An' don' be tak' it hard
If I, ol' Joe, go soon to show
Ma colors in de Guard.
You say I got some babby--
I mus' stay rat by dem? Nit!
I will march beneat' ol' Glory
In de Guards of Lafayette!
O ain't it mak' sensation
On de streets of Manchestar
W'en de order come from Honcle Sam
To march us off to war.
Nobodda'll know dat dis is Joe
From dear ol' Nicolet,
W'en off I march jus' stiff lak starch
In de Guards of Lafayette!
Dear Woodrow, would you be so good
As send us Teddy R.,
To be commander of de chief
An' leader of de Guar'?
Dis war, ma friend, is quick to end
If battle stage is set
For bol' Ted, on Armageddon
Leading Guards of Lafayette!
O sure it's be proud day for me
I nevair saw before,
W'en Johnny Bull an' Honcle Sam
Fight sides by side once more!
It's mak' one combination
Dat's tarnation sure to win
W'en Old Glory joins de Allies
On dat rough road to Berlin!
Mos' place I go dey ask me, "Joe,
Who start dis gol darn war?
Was it de Sultan-Kaiser,
Or de Austro Hungry Tsar?"
I hanswer, "well, it's hard to tell
Who start dis hell abroad,
But spite of Hun, de gas an' gun,
We'll finish it, ba God!"
Den Rosie, dear, dry up de tear,
An' cheer up lak ma joy--
You know de Hun is turn his gun
On leetle girl an' boy!
Now dat we mus' join in de fuss
And Honcle Sam say, "Get!"
Jus' wish us well an' shout lak hell
For de Guards of Lafayette!
THE LUMBERJACK
We have songs on many topics,
New and old, beneath the sun,
But, alas, in many cases,
Minstrelsy is overdone;
So I'll sing a song of labor--
Where the muse is rather slack--
And my theme shall be of timber
And the hardy lumberjack.
Now republican traditions
Are so grafted in our bones,
That e'en monarchs of the forest
Must be tumbled from their thrones.
And to raze those ancient strongholds
We have armies of the axe,
Plucky pioneers of progress,
Known to all as lumberjacks.
He may lack the wings of angels
And the sanctity of saints:
If a town's in need of painting
He may furnish all the paints.
Yet he lapses but a moment
And again he hies him back
Close unto the heart of nature,
Does the lonesome lumberjack.
There amid his wild surroundings
And the crooning of the trees,
He finds balm for mind and body
Borne on every passing breeze.
There is something strangely healing
In the magic of the myrrh,
In the odor of the cedar
And the fragrance of the fir!
Grind your axes, O my heroes,
Point your peavies, file your saws;
Let your ropes and chains and cables
Be examined now for flaws.
Fire up the iron donkey,
Till each rivet feels the strain,
Lumberjack has had his outing
And returns to camp again!
There is music in the axe fall
As it sounds upon the ear;
There is music in the sawing
When the dust is flying clear--
Aye, there's music for the lumberjack
Magnificent of sound,
In the crashing of the timber
As it thunders to the ground.
He will never lack for music
While the owl is keeping time
With the ceaseless serenading
Of the frog within the slime.
But the music ever sounding,
With the sweetest of appeals,
Is the ding-dong of the iron gong
That calls him to his meals!
He's a credit to his calling,
To his country and his clan:
There is not a dude among them--
Every lumberjack's a man.
And you'll find him ever cheerful,
In the sunshine or the rain,
From the camps of B. Columbia
To the lumber camps of Maine.
He may show a rough exterior,
But his heart is warm within--
Mark him poring o'er that letter,
Just received from home and kin:
Tears will gather hot and blinding
And he cannot hold them back,
Reading words from distant loved ones
to their absent lumberjack!
'Tis, perchance, a loving message
From a sweetheart far away,
Or a tender admonition
From a mother old and gray.
O, ye lumberjacks, remember,
That wherever ye may roam,
There are anxious hearts awaiting
For an answer "back at home"!
When the sun in golden glory
Hath descended in the west,
They indulge in song and story
Till they seek their bunks for rest:
There to dream of scenes of childhood,
Amid mountain stream or glen,
Till old Sol in morning splendor
Calls them to their tasks again.
Soft and soothing are the voices
As the shades of evening fall,
Stealing gently through the forest--
Brooding calmly over all.
By yon lake a loon is calling
And the night bird answers back,
Keeping vigil o'er the slumbers
Of the weary lumberjack.
O, the lumberjack is loyal
And he'll surely see to it,
In the grind against the Kaiser
That each axe will "do its bit";
He will spruce up for the allies
Till ten thousand airplanes hum,
All to win the war for freedom
And democracy, by gum!
Chorus
Grind your axes, O my heroes,
Point your peavies, file your saws,
Let your ropes and chains and cables
Be examined now for flaws:
Fire up the iron donkey
Till each rivet feels the strain,
Lumberjack will help the Allies
Win the war with ship and plane!
PADDY THE BOOK AGENT
Air
LARRY O'GAFF
The sun rose in splendor one foine summer morning
That marked me first effort at selling a book.
It's rays with soft beauty the landscape adorning
Sint thramps to seek bliss in some cool shady nook.
But no such rethrate the hot moments beguiling
Afforded relief to poor Pathrick O'Reilly,
Who canvassed that day epidermis parboiling
In air that would stifle a Florida cook.
I ambled along wid me pack on me shoulder,
And prayed for a cloud to o'ershadow me path:
Says I to meself, if it doesn't grow cowlder
Poor Pat you'll be afther sure milting to death.
I entered a town an' the first house I came to
Looked much loike O'Grady's, I intered the same to,
And called for the misthress, though troth half ashamed to,
An' sat for a moment to catch at me breath.
Be the council o' Cork I was not long awaiting,
The misthress appeared, looking black as a rook.
"The devil ye are wid yer impertince satin,
Yerself in me kitchen," she said wid a look.
Says I, "How is your rheumatiz, Mrs. O'Grady?"
And then quite politely I asked, "Can ye rade ye
Ould hathen, if not be me troth ye are nady;
Ye want to be afther sure buyin' a book."
She looked quite intint at aich bould handsome fature,
And warm as it was, I could see that she shook.
"O'll tache ye a lesson," she scramed, "Ye vile crature,
Ye cross twixt an ape an' a Bowery street crook!"
She jumped at me troat thin an' would you belave me,
As quick as a wink through the dure did she have me,
And howled as I struck--will her tones ever lave me?--
"The divil fly off wid yerself an' yer book."
I left a square inch of me cheek at O'Grady's,
An' limped wid the rest to the house just fornint.
A winch in the dureway was paling some praties,
Who watched me approach wid a quizzical squint.
Says I wid the best of me Chesterfield graces,
"Good day me fair maid, ain't it hotter than blazes,"
An' coaxingly swate I did ask, "If ye plaze, Miss,
To ordher a piece av me illigant print!"
Thank God for his gifts! this colleen was a daisy,
Who flashed me a glance from her eyes of deep blue;
And smiling so swately said, "Pathrick, go aisy,
I see ye were born where the blarney stone grew."
"O yes, I was born in ould Ireland, God bless ye,
The compliment sure makes me long to caress ye,
And now be me troth I am timpted to press ye
To take all me books an' the book agent too!"
We published the bans then to tell Oi'm not minding,
Our lips did the printing as ach wint to press--
The type was O. K. and O. K. was the binding,
The sthrongest av bonds are two hearts that caress.
The saints be adored for the joys they were sending--
The angels be bless'd on our nuptials attending--
For nothing can aquel in loife till its ending
The gift of a mate loike the wan I possess!
[Illustration: I am now one Lumberjack.]
JEAN LABONNE.
I am now one lumberjack,
Rosemarie,
An' I live in tumble shack
By some tree;
Twice a year I leave ma lair,
Wit' the fir spines in ma hair,
An' win' up at Totem Square,
Seattlee.
CHORUS
O, I'm good wan all aroun',
Rosemarie;
I'm de bes' man on de Soun'
Wit' peavie.
In de sunshine or de wreck
I am always on de deck,
Jean Labonne from ol' Kebec--
Dat is me!
On de fourt' of each July,
Rosemarie;
An' w'en Chris'mas day come nigh,
You can see
Ev'ry lumber son of gun
On de States of Washington
Jus' lak Jean Baptiste Labonne,
On de spree!
I am call' de "Skookum Kid,"
Rosemarie;
I'm grease lightning on de skid
Yes siree;
I can "team" or "tend de hook,"
I can "bark" or "fall" or "buck,"
An' w'en whisky's down de cook
I'm "cookee!"
O, you'd lak for tak' one ride,
Rosemarie;
Do'n de steep ol' mo'nta'n side
'Long wit' me;
Dare is notting lak a jog
Do'n dat mo'nta'n on a log
Clinging to an iron dog,
Hully gee!
But w'en Skookum leave de rail,
Rosemarie;
For an independen' trail
Thru de tree;
Den you see somebodda jomp
Lak de dev' along de dump,
An' climb up on wan beeg stump,
Dat is me!
CANADIANS GUARD YOUR OWN.
During the Boer War at a time when the British forces
were suffering severe reverses a certain Quebec paper
stated that the British Empire was built on "feet of
clay" and predicted that it would, like its Babylonian
prototype, suffer a sudden fall.
We trust it's a long long way to that "fall," and
thank God the dear old flag still waves.
"On feet of clay," false prophets say,
"On feet of clay, the Empire stands";
Great Power which braves tempestuous waves
For Freedom's cause in many lands.
Write not again, misguided pen,
Write not again our "woes" upon.
Compare us not with that vain sot
Whose misrule doomed old Babylon.
Is it because you love their laws,
Is it because you love the Boer,
You thus assail with bitter wail
The flag which waves your country o'er?
Flag of the brave, long may it wave!
Flag of the brave still rule the sea!
While Britain fights for human rights--
For progress and for liberty.
Reverses may be ours today;
Reverses may our arms attend:
But Britain's might--with Britain's right--
Will surely conquer in the end.
Unwise Semaine why thus complain?
Unwise Semaine why idly rave?
If it be "sin" for us to win
'Tis sin to liberate the slave!
Pray cant no more anent the Boer,
Pray cant no more, 'tis but a ruse
For venting rage against an age
Ahead of Semaine Religieuse.
Our country needs no clashing creeds,
Our country needs no cliques nor clans.
United all to stand or fall,
Let's still be true Canadians!
A glorious name our children claim,
A glorious heritage is theirs;
Then why should we thus disagree,
And strew their path with racial snares?
The time is near, the edict's clear,
The time is near when racial strife
Will vanish quite before the light
That ushers in a nobler life.
Your destined lot, deny it not,
Your destined lot is clear and plain;
Nor vicious kicks against the pricks
Can e'er retard the coming reign!
No bigot's sway shall rule our day;
No bigot of a bygone age
Shall ever stand in this free land
To preach a gospel born of rage.
Proclaiming peace, let rancor cease;
Proclaiming peace, let strife be slain.
Let Saxon trait and Gallic hate
Be merged in strong Canadian strain!
GUARD THE GAELIC
An Exhortation to the Gael.
Is it not our bounden right
To uphold with all our might,
And with tongue and pen to fight
For our native Gaelic?
Guard the language known to Eve,
Ere the Serpent did deceive--
And the last one we believe,
Mellow, matchless Gaelic!
Pity the disloyal clown
Who will dwell awhile in Town,
And returning wear a frown
If he hears the Gaelic.
'Tis amusing to behold
Little misses ten years old,
When they leave the country fold
How they lose the Gaelic.
Some gay natives of the soil,
Cross "the line" a little while
And returning, deem it "style"
To deny the Gaelic.
Lads and lassies in their teens
Wearing airs of kings and queens--
Just a taste of Boston beans
Makes them lose their Gaelic!
They return with finer clothes,
Speaking "Yankee" through their nose!
That's the way the Gaelic goes--
Pop! goes the Gaelic.
Tho' the so-called "tony set"
Teach them quickly to forget,
They will all be loyal yet
To their mother Gaelic.
Then abjure such silly pride
Cast the ragged thing aside--
Let your mongrel "English" slide
Rather than the Gaelic.
What a dire calamity
And how lonesome we would be
If our honored Seannachie,
Failed to charm in Gaelic!
Better far the "mother tongue"--
Language in which mother sung
Long ago, when we were young--
Ever tender Gaelic!
Findlay's ever ready muse,
Stricken dumb, would soon refuse
People further to enthuse,
If he lost his Gaelic!
And Buchanan, how could he
Sell his soda or his tea
On this side of "Talamh a righ,"
If he lost his Gaelic?
Also Merchant Edward Mac
Would not sell so much tomac
If his stock was found to lack
Lusty Lewis Gaelic!
And Pennoyer, what would you
At the Gould post office do
When you'd hear from not a few
"Ca mar u ha u fean a diubh,"
If you lost your Gaelic?
Little Donald with the plaid
O'er his buirdly shoulder laid,
Would go dancing in the shade,
And his glory soon would fade
If he lost his Gaelic.
From O'Groat's to lands' end, too,
What would brother Scotsmen do--
All the loyal clansmen who
But a single language know,
If they lost their Gaelic?
What would then become of those
Poems grand, in rhyme or prose,
Which in stately measure flows
From "Beinn Oran's" spotless snows!
"Chaibar Faidth"--the best that grows--
"Fhir a baitha"--how he rows!
What, I ask, would happen those
If we lost the Gaelic?
Then uphold the magic tongue
Which through mystic Eden rung
When Creation still was young--
Language in which Adam sung
To his Eve, Earth's first love song;
When the morning stars were flung
Into space, where since they've clung--
Ancient, Glorious Gaelic!
[Illustration]
THE AMERICAN EAGLE
Lofty is his habitation, peerless dweller of the skies--
Unafraid of all creation, where his rock-ribbed turrets rise;
There's a confidence unbounded hedging 'round his solitude
That should warn marauding mongrels with designs upon his brood!
O, the outlook from his aerie is a grand one, it is true--
Matchless beauty in the vistas which unfold before his view;
Might and right and wealth and glory that shall never know decline
Are his attributes to conquer ruthless robbers of the Rhine!
You invaded his dominions, sowing discord on the way;
Your besotted agents plotted to o'erthrow his mighty sway:
Using all the wiles of Willie on pacifist Bob and Pat,
Till some eaglets oversilly scarcely knew where they were at.
He was patient with your pirates since you first began to raid
And usurp his habitation to pursue your hell-born trade;
He was patient with your plotting till you piled the final straws
Which broke down his toleration--now, ye devils, mind his claws!
He looked on in consternation, scarce believing what he saw.
When you sank his ships in anger in defiance of all law:
Killing women and their children with a fiendishness unknown
Since the first bloodthirsty monster was misplaced upon a throne.
Now the eagle's wrath is burning, he is eager for the fray,
And the robbers who aroused him long will rue the bitter day
When he sweeps down from his aerie in the fury of his fire--
Sudden death will clutch the vitals of the victims of his ire!
Yea, the eagle's wings are spreading, nobly spreading to the breeze,
And their awful sweep shall bear him over land and over seas:
Men and money move in millions where those mighty pinions rest,
And God help misguided minions who have monkeyed with his nest!
Brave, determined northern neighbor, hold the "hills" so dearly won--
Hold the hills until the Eagle strikes with you to crush the Hun!
Courage! Allies, friends of freedom, in this war we're all akin--
Carry on! Old Glory's with you on the red road to Berlin!
IN MEMORY of DONALD McLEOD
Of North Hill, Lingwick, Who Died of Smallpox, at
Flagstaff, Arizona, on the 2nd day of March, 1882.
The sun hath set and leaves the day, as when the soul hath left
its clay,
The pale soft tints of twilight spread from east to west.
The evening breeze that fans my cheek with mellow cadence seems
to speak,
Then sighing onward through the dusk it sinks to rest.
On nights like this my fancy strays, to loved ones lost in
other days;
Whom gold had tempted to the sunset land afar;
Brave boys whose hopes of future wealth were blasted by thy power
O Death,
Whose mandates wage on old and young a constant war.
Among the lads so kind and true, who sought the land of golden hue,
To meet amid its glittering hopes an early doom,
Was Lingwick's strongest, lealest man, the joy and pride of all his
clan,
As brave a youth as ever graced a Compton home.
Dear comrade of my younger days, my muse is weak to sing thy praise,
But love is strong howe'er so feeble be my strain;
And though you're sleeping cold and still, on Flagstaff's distant
pine-clad hill,
Fond memory often flits to thee across the plain.
I loved e'er childhood's days were passed: I'll love you on until
the last;
E'en when the clouds of death approach I'll think of thee;
Oh, bitter fate! Oh, woeful hour! that cut thee down in manhood's
power;
Thrice bitter if death's chains could bind eternally.
But blessed promise, hopeful friend, that tells us death is not
the end,
That brighter prospects loom for all beyond the wave.
Oh, sing aloud the glad refrain, that friend with friend will meet
again!
For love like this can ne'er be conquered by the grave.
What though the red men roam at will, from arid plain to cooler hill,
Regardless of the mounds that lie amid the groves:
What though our children find their graves with ghosts of long
departed braves,
The spot is one the God of nature dearly loves.
In Arizona's distant land, where cyclones drift the heated sand,
And where the tall, majestic pine tree branches wave;
Where gaunt coyotes prowl for prey, through storm and calm, by night
and day,
There in their midst there lies a lone, neglected grave.
Were eloquence immortal mine I'd sing of scenes the most sublime,
Of any nature ever lavished here below.
God's majesty seems here unfurled as elsewhere not in all the world,--
An earthly paradise o'erspread by heaven's glow.
How fitting that thy sun went down, so near the spot that wears
earth's crown,--
The Colorado Canyon country, weird and dim;
No grander land beneath the skies in which to die, in which to rise;
And nature's God will care for all who sleep in Him.
What though, alas, fond earthly hopes are buried in yon western
slopes,
And gentle mothers grieve for loved ones lying there:
Though maidens sigh with sad unrest, for lovers true who died out
west;
The bitter heartache soon will cease and all be fair.
But Donald's manly voice still rings within our ears, and memory
clings
To all the charms that marked his life while still below:
And often now our fancy's flight doth wing its journey to that night,
That marks his lonely death amid the mountain snow.
The prairie wolves of stealthy tread already seemed to scent the
dead;
Their fitful howls were borne upon the midnight air;
The western world was wrapped in gloom, from sandy waste to heaven's
dome,
When Donald closed his weary eyes and passed from care.
The air within the mountain camp was uncongenial, cold and damp:
And springtide gales were moaning dismally outside:
No loving hand was there to press his fevered brow with fond caress,
No gentle voice to whisper comfort when he died.
Dear Balloch Ban, thou'rt now at rest; thy sun went down far in the
West.
Alas! no more to rise, until the Judgment Day;
No truer heart e'er ceased to beat, no braver soul O Death did greet,
Thy awful presence since the earth hath owned thy sway.
And now he sleeps beneath the sod, where grand old mountain pine trees
nod
Their lofty plumes beneath the far-off, distant dome!
Oh, stranger, should you linger near, drop on this lonely grave a
tear,
In memory of the boy that sleeps so far from home.
OVER THE TOP
A lusty lad from Lewis,--
Bright gem from Britain's crown--
Assailed by Huns with gas and guns
In "No Man's Land" was down.
No power on earth can save him,
'Tis madness, then, to try;
Still to the deed sprang forth with speed
A balloch ban from Skye!
He volunteered to enter
That zone of certain death,
And unafraid went forth to aid,
While thousands held their breath.
Thru all that hell of fire
He sped like mountain deer--
On shell-torn ground his comrade found,
And bore him to the rear.
Their comrades gather 'round them
To do what mortals can:
But--cruel fate!--they found them
Beyond the help of man.
One whispers, "Da mar ha u?"
"Gla vadh," the friend replied;
Then rescuer and rescued
"Went over" side by side!
How marred the manly beauty!
Now torn by shot and shell--
Ye Huns have done your duty
And served your master well!
Poor bleeding, broken bodies
To mother earth consign--
The spirit of the laddies
Ye cannot more confine.
Over the top together--
Over the great gray host--
Homing like birds of freedom,
Back to their rock-bound coast.
Over the top together!
Out from the fighting list:
Home where the purple heather
Blooms in the Highland mist.
Sons of mothers returning--
Souls from the clod set free:
Back where the home guards, yearning,
Pray that their eyes might see--
See through the veil between them,
Though but a brief, brief glance,
Into the eyes of loved ones,
Dead on the fields of France!
Home where the curlew's calling
Notes that are wild and free!
Home, where the mist is falling
Into a storm-tossed sea.
Parents of brave, dead soldiers,
Dear sisters, sweethearts, wives,
Is there no balm in Gilead
For all the dear lost lives?
Yes, there's a balm in knowing
They died for you and me:
Their precious blood bestowing,
The price of liberty!
Dear lusty lad from Lewis:
Brave blue-eyed boy from Skye:
In this great war you show us
How bravely men can die!
THE ALKALI LAND
or
A-ROAMING I WOULD GO.
I left my old home and my friends in the East,
Ambitious to better my fortunes, forsooth;
And seek amid scenes of the strenuous West,
The gold which had gilded the dreams of my youth.
But gold not alone, was the dochus mo chree
Which painted that faraway country so fair;
A lure more compelling was beckoning me--
The maiden I loved since my childhood was there!
I did what a man without money must do,
Just walked when the "brakies" were looking too sharp.
I sang when I felt in the humor, 'tis true--
When lonesome, like David I hung up my harp!
I envied the lot of the fellow inside,
Who traveled in comfort asleep or awake;
While I, of all comfort and slumber denied,
Was beating my way on the beam of a brake!
Thus onward I journeyed by night and by day,
Combating the problems of food and of rest--
Content as I traveled the wearisome way
To know I was nearing the wonderful West.
My pilgrimage, first uneventful and slow,
Changed color as Texas' vast reaches I struck.
Arizona the arid, and New Mexico--
Half hell and half heaven, were also my luck.
When tortured and weak by the heat of the sand,
And swollen my tongue and the water was done,
I wondered no more as I passed through the land
At the myriad bones bleaching white in the sun.
Yes, on as I plodded the limitless range,
In that land of hot sand and eternal clear skies,
How oft in my thirst did I long for a change
To my own native hills, where the watersprings rise!
O Compton beloved! what visions arose,
Of thy hills and dark vales and thy cold mountain streams!
And each fountain-like fuadhran[D] which bubbles and flows,
On the farm back at home in the land of my dreams!
Some tell me the beauty of Nature, abroad,
Surpasses in grandeur the country we boast--
They'd alter their views if they traversed the road
I wearily tramped on my way to the "Coast".
There may be a spot in some faraway clime
Where Nature in robes of perfection is dressed;
But give me her moods and her image sublime
As seen in the wild, woolly wastes of the West!
I slept with the red men who roam through that land--
Gaunt remnant that tells of the white man's abuse;
And often, although I could not understand,
Was I lulled by the soft clucking language they use.
We never took thought on occasions like these
Of the dangers which lurked as we lay on the ground--
Though the howl of coyote was borne past on the breeze,
And the rattlesnake coiled with an ominous sound!
Asleep 'neath the stars of that beautiful clime,
In the shadowy gloom that same mesa had cast,
Undisturbed in my slumbers, I'd dream of the time
When the long dreary miles still ahead would be passed.
Mysterious mesas! how ghostly ye loom!
How spectral and huge o'er the alkali waste;
The secrets of ages thy vastness entomb,
Are seemingly safe in thy mystical breast!
When shadows of even' crept over the land,
And mountains around me grew ghostly and grey,
The fringe of the foothills I anxiously scanned
For lithe, tawny forms ever prowling for prey.