No, no, had they our purer light They would have learned some saner tale Of Balaam"s a.s.s, or Samson"s might, Or prophet Jonah and his whale, Of talking serpents and their ways, Through which our foolish parents strayed, And how there pa.s.sed three nights and days Before the sun or moon was made!
O Bigotry, you crowning sin!
All evil that a man can do Has earthly bounds, nor can begin To match the mischief done by you-- You, who would force the source of love To play your small sectarian part, And mould the mercy from above To fit your own contracted heart.
THE ATHABASCA TRAIL
My life is gliding downwards; it speeds swifter to the day When it shoots the last dark canon to the Plains of Far-away, But while its stream is running through the years that are to be, The mighty voice of Canada will ever call to me.
I shall hear the roar of rivers where the rapids foam and tear, I shall smell the virgin upland with its balsam-laden air, And shall dream that I am riding down the winding woody vale With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.
I have pa.s.sed the warden cities at the Eastern water-gate Where the hero and the martyr laid the corner stone of State, The habitant, _coureur-des-bois_, and hardy voyageur-- Where lives a breed more strong at need to venture or endure?
I have seen the gorge of Erie where the roaring waters run, I have crossed the Inland Ocean, lying golden in the sun, But the last and best and sweetest is the ride by hill and dale With the packer and the packhorse on the Athabasca Trail.
I"ll dream again of fields of grain that stretch from sky to sky And the little prairie hamlets where the cars go roaring by, Wooden hamlets as I saw them--n.o.ble cities still to be, To girdle stately Canada with gems from sea to sea.
Mother of a mighty manhood, land of glamour and of hope, From the eastward sea-swept islands to the sunny western slope, Ever more my heart is with you, ever more till life shall fail I"ll be out with pack and packer on the Athabasca Trail.
RAGTIME!
["During the catastrophe the band of the _t.i.tanic_ played negro melodies and ragtime until the last moment, when they broke into a hymn."--DAILY PAPER.]
Ragtime! Ragtime! Keep it going still!
Let them hear the ragtime! Play it with a will!
Women in the lifeboats, men upon the wreck, Take heart to hear the ragtime lilting down the deck.
Ragtime! Ragtime! Yet another tune!
Now the "Darkey Dandy," now "The Yellow c.o.o.n!"
Brace against the bulwarks if the stand"s askew, Find your footing as you can, but keep the music true!
There"s glowing h.e.l.l beneath us where the shattered boilers roar, The ship is listing and awash, the boats will hold no more!
There"s nothing more that you can do, and nothing you can mend, Only keep the ragtime playing to the end.
Don"t forget the time, boys! Eyes upon the score!
Never heed the wavelets sobbing down the floor!
Play it as you played it when with eager feet A hundred pair of dancers were stamping to the beat.
Stamping to the ragtime down the lamp-lit deck, With shine of glossy linen and with gleam of snowy neck, They"ve other thoughts to think to-night, and other things to do, But the tinkle of the ragtime may help to see them through.
Shut off, shut off the ragtime! The lights are falling low!
The deck is buckling under us! She"s sinking by the bow!
One hymn of hope from dying hands on dying ears to fall-- Gently the music fades away--and so, G.o.d rest us all!
CHRISTMAS IN WARTIME
1916
Cheer oh, comrades, we can bide the blast And face the gloom until it shall grow lighter.
What though one Christmas should be overcast, If duty done makes all the others brighter.
1917
THE LAST LAP
We seldom were quick off the mark, And sprinting was never our game; But when it"s insistence and hold-for-the-distance, We"ve never been beat at that same.
The first lap was all to the Hun, At the second we still saw his back; But we knew how to wait and to spurt down the straight, Till we left him dead-beat on the track.
He"s a bluffer for all he is worth, But he"s winded and done to the core, So the last lap is here, with the tape very near, And the old colours well to the fore.
1918
Not merry! No--the words would grate, With gaps at every table-side, But chastened, thankful, calm, sedate, Be your victorious Christmas-tide.
LINDISFAIRE
Horses go down the dingy lane, But never a horse comes up again.
The greasy yard where the red hides lie Marks the place where the horses die.
Wheat was sinking year by year, I bought things cheap, I sold them dear; Rent was heavy and taxes high, And a weary-hearted man was I.
In Lindisfaire I walked my grounds, I hadn"t the heart to ride to hounds; And as I walked in black despair, I saw my old bay hunter there.
He tried to nuzzle against my cheek, He looked the grief he could not speak; But no caress came back again, For harder times make harder men.
My thoughts were set on stable rent, On money saved and money spent, On weekly bills for forage lost, And all the old bay hunter cost.
For though a flier in the past, His days of service long were past, His gait was stiff, his eyes were dim, And I could find no use for him.
I turned away with heart of gloom, And sent for Will, my father"s groom, The old, old groom, whose worn-out face Was like the fortune of our race.
I gave my order sharp and hard, "Go, ride him to the knacker"s yard; He"ll fetch two pounds, it may be three; Sell him, and bring the price to me."