By Trench and Trail in Song and Story Part 13

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 clas.h.i.+ng 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 n.o.bler life.

Your destined lot, deny it not, Your destined lot is clear and plain; Nor vicious kicks against the p.r.i.c.ks Can e'er r.e.t.a.r.d 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 la.s.sies 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 l.u.s.ty 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 s.p.a.ce, where since they've clung-- Ancient, Glorious Gaelic!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

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 h.e.l.l-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 s.h.i.+ps 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.