By Trench and Trail in Song and Story.
by Angus MacKay.
INTRODUCTION.
A number of the songs in this collection have been heard by campfire and trail from the camps of British Columbia to the lumber camps of Maine.
Several of the songs have been fired at the Huns "somewhere in France,"
no doubt with deadly effect. And also at the Turks on the long long hike to Bagdad and beyond.
And it is not impossible that some of my countrymen are now warbling s.n.a.t.c.hes of my humble verse to the accompaniment of bagpipes on the streets of the New Jerusalem! Many of the verses have appeared from time to time in leading publications from Vancouver, B. C., to the New England States and Eastern Canada; while others appear in print here for the first time.
From all parts of the land I have received letters at various times asking for extra copies of some particular song in my humble collection, which I was not in a position to supply at the time.
I therefore decided to publish some of the songs for which a demand had been expressed, and in so doing offer to the reading public in extenuation of my offense the plea that in a manner this humble volume is being published by request.
I offer no apology for my "dialect" songs as they have already received the approval of music lovers whose judgment is beyond criticism.
For the errors which must inevitably creep into the work of a non-college-bred lumberjack, I crave the indulgence of all highbrows who may resent my inability to comb the cla.s.sics for copy to please them.
All the merit I can claim is the ability to rhyme a limerick or sing a "come-all-ye" in a manner perhaps not unpleasing to my friends.
The lumberjacks will understand me, I am sure, and will appreciate my humble efforts to entertain them.
As for the genial highbrow, should he deem me an interloper in the realm of letters and imagine that my wild, uncultured notes are destroying the harmony of his supersensitive soul, I shall "lope" back to the tall timber again and seek sympathy and appreciation among the lumberjacks of the forest primeval, where, amid the wild surroundings and the crooning of the trees, there is health for mind and body borne on every pa.s.sing breeze. Yes, there"s something strangely healing in the magic of the myrrh, in the odor of the cedar and the fragrance of the fir.
There the hardy lumberjack is the undisputed lord of the lowlands and chief of the highlands, and at the present time no soldier in the trenches or sailor on the rolling deep has a more arduous task to perform or a more important duty to discharge than he.
Toil on, ye t.i.tans of the tall timbers; steadfast soldiers of the saw, and able allies of the axe. Carry on till the stately trees which const.i.tute the glory of the West are converted into ships and planes in countless thousands, to win the great war for freedom and to make the world safe for democracy--and lumberjacks!
THE AUTHOR.
DESTINY
There"s a grand, grand view unfolding And it pictures our future goal: There"s a strong, strong army moulding Our land into one great whole; There"s a world-wide movement holding Firm the lines of our destiny: And "twill never cease Till the earth finds peace In the arms of Democracy!
[Ill.u.s.tration]
THE SONS OF OUR MOTHERS
In the Ramah"s of our day Mothers grieve their hearts away, Mourning comfortless as Rachel did of yore; Hoping day by day to learn Of their absent boy"s return And to hear his well-known footsteps at the door.
The lilies are blooming in far-away France-- Bloom O bloom!
The cannons are roaring retreat and advance-- Boom, O boom!
The h.e.l.l of their fire is falling like rain, And our soldiers before it are falling like grain, While the voices of loved ones are calling in vain-- Home, sweet home!
Dear Canadians who fell, Fighting n.o.bly fighting well, May the angels guard thy rest in lonely graves; We"ll remember "ridge" and "hill"
And rejoice in knowing, still, That the dear old flag you died for rules the waves.
The wild birds are lilting their lay on the breeze, Soft and low: As they croon to their nestlings asway in the trees, To and fro-- The young of the robin will flit down the glen And return in the spring to the dwellings of men, But the sons of our mothers return not again-- No, ah no!
And the absent from the fold?
What of those, the gay, the bold?
Fighting bravely, dying n.o.bly, to the fore.
Shall we not avenge the slain?
Shall our mothers weep in vain?
Calling, calling for the boys who come no more.
Dear soldier boys dead in the trenches of war, Work well done!
Your service for country there"s nothing can mar, Fame well won!
They fought for the right in a cause that will win-- They died in a fight that they did not begin-- And you"ll pay the last groat when we enter Berlin.
Hun, oh Hun!
[Ill.u.s.tration: Christmas in Quebec.]
CHRISTMAS IN QUEBEC.
This sketch is truer of the Quebec of last century than that of today. I am glad to hear that whisky blanc does not "cut the figure" in French festivities now that it did twenty years ago; and no one will rejoice more than Oscar Dhu to see the demon rum utterly destroyed in Canada ere many moons.
Yes, I sincerely hope that the day will soon dawn when the baneful influence of both De Kuyper and de Kaiser will be forever banished from my dear native province, queenly Quebec!
I got notice some tam lately Wrote in Yankee dialec", Ask me Joe how I spen" Chris"mas On de 10 range of Kebec;
But ba gosh I don" wrote nottings Till de New Year pa.s.s along.
Chris"mas tam I dance an" fiddle, Eat an" drink an" sing some song!
Yes ma frien" dis ol" man"s happy, Jus" lak" leetle lamb in May!
Ev"ry year I grow lak young one, W"en it come to Chris"mas day!
Hip ho-orah! I feel lak dancin", Play for Joe an" kip good tam, I"m mos" happy man in Weedon, On his shanty jus" de sam".
Come Zavier and clear de room off, An" one dance to you I"ll show, Dat I learn on Lampton Corners More as t"irty year ago.
It"s call cris-cross two-step, quick step, Up an" down de center, too; Right an" lef" and swing you" pardner, Till de tack fly out her shoe!
Come I"ll show you how to do it, Tak" de one you love de bes", Den you swing it ro"nd lak swirlwind Or dat slyclone in de Wes".
Whoop up gee" jus wash ma dances An" hole Paul will kip good tam, On dis side de Lac St. Francis I can skung dem all de sam".