someboda got to bleed!
An' w'en from Lac St. Francis
Come de Greenland Grenadier
He'll mak' all Yankee man he meet
Go home de top his bier.

De Horseman from La Patrie too,
Will come an join de fray,
An' blow his tin horn bugle,
On de top Canada gray;
De Voltigeurs from Weedon,
An' de Lampton Light Brigade,
Will come an' show to Jameson
De way to mak a raid.

O' we can fight dat Yankee man
As fadders fought before!
On battle of Chateaugay,
W'en five Frenchman kill a score!
De Hinglish, Scotch, an' Hirish, too,
Will join us, don't you fear—
Dere's notting top dis earth can lick
Canadian Volunteer!

An' for one more good leader man,
We'll send for Louis Cyr,
An' he'll tak' charge de Chesham Corps
An' Ditton Fusileer;
De Hinfantry from Emberton
Will join de Yankee hunt,
And Peter Gagne's Cavalry
Will gallop on de front!

To see us now, deceivers
Would say this land of beavers
Was full of fitful fevers
And other chills.
On all the passing breezes
There's nothing heard but wheezes,
With hacking coughs and sneezes,
And other ills.

The bear, that northern prowler,
The 'Oonalaska howler,
And every other growler
We read about,
With us have caught the churning
Whose cause is past discerning,
The demon that is turning
Us inside out.

The monster's exultation
Is heard throughout the nation,
He stops at every station
To spread himself;
And no one can avoid him,
'Tis useless to deride him,
Impossible to hide him
Upon a shelf.

Whence come those sudden changes,
With all their train of twinges,
Grim foes of health that hinges
On atmosphere?
There surely is a reason
For this fantastic season,
That sets the world a sneezin'
About us here.

This "rushing" influenza,
Just taken for a mensa,
Most certainly will cleanse a'
Your system, man.
It has the knack to stick, too—
'Twould surely turn "Old Nick" blue
And draw his toenails quick through
His diaphragm.

No power can avail, man,
To drive him from the trail, man;
The patent drugs for sale man,
Can never cure.
He comes against your will, man,
And sneaks around to kill, man;
The rippling of his rill, man,
Is never pure.

It droppeth like the rain, man,
Extracted by the pain, man,
And driveth one insane, man,
To think of it.
It robs us of our food, man,
And freezes up our blood, man—
And sleep! Nary a nod, man,
Or wink of it.

The old world it's been tearing—
Now we must have a hearing;
It crossed the strait of Behring—
Yes, bound to win.
Ah! now it overtakes me,
The shivering that shakes me
Is one that surely makes the
Whole world akin.

Across from coast to coast, sir,
You wander like a ghost, sir;
Every one can boast(?), sir,
Of having you.
You strike at high and lowly,
The wicked and the holy,
The poor, and they who roll thee,
Fifth avenue!

No doubt our friend bold "Fairman",
And also John his chairman,
Are pulling out their hair (?), man,
And looking wild.
If influenza has them,
My writing will not please them;
So, Oscar, pray don't tease them
Or get them riled.

Gu'tchew! gu'tchew! gu'tchew! man;
"Good day, mar ha u diugh, man;
'Sda chuin [B]neanaib na shruth, man,
Le-uiske beatha."
That's what I hear around me
Wherever Celtic sound be,
And also, O confound thee,
America!

Said Joe, "I mus' go w'ere de win' she don' blow
For six mont' in de year, wit' its mout' full of snow:
W'ere t'ermom' at de door don' sink down to de floor,
Yes, to 40 degree below razo, or so.

"W'ere de breeze mak' you sneeze, an' de pump-handle freeze,
An' de snow she is go up above to you' knees,
Is no place for me Joe, so I'm t'ink I will go
Lak de Hun to de sun, wit' ma wife an' Louise.

"I got pos' car' today from Eugene, an' he say
To sell out on de farm, an' go down rat away
To Lowhell on de mill w'ere I earn de green bill,
An' de Merri-mac sing, tra la ling, all de day."

But Marie said, "Oui, I am not jus' agree
Wit' de plan dat you han' for dat gran' beeg movie;
If you start for de State jus' be sure not be late:
I will stay rat at home till you come, don' you see?

"So skedad," she is yell, "an' go down to Lowhell,
W'ere de snow she don' blow and no ice clog de well!
I will freeze if I please, or go sout' wit' de geese,
An' live 'long wit' ma niece in 'at ol' Lennoxvell."

"Yes, ma dear, I can hear, if you don' spik so clear,
An' break in lak a bomb on de drom of ma ear;
You may fly wit' you' niece an' go live wit' de geese,
If you promise to write in you' flight once a year.

"She is give me one glance an' at once I can see
It's more safer in France den at Lampton for me;
In her face it is war an' I notice, by gar,
It's more cold in her eye den de 60 degree!

"An' Marie, is she froit? Not to notice it yet!
For she scream till she steam an' she steam till she's wet;
An' I notice once more as she stamp on de floor:
She is build on de line of de fin' suffragette!

"Ah! So cold lak de pump, or de frost on de stump,
An' her beautiful back is rise up in de hump;
Quick I mak' up my min' w'en I look on dat sign,
It is jus' 'bout de tam for me Joe mak' a jomp!

"In de quarr'l of a fam' don' it sure beat de ban'
How de neighbors butt in, jus' lak one of de clan—
If ol' Liz' an' her phiz would kip out of my biz',
It is sure not be half de divorce in de lan'.

"Did I jomp? Well, I'm not geeve it secrets away
Dat's between man an' wife an' de pump any day,
But Marie w'en she's woun', tak's some tam to run down,
An' before she collapse she me raps in dis way:"

"I am born for to toil, I am tie to de soil,
An' you t'ink it's enough if for once in a while
I can ride to Shalbrooke, wit' cheval dat you took
From de crows in de spring, jus' to show it my style!

"Lak de queen I am feel wit' no grease on de wheel,
An' t'ree pigs in a box nottings lef' but de squeal!
Wit' his snout stick it out through de slat lake a spout—
An' his body come too but got knot on de tail!

"An' I know I am show lak de scare of de crow,
W'en down Wellington street to de market we go;
An' garson in bare feet—all de blaggard I meet
Mak' me squirm lak de worm from ma head to de toe.

"O ge whizz I am proud w'en we come on de crowd,
An' damfool out of school, he is laugh it out loud;
But de glory to God w'en I t'ink of de load
An' de boneyard dat carry it over de road,
An' de squeak of de gig, and de squeal of de pig,
I don' blame it for laugh w'en he look at de rig!

"'Ha! ha!' he is cry, 'hope to die, how you feel?
Ain't it tam to give pig in dat box some more meal?
You' horse it's too fat lak de edge of de slat;
Not 'nuff grease in de pig for to put on de wheel!
W'at you tak' it in cash for you' automosqueal?'"
"Dat's de cry dat I hear on de top of ma ear
W'en Marie, dat is me, an' her chariot appear.
An' as sure I'm rebel as you' name is Trudel
If it's not some improvement in movement nex' year."

"O, I know very well, ma cheval is poor breed,
But for trav' lak de dev' he is very fine steed;
It is true he is slim, but jus' look at his limb—
He is build lak de fly-machine—all for de speed!

"Yes, Marie, I agree dat ma rig is look tough,
So I'll spik it to Ingram, or else to Ren Clough:
I will horder cheval of de bes' in his stall,
An' nex' trip you'll be queen of de May, sure enough."

"You' sarcast' is not ask it is soun' lak de clown,
If you see you'se'f once as you look to de town
You would pull in you' horn jus' as sure you are born,
For you haven't got sense enough sure to go roun'.

"Yes, sir, ma dear Joe, you don't seem, for to know,
On las' trip to de town you was mos' of de show:
Wit' t'ree quart whiskey blanc dat you pour down you' craw—
O you bet you forget all 'bout 60 below!

"In Shalbrook on each trip you complain of de grippe,
Dr. Bum is soon come wit' a "nip" on de hip:
You get sick very quick jus' before de physic,
But de cure is work sure after tak' de firs' nip.

"Las' tam you was in you begin de ol' trick,
An' you' frien' soon atten' to tak' charge of de sick;
Soon you smug' a beeg jug to de stall of you' plug—
But Marie' dat is me, an' cheval mak' a kick.

"O dat 2-gallon stein of de jolly highwine,
In de provender mix, mak' a bully combine!
If it's good for a fool sure it's good for de mule,
An' dat is as true as twice four it is nine.

"I am t'ink if you drink till you' loaded for wreck,
I will geeve de ol' nag de sam' jag on de deck;
So I pour a few peck of de stuff down his neck
An' start in to smash record for trot in Kebec.

"Yes, I mix it de stuff, jus' de full of beeg pail—
Will he eat it or drink it? It's puzzle to tell:
But he gobble an' gobbed an' he slobber and slobbed
Until nottings was lef' of de stuff but de smell!

"Bam by it was sly in de eye dat was dull,
An' he sneeze an' he wheeze an' de halter he pull;
Pretty soon he is grow to ac' jus' lak ma Joe—
Yes a man an' cheval is de sam' w'en its full!

"Come hop on de wagon, it's ready for flight;
Load is leaving for Lampton, ol' Joseph sit tight.
Whoa, Boneyparte, whoa! An' Calamity Joe!
Kip still till you bid (hic) ol' Shalbrooke good night.

"An' de soun' of his feet as he dance on de street,
Seem to me lak de play of de drum w'en she's beat;
An' he rattle his bones on de pavement of stones
Till it mak' me feel sure I am winning de heat!

"Wen we pass it pell mell thru' on ol' Lennoxvell,
Peop' is t'ink dat de college is practice hees yell;
I am know it's disgrace on such educate place—
But it mak' leetle differ to Joseph Trudel.

"For, more loud as before he is roar on de spot,
Boneyparte is respon' an fly on lak de shot—
Frank Bogash is stan' still on de top of Sand Hill,
An' say, 'glory to God, he can beat me for trot!'

"An' his tail in de win' is fly up wit'out bend,
Jus' as straight lak de pole dat de trolley car send.
Yes, it stick up behin' lak de mos' of its kin',
An' I'm t'ink dat de spark is fly out at de end!

"He is wheeze on de breeze till I'm 'fraid he will bus',
An' ma Joe, de ol' fou, is yell 'Go it, you cuss!'
Jus' as soon as he yell Boney do as he tell,
An' de city of Cookshire we leave in de dus'.

"It's rat here I got scare, an' declare to him 'Hi!
Can't you steady you nerves an' come down from de sky?'
But I fin' it's no use, for de dev' is seem loose,
An' de more as I coax it de louder he cry!

"On de top of de slope w'ere dey bury de Pope
I say, 'Joe, you go slow through dis precinct I hope.'
But he yell for protection—'Hoorah for 'lection,
Free trade will be hang if it get some more rope!'

"An' I know rat away dat de dev' is to pay,
W'en he cry to de sky in dat blood curdle way
For John Henry arose, to meet frien' or de foes—
An' said, 'Ladies an' gentlemen, where's Laurier?'

"O, de stones on de graves is look white lak de sheep,
An' de fear of ma scare mak' de hair on me creep
W'en he lif' up his head, look aro'nd him an' said,
'There ain't nothin' to it,' an' went back for more sleep!

"Bam by I am get over de mos' of ma fright;
I don' look to de lef, I don' look to de right.
But kip rat straight ahead for more place of de dead—
For ma pals stop for nottings but spirits tonight.

"An' de rat de tat tat of his iron shoe hoof
Soun' lak hail in de gale dat is fall on de roof;
An' de stone dat is pass, an' de dus' in ma face,
Of de speed Boney mak' is one jolly good proof.

"An' at Bury, I guess, Joe is want me to res'
An' put down at de tavern of Peter Gilless;
But I tole to him plain he was on de wrong train—
No way station stop for de lightning hexpress!

"Whoa! Boneyparte, whoa! W'at's de matter wit' you?
Can't you jus for one minute go little bit slow?
But he don't seem to min' any more as de win',
An' pass out through de swamp w'ere de dam-beaver grow.

"Wen de Meadows we reach, lak de dev' he was hump,
An' ol' Chimney de Hill he was climb in t'ree jump;
All de Scotch on de road say 'de glory to God,
It mus' sure be de ghost of ol' 'Caillach de fump!'

"At each place of de dead, I say 'Joe, prinnes garde,
You kip still on dis hill, an' don' yellen so hard.'
But ma Joseph of course, jus' as crack as de horse
Kip on yell to beat tell w'en he see de graveyard!

"At one place as we pass, I t'ink down de Black Eye,
Sleep some dear pioneer—80 year since dey die:
Here ol' Joe yell so loud for de clans in de shroud
Some is jomp up to see w'at de dev' is pass by!

"An' jus' leettle way down, Boney stop in his track,
An' he spy, an' he shy, an' he try to turn back;
But Joe hit him a clip on de hip wit' de whip,
An' somebodda in Scotch is yell 'Frangach a cack.'

"But Boney don' need it de crack of de switch,
As he jomp through de stomp on de top of de ditch,
Yellin' 'Caillach a rad cross! I am los', I am los'!'
An' was chase in de race by de wil' Lingwick witch!

"O de glory to Gordon! her look mak' me chill,
As we shoot over reevers lak wisp-o'-de-will;
An' den down to de mill, an' up over de hill,
W'ere de capitol Gould ro'nd de scales is stan' still.

"But not so de chariot dat's passin', you bet:
Too much hurry to talk to de peop' dat we met—
It's no stop-over right on Joe's ticket tonight—
He is head on for Lampton an' don' you forget!

"Yes, ol' caillach de crossing is scare Joseph blind,
An' I'm t'ink for a while it will help it—his mind—
O you bet he was 'fraid of dat sweet highland maid
Who was squeal lak de deil on our heel jus' behind!

"We was gallop through Galson, till Tolsta approach,
Near de line dat's dividing de French from de Scotch;
Here ol' hag of de fright, scream to Joseph 'Good night!
On de witches of Winslow I mus' not encroach!'

"W'en Joe lose it de vision he's courage come back
An' he ask w'at she mean by de 'Frangach is crack';
W'en I tole him he cry 'Dam Scotch haggis good bye!
De nex' tam dat I trav' I will kip from you track!'

"'Who is said I was 'fraid of de sick or de well?
I am not a bit scare of twin devils from Dell;
Not one man of my day, but de beeg George MacRae
Can lick one of de sides of me, Joseph Trudel!'

"Dat's de way dat you rave, an' behave, an' you boast
On de night dat cheval an' his pal see de ghost:
An' de tremens was goad you so much on de road
I am wonder de load ever get to dis post.

"O, it's joy, for a wife, in dis worl' of de strife,
To be shame of de game till it stab lak de knife;
An' de peop' are all tell 'Dat's de mate of Trudel,
Who is travel lak hell on de jo'rney of life.

"Dat's why you are cry, an' you' heart feel it sore,
An' you ask me to roam from ma home evermore.
Jus' you geeve up one t'ing, an' de birds it will sing,
An' de sonshine will cling w'ere it's shadow before!

"O dat man is de bes' who will cling to his nes'
W'ere he's born an' he's raise an' he's work an' he's res';
If he don' mak' success rat at home, I confess,
Den it's slim hope for him in de Sout' or de Wes'.

"An' dear Joe, don' you know we have got no hexcuse
For de way we offen', an' descen' to abuse?
Me you cannot deceive, for I know you are grieve
Jus' as much as Marie for de dear ones we lose.

"An' de pain is mos' kill, an' it's nevair kip still,
Since dey bury ma Mary an' boy on de hill;
W'en you ask it I fin' dat I can't leave behin'
Lonely grave of ma darlings, Marie and boy Bill.

"An' I'm feel it is true, half of me's bury too,
Since was lay in de clay leettle body from view!
So you do w'at you lak, I will try for to mak'
Jus' de bes' of de bargain, I promise to you.

"But I tole to you, Joe, if you t'ink I mus' go,
It is only half womans be wit' you I know;
For de res' of me stay w'ere de leettle ones lay—
In de summer an' flower, in winter an' snow!"

I was summoned in the gloaming to the bedside of a friend
Who was passing through the shadows ever lurking at the end:
To the bedside of a comrade I had known long, long ago
Back in dear old Compton County, where the sugar maples grow.
Just a simple son of Lewis, careless, fearless, poor and proud,
As becomes a Highland Scotsman of the royal clan MacLeod.
He could sing the songs of loveland, as I've seldom heard them sung—
Richest treasures of the Highlands flowed in music from his tongue.
What a privilege and pleasure to have heard him in his prime,
Ere his mellow notes were burdened by the cruel strains of time.
When the gentle nurse had brought me to the couch of poor old John
E'en a novice would not question that his race was nearly run.
He was lonely in the city, longing for the spruce and pine,
And his eyes grew bright with pleasure as he placed his hand in mine,
Saying: "Don't forget me, Angus, but come out to see me here,
For the nights are long and lonely, and the days devoid of cheer.
Yes, I know my days are numbered, all the signs to me are plain:
I shall never guide the movements of the skid road boys again.
There's a secret I would tell you that I've never told before,
It was locked up in my bosom fifty years ago or more:
It's of Mary, gentle Mary, whom I loved in years agone—
Loved her then and will forever, and my Mary loved her John!
But there came another wooer, who was rich as I was poor,
And her parents looked with favor on this keeper of a store.
I was wounded, yes, and angry, that their greed should thus deny
Me the place they held for riches, so I bade them all good bye,
And I left my Mary weeping, though she begged of me to stay—
Left her weeping—to my sorrow—and I westward took my way.
Then I drifted hither, thither, like the flotsam of the sea:
Every year a little farther from my home in Tallabharee,
Till at last I came to anchor on the shores of Puget Sound,
Where so many of my comrades in misfortune may be found."
Here his speech grew slow and halting, as he said, amid his groans,
He had feared for what might happen to his "poor old aching bones."
"Do not let them sink my body where the derelicts are thrown,
For although I'm poor in pocket, pride was bred within my bone.
When my limbs refuse their burden and I cannot further go,
And the trail is dark and tangled where the fir and cedars grow;
When the cord of life is severed and in death I'm lying low,
And there's nothing left but tallabh of the John you used to know:
Lay me down amid the shadows of the forest that I love,
With the grey green moss around me and the skies of God above;
Where no noises will disturb me save the whisper of the woods
And the night-birds' dismal hooting in the primal solitudes,
Where the crooning voice of nature chants the glory of the West,
Let the groves of God hold vigil o'er my everlasting rest.
Over there beyond the shadows I will find my Mary dear,
And we'll cruise the trails together that we missed so sadly here."
When again I looked upon him death had wrapped him in its chill,
Songs were silenced now forever and the lilting lips were still.