Inthe dingy dust of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race,And the lake that lapt at his wigwam door threw back a frowning face,And a sightless squaw at the centre-pole crooned low in a hybrid speech,When a man of God swept round the point and landed on the beach.The heavy eyes grew bright with fire, the lips shaped to a sneer—"Welcome, my paleface brother, what good news brings you here?Are you come with the voice of healing, with the book of your blameless breed,To soothe my soul with comfort while my body gnaws with need?"Welcome, O paleface brother; come, what have you to fear?Mayhap the redskin chieftain can teach as well as hear;And while we sing your sacred songs and breathe your mystic prayer,Who knows what inspiration may come on the ev'ning air? . . ."Listen; you are a scholar, schooled in the paleface lore:'Tis said a dying saint maysometimessee the shining shore;That closing eyes peer far beyond the realm of mortal sight,—Who knows but that a dying race may read the road aright?"A dying race! We know it; the land is ours no more,No more we roam the prairies as in the days of yore;The brave, free spirit that was ours is crushed and passed away,And bodies without spirits are predestined to decay."No matter. In the summertime the flowers bloom in the grass,The startled insects flood the fields and chirrup as you pass,The birds sing in the bushes; but before the wintry blastThe flowers and the insects and the little birds are past."Yet once again the spring will come, the flowers will bloom again,And insects chirrup blithely where the former ones are lain;The white snows of the wintertime will vanish in the heat,And out-door life and color will follow their defeat."Can the paleface read the riddle? Has he eyes to see the signs?Or thinketh he that snow will lie forever on the pines?That housed-up life can triumph for the mastery of state,Or cushioned chairs produce a race destined to dominate?"Behold, the things your hands have done, the power your arts have won—Behold, those things shall vanish as the snow before the sun;The snow that smothered out the red—ah, hear it if you can—Shall leave the earth as suddenly,and leave it brown and tan."Hear ye a little lesson—surely ye know its worth—Only an out-door nation can be master of the earth;Soon as ye seek your couches, soft with the spoils of trade—See well to your outer trenches before the mines are laid!"Hear ye a little lesson—can ye the truth divine?Milk ye may mix with water, and water will mix with wine;Mix as ye may on your prairies, mix in your hope, and toil,But know in all your mixing that water won't mix with oil!"In the dingy dusk of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race,And the glow of holy prophecy lit up his rugged face,And the foremost light of the setting sun fell far on an eastern land,—And who shall save the paleface if he will not understand?
Inthe dingy dust of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race,And the lake that lapt at his wigwam door threw back a frowning face,And a sightless squaw at the centre-pole crooned low in a hybrid speech,When a man of God swept round the point and landed on the beach.The heavy eyes grew bright with fire, the lips shaped to a sneer—"Welcome, my paleface brother, what good news brings you here?Are you come with the voice of healing, with the book of your blameless breed,To soothe my soul with comfort while my body gnaws with need?"Welcome, O paleface brother; come, what have you to fear?Mayhap the redskin chieftain can teach as well as hear;And while we sing your sacred songs and breathe your mystic prayer,Who knows what inspiration may come on the ev'ning air? . . ."Listen; you are a scholar, schooled in the paleface lore:'Tis said a dying saint maysometimessee the shining shore;That closing eyes peer far beyond the realm of mortal sight,—Who knows but that a dying race may read the road aright?"A dying race! We know it; the land is ours no more,No more we roam the prairies as in the days of yore;The brave, free spirit that was ours is crushed and passed away,And bodies without spirits are predestined to decay."No matter. In the summertime the flowers bloom in the grass,The startled insects flood the fields and chirrup as you pass,The birds sing in the bushes; but before the wintry blastThe flowers and the insects and the little birds are past."Yet once again the spring will come, the flowers will bloom again,And insects chirrup blithely where the former ones are lain;The white snows of the wintertime will vanish in the heat,And out-door life and color will follow their defeat."Can the paleface read the riddle? Has he eyes to see the signs?Or thinketh he that snow will lie forever on the pines?That housed-up life can triumph for the mastery of state,Or cushioned chairs produce a race destined to dominate?"Behold, the things your hands have done, the power your arts have won—Behold, those things shall vanish as the snow before the sun;The snow that smothered out the red—ah, hear it if you can—Shall leave the earth as suddenly,and leave it brown and tan."Hear ye a little lesson—surely ye know its worth—Only an out-door nation can be master of the earth;Soon as ye seek your couches, soft with the spoils of trade—See well to your outer trenches before the mines are laid!"Hear ye a little lesson—can ye the truth divine?Milk ye may mix with water, and water will mix with wine;Mix as ye may on your prairies, mix in your hope, and toil,But know in all your mixing that water won't mix with oil!"In the dingy dusk of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race,And the glow of holy prophecy lit up his rugged face,And the foremost light of the setting sun fell far on an eastern land,—And who shall save the paleface if he will not understand?
Inthe dingy dust of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race,And the lake that lapt at his wigwam door threw back a frowning face,And a sightless squaw at the centre-pole crooned low in a hybrid speech,When a man of God swept round the point and landed on the beach.
The heavy eyes grew bright with fire, the lips shaped to a sneer—"Welcome, my paleface brother, what good news brings you here?Are you come with the voice of healing, with the book of your blameless breed,To soothe my soul with comfort while my body gnaws with need?
"Welcome, O paleface brother; come, what have you to fear?Mayhap the redskin chieftain can teach as well as hear;And while we sing your sacred songs and breathe your mystic prayer,Who knows what inspiration may come on the ev'ning air? . . .
"Listen; you are a scholar, schooled in the paleface lore:'Tis said a dying saint maysometimessee the shining shore;That closing eyes peer far beyond the realm of mortal sight,—Who knows but that a dying race may read the road aright?
"A dying race! We know it; the land is ours no more,No more we roam the prairies as in the days of yore;The brave, free spirit that was ours is crushed and passed away,And bodies without spirits are predestined to decay.
"No matter. In the summertime the flowers bloom in the grass,The startled insects flood the fields and chirrup as you pass,The birds sing in the bushes; but before the wintry blastThe flowers and the insects and the little birds are past.
"Yet once again the spring will come, the flowers will bloom again,And insects chirrup blithely where the former ones are lain;The white snows of the wintertime will vanish in the heat,And out-door life and color will follow their defeat.
"Can the paleface read the riddle? Has he eyes to see the signs?Or thinketh he that snow will lie forever on the pines?That housed-up life can triumph for the mastery of state,Or cushioned chairs produce a race destined to dominate?
"Behold, the things your hands have done, the power your arts have won—Behold, those things shall vanish as the snow before the sun;The snow that smothered out the red—ah, hear it if you can—Shall leave the earth as suddenly,and leave it brown and tan.
"Hear ye a little lesson—surely ye know its worth—Only an out-door nation can be master of the earth;Soon as ye seek your couches, soft with the spoils of trade—See well to your outer trenches before the mines are laid!
"Hear ye a little lesson—can ye the truth divine?Milk ye may mix with water, and water will mix with wine;Mix as ye may on your prairies, mix in your hope, and toil,But know in all your mixing that water won't mix with oil!"
In the dingy dusk of his deerskin tent sat the chief of a dying race,And the glow of holy prophecy lit up his rugged face,And the foremost light of the setting sun fell far on an eastern land,—And who shall save the paleface if he will not understand?
THE SON OF MARQUIS NODDLE
Heis brand-new out from England and he thinks he knows it all—(There's a bloomin' bit o' goggle in his eye)The "colonial" that crosses him is going to get a fall—(There's a seven-pound revolver on his thigh).He's a son of Marquis Noddle, he's a nephew of an earl,In the social swim of England he's got 'em all awhirl.He's as confident as Cæsar and as pretty as a girl—Oh, he's out in deadly earnest, do or die.They will spot him in the cities by the cowhide on his feet—(They were built for crushing cobblestones at 'ome)And the giddy girls will giggle when they see him on the street—(There's a brand-new cowboy hat upon his dome).He has come from home and kindred to the land beyond the sea,To the far-famed land of plenty, to the country of the free,But he can't forget he owns it from Cape Race to Behring Sea—He is coming just as Cæsar would to Rome.When his pile is getting slender he'll go looking for a job,(And he thinks he ought to get it, don't-cher-know)But he finds that he must mingle with the common city mob(Howcanthey think that he would stoop so low?).So he hikes him to the country, where the rustics will be proudTo salute him when they meet him, and to whisper, nice and loud,"He's the son of Marquis Noddle,—you would know him in a crowd"—They will pay him there the homage that they owe.In the little country village he will manufacture mirth—(For it's there they take the measure of a swell)They will soon proceed to teach him that he doesn't own the earth(With a quit-claim on the sun and moon as well).They will show him that the country isn't altogether slow,And that they can travel any pace that he's a mind to go;He will be a right good fellow till they run him out of dough—Oh, it is a tale of merriment they tell!So to keep his bones together he goes working on a farm,(Where they get up at a little after two)Where they think to take him down a peg will not do him any harm,(And they sleep when there is nothing else to do).Where they work him like a nigger nearly twenty hours a day,And they don't disguise the fact that they consider him a jay,And he eats so much and sleeps so much he isn't worth his pay—Oh, it doesn't matter that his blood is blue.He decides to do a season as a cowboy in the West,(Where they call a man a boy until he's dead)And he tries to walk a-swagger with a military chest,(And he isn't overslept or overfed).They will set him breaking bronchos, though it's little to his mind;With many new-learned epithets he'll perforate the wind—How can he know the boys have stuck a thistle on behind?He will end the exhibition on his head.They will fill him full of liquor that'll frizzle his inside,(In the cooler he can square it with his God).He will spend his nights in places where thedemi-mondereside,(In the morning he'll be minus watch and wad).They'll abuse him as a youngster, they will mock him as a man,They'll make his life a thorny path in every way they can,Till he curses his existence and the day that it began,And he wishes he was rotting in the sod.He will write long tales to England, tales of bitterness and woe,(They will print 'em in the papers over there).He will tell them pretty nearly everything he doesn't know,(And they'll take it all for gospel over there).He will tell them that the country isn't fit for gentlemen,That any who escape from it do not come back again,He is handy with his language and he wields a bitter pen—To the truth of each assertion he would swear.He's a growler, he's a growser, he's a nuisance, he's a bum,(And the country hasn't any room for such)And they class him in the papers as "European scum,"(They would rather have the Irish or the Dutch).He's the butt of every jester, he's the mark of every joke,He is wearing borrowed trousers—he has put his own in soak—He's a useless good-for-nothing, beaten, buffeted, and broke,And of sympathy he won't get over-much.* * * * * * *In a dozen years you'll find him with a section of his own,(He had to learn his lesson at the start)With a happy wife and children he is trying to atone—(For he loves the country now with all his heart).He's a son of dear old England, he's a hero, he's a brick;He's the kind you may annihilate but you can never lick,For he played and lost, and played and lost, and stayed and took the trick;In a world of men he'll play a manly part.
Heis brand-new out from England and he thinks he knows it all—(There's a bloomin' bit o' goggle in his eye)The "colonial" that crosses him is going to get a fall—(There's a seven-pound revolver on his thigh).He's a son of Marquis Noddle, he's a nephew of an earl,In the social swim of England he's got 'em all awhirl.He's as confident as Cæsar and as pretty as a girl—Oh, he's out in deadly earnest, do or die.They will spot him in the cities by the cowhide on his feet—(They were built for crushing cobblestones at 'ome)And the giddy girls will giggle when they see him on the street—(There's a brand-new cowboy hat upon his dome).He has come from home and kindred to the land beyond the sea,To the far-famed land of plenty, to the country of the free,But he can't forget he owns it from Cape Race to Behring Sea—He is coming just as Cæsar would to Rome.When his pile is getting slender he'll go looking for a job,(And he thinks he ought to get it, don't-cher-know)But he finds that he must mingle with the common city mob(Howcanthey think that he would stoop so low?).So he hikes him to the country, where the rustics will be proudTo salute him when they meet him, and to whisper, nice and loud,"He's the son of Marquis Noddle,—you would know him in a crowd"—They will pay him there the homage that they owe.In the little country village he will manufacture mirth—(For it's there they take the measure of a swell)They will soon proceed to teach him that he doesn't own the earth(With a quit-claim on the sun and moon as well).They will show him that the country isn't altogether slow,And that they can travel any pace that he's a mind to go;He will be a right good fellow till they run him out of dough—Oh, it is a tale of merriment they tell!So to keep his bones together he goes working on a farm,(Where they get up at a little after two)Where they think to take him down a peg will not do him any harm,(And they sleep when there is nothing else to do).Where they work him like a nigger nearly twenty hours a day,And they don't disguise the fact that they consider him a jay,And he eats so much and sleeps so much he isn't worth his pay—Oh, it doesn't matter that his blood is blue.He decides to do a season as a cowboy in the West,(Where they call a man a boy until he's dead)And he tries to walk a-swagger with a military chest,(And he isn't overslept or overfed).They will set him breaking bronchos, though it's little to his mind;With many new-learned epithets he'll perforate the wind—How can he know the boys have stuck a thistle on behind?He will end the exhibition on his head.They will fill him full of liquor that'll frizzle his inside,(In the cooler he can square it with his God).He will spend his nights in places where thedemi-mondereside,(In the morning he'll be minus watch and wad).They'll abuse him as a youngster, they will mock him as a man,They'll make his life a thorny path in every way they can,Till he curses his existence and the day that it began,And he wishes he was rotting in the sod.He will write long tales to England, tales of bitterness and woe,(They will print 'em in the papers over there).He will tell them pretty nearly everything he doesn't know,(And they'll take it all for gospel over there).He will tell them that the country isn't fit for gentlemen,That any who escape from it do not come back again,He is handy with his language and he wields a bitter pen—To the truth of each assertion he would swear.He's a growler, he's a growser, he's a nuisance, he's a bum,(And the country hasn't any room for such)And they class him in the papers as "European scum,"(They would rather have the Irish or the Dutch).He's the butt of every jester, he's the mark of every joke,He is wearing borrowed trousers—he has put his own in soak—He's a useless good-for-nothing, beaten, buffeted, and broke,And of sympathy he won't get over-much.* * * * * * *In a dozen years you'll find him with a section of his own,(He had to learn his lesson at the start)With a happy wife and children he is trying to atone—(For he loves the country now with all his heart).He's a son of dear old England, he's a hero, he's a brick;He's the kind you may annihilate but you can never lick,For he played and lost, and played and lost, and stayed and took the trick;In a world of men he'll play a manly part.
Heis brand-new out from England and he thinks he knows it all—(There's a bloomin' bit o' goggle in his eye)The "colonial" that crosses him is going to get a fall—(There's a seven-pound revolver on his thigh).He's a son of Marquis Noddle, he's a nephew of an earl,In the social swim of England he's got 'em all awhirl.He's as confident as Cæsar and as pretty as a girl—Oh, he's out in deadly earnest, do or die.
They will spot him in the cities by the cowhide on his feet—(They were built for crushing cobblestones at 'ome)And the giddy girls will giggle when they see him on the street—(There's a brand-new cowboy hat upon his dome).He has come from home and kindred to the land beyond the sea,To the far-famed land of plenty, to the country of the free,But he can't forget he owns it from Cape Race to Behring Sea—He is coming just as Cæsar would to Rome.
When his pile is getting slender he'll go looking for a job,(And he thinks he ought to get it, don't-cher-know)But he finds that he must mingle with the common city mob(Howcanthey think that he would stoop so low?).So he hikes him to the country, where the rustics will be proudTo salute him when they meet him, and to whisper, nice and loud,"He's the son of Marquis Noddle,—you would know him in a crowd"—They will pay him there the homage that they owe.
In the little country village he will manufacture mirth—(For it's there they take the measure of a swell)They will soon proceed to teach him that he doesn't own the earth(With a quit-claim on the sun and moon as well).They will show him that the country isn't altogether slow,And that they can travel any pace that he's a mind to go;He will be a right good fellow till they run him out of dough—Oh, it is a tale of merriment they tell!
So to keep his bones together he goes working on a farm,(Where they get up at a little after two)Where they think to take him down a peg will not do him any harm,(And they sleep when there is nothing else to do).Where they work him like a nigger nearly twenty hours a day,And they don't disguise the fact that they consider him a jay,And he eats so much and sleeps so much he isn't worth his pay—Oh, it doesn't matter that his blood is blue.
He decides to do a season as a cowboy in the West,(Where they call a man a boy until he's dead)And he tries to walk a-swagger with a military chest,(And he isn't overslept or overfed).They will set him breaking bronchos, though it's little to his mind;With many new-learned epithets he'll perforate the wind—How can he know the boys have stuck a thistle on behind?He will end the exhibition on his head.
They will fill him full of liquor that'll frizzle his inside,(In the cooler he can square it with his God).He will spend his nights in places where thedemi-mondereside,(In the morning he'll be minus watch and wad).They'll abuse him as a youngster, they will mock him as a man,They'll make his life a thorny path in every way they can,Till he curses his existence and the day that it began,And he wishes he was rotting in the sod.
He will write long tales to England, tales of bitterness and woe,(They will print 'em in the papers over there).He will tell them pretty nearly everything he doesn't know,(And they'll take it all for gospel over there).He will tell them that the country isn't fit for gentlemen,That any who escape from it do not come back again,He is handy with his language and he wields a bitter pen—To the truth of each assertion he would swear.
He's a growler, he's a growser, he's a nuisance, he's a bum,(And the country hasn't any room for such)And they class him in the papers as "European scum,"(They would rather have the Irish or the Dutch).He's the butt of every jester, he's the mark of every joke,He is wearing borrowed trousers—he has put his own in soak—He's a useless good-for-nothing, beaten, buffeted, and broke,And of sympathy he won't get over-much.
* * * * * * *
In a dozen years you'll find him with a section of his own,(He had to learn his lesson at the start)With a happy wife and children he is trying to atone—(For he loves the country now with all his heart).He's a son of dear old England, he's a hero, he's a brick;He's the kind you may annihilate but you can never lick,For he played and lost, and played and lost, and stayed and took the trick;In a world of men he'll play a manly part.
THE PRODIGALS
Knee-deepour prairies link the seas,Flood-full our voiceless rivers wend;We hold unturned the larder keysOn which the future years depend:And shall we suffer alien throngsUsurp the land to us belongs?What though we are to fortune bornAnd all our paths are paved with gold?We flaunt our folly up to scorn,Because we keep not what we hold:Why should we rob our right of birthTo foster all the breeds of earth?We picture with unfeigned dismayMan-glutted lands of other flags,They multiply but to decay,And rot in pestilence and rags;Why hasten we to emulateThese helpless tragedies of Fate?The land our children's sons will need,That land we have wide open thrownTo heathen knaves of other breedAnd paunchy pirates of our own:We give away earth's greatest prize,And pat ourselves, and call us wise.No father he who to the slumsFor husband to his child would send,And no one worthy of her comesShe lives a maiden to the end:Yet we have placed our virgin trustIn spawn of Continental lust.If dumb we be to Reason's cries—Our children's cause she pleads in vain—Our outraged sons at length will riseAnd seize their heritage again;And fools, who prate of vested right,Will either cease to prate—or fight.The land is ours, the land will keep,And Time is nowise near its end;We hold our birthright all too cheapIts sacredness to comprehend;In after years our sons will say,"Why frittered ye the land away?"
Knee-deepour prairies link the seas,Flood-full our voiceless rivers wend;We hold unturned the larder keysOn which the future years depend:And shall we suffer alien throngsUsurp the land to us belongs?What though we are to fortune bornAnd all our paths are paved with gold?We flaunt our folly up to scorn,Because we keep not what we hold:Why should we rob our right of birthTo foster all the breeds of earth?We picture with unfeigned dismayMan-glutted lands of other flags,They multiply but to decay,And rot in pestilence and rags;Why hasten we to emulateThese helpless tragedies of Fate?The land our children's sons will need,That land we have wide open thrownTo heathen knaves of other breedAnd paunchy pirates of our own:We give away earth's greatest prize,And pat ourselves, and call us wise.No father he who to the slumsFor husband to his child would send,And no one worthy of her comesShe lives a maiden to the end:Yet we have placed our virgin trustIn spawn of Continental lust.If dumb we be to Reason's cries—Our children's cause she pleads in vain—Our outraged sons at length will riseAnd seize their heritage again;And fools, who prate of vested right,Will either cease to prate—or fight.The land is ours, the land will keep,And Time is nowise near its end;We hold our birthright all too cheapIts sacredness to comprehend;In after years our sons will say,"Why frittered ye the land away?"
Knee-deepour prairies link the seas,Flood-full our voiceless rivers wend;We hold unturned the larder keysOn which the future years depend:And shall we suffer alien throngsUsurp the land to us belongs?
What though we are to fortune bornAnd all our paths are paved with gold?We flaunt our folly up to scorn,Because we keep not what we hold:Why should we rob our right of birthTo foster all the breeds of earth?
We picture with unfeigned dismayMan-glutted lands of other flags,They multiply but to decay,And rot in pestilence and rags;Why hasten we to emulateThese helpless tragedies of Fate?
The land our children's sons will need,That land we have wide open thrownTo heathen knaves of other breedAnd paunchy pirates of our own:We give away earth's greatest prize,And pat ourselves, and call us wise.
No father he who to the slumsFor husband to his child would send,And no one worthy of her comesShe lives a maiden to the end:Yet we have placed our virgin trustIn spawn of Continental lust.
If dumb we be to Reason's cries—Our children's cause she pleads in vain—Our outraged sons at length will riseAnd seize their heritage again;And fools, who prate of vested right,Will either cease to prate—or fight.
The land is ours, the land will keep,And Time is nowise near its end;We hold our birthright all too cheapIts sacredness to comprehend;In after years our sons will say,"Why frittered ye the land away?"
THE SQUAD OF ONE
Sergeant Blueof the Mounted Police was a so-so kind of a guy;He swore a bit, and he lied a bit, and he boozed a bit on the sly;But he held the post at Snake Creek Bend for country and home and God,And he cursed the first and forgot the rest—which wasn't the least bit odd.Now the life of the North West Mounted Police breeds an all-round kind of man;A man who can jug a down-South thug when he rushes the red-eye can;A man who can pray with a dying bum or break up a range stampede—Such are the men of the Mounted Police and such are the men they breed.The snow lay deep at the Snake Creek post and deep to east and west,And the Sergeant had made his ten-league beat and settled down to restIn his two-by-four that they called a "post," where the flag flew overhead,And he took a look at his monthly mail, and this is the note he read:"To Sergeant Blue of the Mounted Police at the post of Snake Creek Bend,From U. S. Marshal of County Blank, greetings to you, my friend,They's a team of toughs give us the slip, though they shot up a couple of blokes,And we reckon they's hid in Snake Creek Gulch and posin' as farmer folks."They's as full of sin as a barrel of booze and as quick as a cat with a gun.So if you happen to hit their trail be first to start the fun;And send out your strongest squad of men and round them up if you can,For dead or alive we want them here. Yours truly, Jack McMann."And Sergeant Blue sat back and smiled, "Ho, here is a chance of game!Folks 'round here have been so good that life is getting tame;I know the lie of Snake Creek Gulch—where I used to set my traps—I'll blow out there to-morrow and I'll bring them in—perhaps."Next morning Sergeant Blue, arrayed in farmer smock and jeans,In a jumper sleigh he had made himself set out for the evergreensThat grow on the bank of Snake Creek Gulch by a homestead shack he knew,And a smoke curled up from the chimney-pipe to welcome Sergeant Blue."Aha, and that looks good to me," said the Sergeant to the smoke,"For the lad that owns this homestead shack is East in his wedding-yoke;There are strangers here and I'll bet a farm against a horn of boozeThat they are the bums that are predestined to dangle in a noose."So he drove his horse to the shanty door and hollered a loud "Good-day,"And a couple of men with fighting-irons came out beside the sleigh,And the Sergeant said, "I'm a stranger here and I've driven a weary mile;If you don't object I'll just sit down by the stove in the shack awhile."So the Sergeant sat and smoked and talked of the home he had left down East,And the cold, and the snow, and the price of land, and the life of man and beast,But all of a sudden he broke it off with, "Neighbors, take a nip?There's a horn of the best you'll find out there in my jumper, in the grip."So one of the two went out for it, and as soon as he closed the doorThe other one staggered back as he gazed up the nose of a forty-four,But the Sergeant wasted no words with him, "Now, fellow, you're on the rocks,And a noise as loud as a mouse from you and they'll take you out in a box."So he fastened the bracelets to his wrists and his legs with some binder-thread,And he took his knife and he took his gun and he rolled him onto the bed;And then as number two came in he said, "If you want to live,Put up your dukes and behave yourself or I'll make you into a sieve."And when he had coupled them each to each, and laid them out on the bed,"It's cold, and I guess we'd better eat before we go," he said.So he fried some pork and he warmed some beans, and he set out the best he saw,And they ate thereof, and he paid for it, according to British law.That night in the post sat Sergeant Blue with paper and pen in hand,And this is the word he wrote and signed and mailed to a foreign land:"To U. S. Marshall of County Blank, greetings I give to you;My squad has just brought in your men, and the squad was"Sergeant Blue."There are things unguessed, there are tales untold, in the life of the great lone land,But here is a fact that the prairie-bred alone may understand,That a thousand miles in the fastness the fear of the law obtains,And the pioneers of justice were the "Riders of the Plains."
Sergeant Blueof the Mounted Police was a so-so kind of a guy;He swore a bit, and he lied a bit, and he boozed a bit on the sly;But he held the post at Snake Creek Bend for country and home and God,And he cursed the first and forgot the rest—which wasn't the least bit odd.Now the life of the North West Mounted Police breeds an all-round kind of man;A man who can jug a down-South thug when he rushes the red-eye can;A man who can pray with a dying bum or break up a range stampede—Such are the men of the Mounted Police and such are the men they breed.The snow lay deep at the Snake Creek post and deep to east and west,And the Sergeant had made his ten-league beat and settled down to restIn his two-by-four that they called a "post," where the flag flew overhead,And he took a look at his monthly mail, and this is the note he read:"To Sergeant Blue of the Mounted Police at the post of Snake Creek Bend,From U. S. Marshal of County Blank, greetings to you, my friend,They's a team of toughs give us the slip, though they shot up a couple of blokes,And we reckon they's hid in Snake Creek Gulch and posin' as farmer folks."They's as full of sin as a barrel of booze and as quick as a cat with a gun.So if you happen to hit their trail be first to start the fun;And send out your strongest squad of men and round them up if you can,For dead or alive we want them here. Yours truly, Jack McMann."And Sergeant Blue sat back and smiled, "Ho, here is a chance of game!Folks 'round here have been so good that life is getting tame;I know the lie of Snake Creek Gulch—where I used to set my traps—I'll blow out there to-morrow and I'll bring them in—perhaps."Next morning Sergeant Blue, arrayed in farmer smock and jeans,In a jumper sleigh he had made himself set out for the evergreensThat grow on the bank of Snake Creek Gulch by a homestead shack he knew,And a smoke curled up from the chimney-pipe to welcome Sergeant Blue."Aha, and that looks good to me," said the Sergeant to the smoke,"For the lad that owns this homestead shack is East in his wedding-yoke;There are strangers here and I'll bet a farm against a horn of boozeThat they are the bums that are predestined to dangle in a noose."So he drove his horse to the shanty door and hollered a loud "Good-day,"And a couple of men with fighting-irons came out beside the sleigh,And the Sergeant said, "I'm a stranger here and I've driven a weary mile;If you don't object I'll just sit down by the stove in the shack awhile."So the Sergeant sat and smoked and talked of the home he had left down East,And the cold, and the snow, and the price of land, and the life of man and beast,But all of a sudden he broke it off with, "Neighbors, take a nip?There's a horn of the best you'll find out there in my jumper, in the grip."So one of the two went out for it, and as soon as he closed the doorThe other one staggered back as he gazed up the nose of a forty-four,But the Sergeant wasted no words with him, "Now, fellow, you're on the rocks,And a noise as loud as a mouse from you and they'll take you out in a box."So he fastened the bracelets to his wrists and his legs with some binder-thread,And he took his knife and he took his gun and he rolled him onto the bed;And then as number two came in he said, "If you want to live,Put up your dukes and behave yourself or I'll make you into a sieve."And when he had coupled them each to each, and laid them out on the bed,"It's cold, and I guess we'd better eat before we go," he said.So he fried some pork and he warmed some beans, and he set out the best he saw,And they ate thereof, and he paid for it, according to British law.That night in the post sat Sergeant Blue with paper and pen in hand,And this is the word he wrote and signed and mailed to a foreign land:"To U. S. Marshall of County Blank, greetings I give to you;My squad has just brought in your men, and the squad was"Sergeant Blue."There are things unguessed, there are tales untold, in the life of the great lone land,But here is a fact that the prairie-bred alone may understand,That a thousand miles in the fastness the fear of the law obtains,And the pioneers of justice were the "Riders of the Plains."
Sergeant Blueof the Mounted Police was a so-so kind of a guy;He swore a bit, and he lied a bit, and he boozed a bit on the sly;But he held the post at Snake Creek Bend for country and home and God,And he cursed the first and forgot the rest—which wasn't the least bit odd.
Now the life of the North West Mounted Police breeds an all-round kind of man;A man who can jug a down-South thug when he rushes the red-eye can;A man who can pray with a dying bum or break up a range stampede—Such are the men of the Mounted Police and such are the men they breed.
The snow lay deep at the Snake Creek post and deep to east and west,And the Sergeant had made his ten-league beat and settled down to restIn his two-by-four that they called a "post," where the flag flew overhead,And he took a look at his monthly mail, and this is the note he read:
"To Sergeant Blue of the Mounted Police at the post of Snake Creek Bend,From U. S. Marshal of County Blank, greetings to you, my friend,They's a team of toughs give us the slip, though they shot up a couple of blokes,And we reckon they's hid in Snake Creek Gulch and posin' as farmer folks.
"They's as full of sin as a barrel of booze and as quick as a cat with a gun.So if you happen to hit their trail be first to start the fun;And send out your strongest squad of men and round them up if you can,For dead or alive we want them here. Yours truly, Jack McMann."
And Sergeant Blue sat back and smiled, "Ho, here is a chance of game!Folks 'round here have been so good that life is getting tame;I know the lie of Snake Creek Gulch—where I used to set my traps—I'll blow out there to-morrow and I'll bring them in—perhaps."
Next morning Sergeant Blue, arrayed in farmer smock and jeans,In a jumper sleigh he had made himself set out for the evergreensThat grow on the bank of Snake Creek Gulch by a homestead shack he knew,And a smoke curled up from the chimney-pipe to welcome Sergeant Blue.
"Aha, and that looks good to me," said the Sergeant to the smoke,"For the lad that owns this homestead shack is East in his wedding-yoke;There are strangers here and I'll bet a farm against a horn of boozeThat they are the bums that are predestined to dangle in a noose."
So he drove his horse to the shanty door and hollered a loud "Good-day,"And a couple of men with fighting-irons came out beside the sleigh,And the Sergeant said, "I'm a stranger here and I've driven a weary mile;If you don't object I'll just sit down by the stove in the shack awhile."
So the Sergeant sat and smoked and talked of the home he had left down East,And the cold, and the snow, and the price of land, and the life of man and beast,But all of a sudden he broke it off with, "Neighbors, take a nip?There's a horn of the best you'll find out there in my jumper, in the grip."
So one of the two went out for it, and as soon as he closed the doorThe other one staggered back as he gazed up the nose of a forty-four,But the Sergeant wasted no words with him, "Now, fellow, you're on the rocks,And a noise as loud as a mouse from you and they'll take you out in a box."
So he fastened the bracelets to his wrists and his legs with some binder-thread,And he took his knife and he took his gun and he rolled him onto the bed;And then as number two came in he said, "If you want to live,Put up your dukes and behave yourself or I'll make you into a sieve."
And when he had coupled them each to each, and laid them out on the bed,"It's cold, and I guess we'd better eat before we go," he said.So he fried some pork and he warmed some beans, and he set out the best he saw,And they ate thereof, and he paid for it, according to British law.
That night in the post sat Sergeant Blue with paper and pen in hand,And this is the word he wrote and signed and mailed to a foreign land:"To U. S. Marshall of County Blank, greetings I give to you;My squad has just brought in your men, and the squad was"Sergeant Blue."
There are things unguessed, there are tales untold, in the life of the great lone land,But here is a fact that the prairie-bred alone may understand,That a thousand miles in the fastness the fear of the law obtains,And the pioneers of justice were the "Riders of the Plains."
ALKALI HALL
WhenLord Landseeker came out West to have a look around,And spend a little money if the right thing could be found,He hadn't breathed the prairie air more than a day or twoUntil he was the centre of a philanthropic crewWho sought to show His Lordship all the shortcuts to success(Though why they should have troubled, HisLordshipcouldn't guess,For each was losing money, as he candidly confessed,Which seemed to be a fashion with the dealers in the West).Thus HisLordshipgrew suspicious that his "friends" would turn him down,And he quietly bought a ticket to a little country town;But he didn't know the message that was flashed along the wireTo a simple country dealer in the land of his desire;And it read: "Look out for Goggles, he'll be with you this a. m."And the crowd around the station—well, he merely smiled to them,And thought it jolly decent they'd assemble, don'tcherknow,And file along behind him as they followed, in a row.The snow had fallen softly all the calm November night,And the morning found the praires with a covering of white;But His Lordship took a citizen who "happened" in his way,And they drove into the country for the most part of the day,Until they reached a section that was flat and free from stone,And the citizen remarked about a fellow he had knownWho offered thirty dollars for this section in the fall,But the owner wanted forty, or he wouldn't sell at all.Then His Lordship drove across it, and it seemed to catch his eye,And he whispered to the driver, "That's the section I will buy;"So in town they found the owner, who was very loath to sell,But he finally consented, if His Lordship wouldn't tellThat the price was forty dollars by the acre; this agreed,A lawyer drew the papers and His Lordship got the deed,And he sailed across the ocean with the satisfying thoughtThat he'd followed his own judgment in the bargain he had bought.The winter snows had vanished and the spring was growing late,When Lord Landseeker came again to view his real estate,And he drove out in a buggy to where his section lay,And his heart was very happy as he smoked along the wayTill the section burst upon them, and he scarce believed his sight,For the land lay in the sunshine, flashing back a snowy white . . . . .And His Lordship stooped and felt it, and he heaved a little sigh,As the knowledge dawned upon him that his land was—alkali!His Lordship did some thinking as they journeyed back to town,And his wonted happy features were o'ershadowed with a frown;But he neither crawled nor blustered, neither bluffed nor swore nor kicked,(For the men from little England never know when they are licked),But he advertised for tenders for construction on the land,And the buildings he erected were the best he could command;With a hundred rooms for students, and quarters for the staff,And the workmen often wondered what made His Lordship laugh!In the papers of Old England there appeared a little ad,For the benefit of parents whose sons were going bad;"Teach your boys the art of farming in the great Canadian West;Our instruction is unrivalled, our curriculum the best;There's a grate in every chamber and a bath in every hall,And a full dress-suited dinner every ev'ning, free to all;There is tennis, polo, marksmanship, and half the day in bed,And we make them into farmers for a hundred pounds a head."* * * * * * *His Lordship's college prospers and is crowded to the doorsWith "students" playing poker while the "servants" do the chores;What they do not know of farming they make up in other linesThey are judges of tobacco and connoisseurs of wines;They are experts at the races and at sundry other games—Though they couldn't tell the breeching of the harness from the hames—Though they're far from home and kindred they occasion no alarm,That was what their parents wanted when they sent them out to farm.
WhenLord Landseeker came out West to have a look around,And spend a little money if the right thing could be found,He hadn't breathed the prairie air more than a day or twoUntil he was the centre of a philanthropic crewWho sought to show His Lordship all the shortcuts to success(Though why they should have troubled, HisLordshipcouldn't guess,For each was losing money, as he candidly confessed,Which seemed to be a fashion with the dealers in the West).Thus HisLordshipgrew suspicious that his "friends" would turn him down,And he quietly bought a ticket to a little country town;But he didn't know the message that was flashed along the wireTo a simple country dealer in the land of his desire;And it read: "Look out for Goggles, he'll be with you this a. m."And the crowd around the station—well, he merely smiled to them,And thought it jolly decent they'd assemble, don'tcherknow,And file along behind him as they followed, in a row.The snow had fallen softly all the calm November night,And the morning found the praires with a covering of white;But His Lordship took a citizen who "happened" in his way,And they drove into the country for the most part of the day,Until they reached a section that was flat and free from stone,And the citizen remarked about a fellow he had knownWho offered thirty dollars for this section in the fall,But the owner wanted forty, or he wouldn't sell at all.Then His Lordship drove across it, and it seemed to catch his eye,And he whispered to the driver, "That's the section I will buy;"So in town they found the owner, who was very loath to sell,But he finally consented, if His Lordship wouldn't tellThat the price was forty dollars by the acre; this agreed,A lawyer drew the papers and His Lordship got the deed,And he sailed across the ocean with the satisfying thoughtThat he'd followed his own judgment in the bargain he had bought.The winter snows had vanished and the spring was growing late,When Lord Landseeker came again to view his real estate,And he drove out in a buggy to where his section lay,And his heart was very happy as he smoked along the wayTill the section burst upon them, and he scarce believed his sight,For the land lay in the sunshine, flashing back a snowy white . . . . .And His Lordship stooped and felt it, and he heaved a little sigh,As the knowledge dawned upon him that his land was—alkali!His Lordship did some thinking as they journeyed back to town,And his wonted happy features were o'ershadowed with a frown;But he neither crawled nor blustered, neither bluffed nor swore nor kicked,(For the men from little England never know when they are licked),But he advertised for tenders for construction on the land,And the buildings he erected were the best he could command;With a hundred rooms for students, and quarters for the staff,And the workmen often wondered what made His Lordship laugh!In the papers of Old England there appeared a little ad,For the benefit of parents whose sons were going bad;"Teach your boys the art of farming in the great Canadian West;Our instruction is unrivalled, our curriculum the best;There's a grate in every chamber and a bath in every hall,And a full dress-suited dinner every ev'ning, free to all;There is tennis, polo, marksmanship, and half the day in bed,And we make them into farmers for a hundred pounds a head."* * * * * * *His Lordship's college prospers and is crowded to the doorsWith "students" playing poker while the "servants" do the chores;What they do not know of farming they make up in other linesThey are judges of tobacco and connoisseurs of wines;They are experts at the races and at sundry other games—Though they couldn't tell the breeching of the harness from the hames—Though they're far from home and kindred they occasion no alarm,That was what their parents wanted when they sent them out to farm.
WhenLord Landseeker came out West to have a look around,And spend a little money if the right thing could be found,He hadn't breathed the prairie air more than a day or twoUntil he was the centre of a philanthropic crewWho sought to show His Lordship all the shortcuts to success(Though why they should have troubled, HisLordshipcouldn't guess,For each was losing money, as he candidly confessed,Which seemed to be a fashion with the dealers in the West).
Thus HisLordshipgrew suspicious that his "friends" would turn him down,And he quietly bought a ticket to a little country town;But he didn't know the message that was flashed along the wireTo a simple country dealer in the land of his desire;And it read: "Look out for Goggles, he'll be with you this a. m."And the crowd around the station—well, he merely smiled to them,And thought it jolly decent they'd assemble, don'tcherknow,And file along behind him as they followed, in a row.
The snow had fallen softly all the calm November night,And the morning found the praires with a covering of white;But His Lordship took a citizen who "happened" in his way,And they drove into the country for the most part of the day,Until they reached a section that was flat and free from stone,And the citizen remarked about a fellow he had knownWho offered thirty dollars for this section in the fall,But the owner wanted forty, or he wouldn't sell at all.
Then His Lordship drove across it, and it seemed to catch his eye,And he whispered to the driver, "That's the section I will buy;"So in town they found the owner, who was very loath to sell,But he finally consented, if His Lordship wouldn't tellThat the price was forty dollars by the acre; this agreed,A lawyer drew the papers and His Lordship got the deed,And he sailed across the ocean with the satisfying thoughtThat he'd followed his own judgment in the bargain he had bought.
The winter snows had vanished and the spring was growing late,When Lord Landseeker came again to view his real estate,And he drove out in a buggy to where his section lay,And his heart was very happy as he smoked along the wayTill the section burst upon them, and he scarce believed his sight,For the land lay in the sunshine, flashing back a snowy white . . . . .And His Lordship stooped and felt it, and he heaved a little sigh,As the knowledge dawned upon him that his land was—alkali!
His Lordship did some thinking as they journeyed back to town,And his wonted happy features were o'ershadowed with a frown;But he neither crawled nor blustered, neither bluffed nor swore nor kicked,(For the men from little England never know when they are licked),But he advertised for tenders for construction on the land,And the buildings he erected were the best he could command;With a hundred rooms for students, and quarters for the staff,And the workmen often wondered what made His Lordship laugh!
In the papers of Old England there appeared a little ad,For the benefit of parents whose sons were going bad;"Teach your boys the art of farming in the great Canadian West;Our instruction is unrivalled, our curriculum the best;There's a grate in every chamber and a bath in every hall,And a full dress-suited dinner every ev'ning, free to all;There is tennis, polo, marksmanship, and half the day in bed,And we make them into farmers for a hundred pounds a head."
* * * * * * *His Lordship's college prospers and is crowded to the doorsWith "students" playing poker while the "servants" do the chores;What they do not know of farming they make up in other linesThey are judges of tobacco and connoisseurs of wines;They are experts at the races and at sundry other games—Though they couldn't tell the breeching of the harness from the hames—Though they're far from home and kindred they occasion no alarm,That was what their parents wanted when they sent them out to farm.
PRAIRIE BORN
Wehave heard the night wind howling as we lay alone in bed;We have heard the grey goose honking as he journeyed overhead;We have smelt the smoke-wraith flying in the hot October wind,And have fought the fiery demon that came roaring down behind;We have seen the spent snow sifting through the key-hole of the door,And the frost-line crawling, crawling, like a snake, along the floor;We have felt the storm-fiend wrestle with the rafters in his might,And the baffled blizzard shrieking through the turmoil of the night.We have felt the April breezes warm along the plashy plains;We have mind-marked to the cadence of the falling April rains;We have heard the crash of water where the snow-fed rivers run,Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in the sun;We have known the resurrection of the Springtime in the land,Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words of her command,Felt the thrill of springtime twilight and the vague, unfashioned thoughtThat the season's birthday musters from the hopes we had forgot.We have heard the cattle lowing in the silent summer nights;We have smelt the smudge-fire fragrance—we have seen the smudge-fire lights—We have heard the wild duck grumbling to his mate along the bank;Heard the thirsty horses snorting in the stream from which they drank;Heard the voice of Youth and Laughter in the long, slow-gloaming night;Seen the arched electric, splendor of the Great North's livid light;Read the reason of existence—felt the touch that was divine—And in eyes that glowed responsive saw the End of God's design.We have smelt the curing wheat fields and the scent of new-mown hay;We have heard the binders clatter through the dusty autumn day;We have seen the golden stubble gleaming through the misty rain;We have seen the plow-streaks widen as they turned it down again;We have heard the threshers humming in the cool September night;We have seen their dark procession by the straw-piles' eerie light;We have heard the freight trains groaning, slipping, grinding, on the rail,And the idle trace chains jingle as they jogged along the trail.We have felt the cold of winter—cursed by those who know it not—We have braved the blizzard's vengeance, dared its most deceptive plot;We have learned that hardy races grow from hardy circumstance,And we face a dozen dangers to attend a country dance;Though our means are nothing lavish we have always time for play,And our social life commences at the closing of the day;We have time for thought and culture, time for friendliness and friend,And we catch a broader vision as our aspirations blend.We have hopes to others foreign, aims they cannot understand,We, the "heirs of all the ages," we, the first-fruits of the land;Though we think with fond affection of the shores our fathers knew,And we honor all our brothers—for a brother's heart is true—Though we stand with them for progress, peace, and unity, and power,Though we die with them, if need be, in our nation's darkest hour—Still the prairies call us, call us, when all other voices fail,And the call we knew in childhood is the call that must prevail.
Wehave heard the night wind howling as we lay alone in bed;We have heard the grey goose honking as he journeyed overhead;We have smelt the smoke-wraith flying in the hot October wind,And have fought the fiery demon that came roaring down behind;We have seen the spent snow sifting through the key-hole of the door,And the frost-line crawling, crawling, like a snake, along the floor;We have felt the storm-fiend wrestle with the rafters in his might,And the baffled blizzard shrieking through the turmoil of the night.We have felt the April breezes warm along the plashy plains;We have mind-marked to the cadence of the falling April rains;We have heard the crash of water where the snow-fed rivers run,Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in the sun;We have known the resurrection of the Springtime in the land,Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words of her command,Felt the thrill of springtime twilight and the vague, unfashioned thoughtThat the season's birthday musters from the hopes we had forgot.We have heard the cattle lowing in the silent summer nights;We have smelt the smudge-fire fragrance—we have seen the smudge-fire lights—We have heard the wild duck grumbling to his mate along the bank;Heard the thirsty horses snorting in the stream from which they drank;Heard the voice of Youth and Laughter in the long, slow-gloaming night;Seen the arched electric, splendor of the Great North's livid light;Read the reason of existence—felt the touch that was divine—And in eyes that glowed responsive saw the End of God's design.We have smelt the curing wheat fields and the scent of new-mown hay;We have heard the binders clatter through the dusty autumn day;We have seen the golden stubble gleaming through the misty rain;We have seen the plow-streaks widen as they turned it down again;We have heard the threshers humming in the cool September night;We have seen their dark procession by the straw-piles' eerie light;We have heard the freight trains groaning, slipping, grinding, on the rail,And the idle trace chains jingle as they jogged along the trail.We have felt the cold of winter—cursed by those who know it not—We have braved the blizzard's vengeance, dared its most deceptive plot;We have learned that hardy races grow from hardy circumstance,And we face a dozen dangers to attend a country dance;Though our means are nothing lavish we have always time for play,And our social life commences at the closing of the day;We have time for thought and culture, time for friendliness and friend,And we catch a broader vision as our aspirations blend.We have hopes to others foreign, aims they cannot understand,We, the "heirs of all the ages," we, the first-fruits of the land;Though we think with fond affection of the shores our fathers knew,And we honor all our brothers—for a brother's heart is true—Though we stand with them for progress, peace, and unity, and power,Though we die with them, if need be, in our nation's darkest hour—Still the prairies call us, call us, when all other voices fail,And the call we knew in childhood is the call that must prevail.
Wehave heard the night wind howling as we lay alone in bed;We have heard the grey goose honking as he journeyed overhead;We have smelt the smoke-wraith flying in the hot October wind,And have fought the fiery demon that came roaring down behind;We have seen the spent snow sifting through the key-hole of the door,And the frost-line crawling, crawling, like a snake, along the floor;We have felt the storm-fiend wrestle with the rafters in his might,And the baffled blizzard shrieking through the turmoil of the night.
We have felt the April breezes warm along the plashy plains;We have mind-marked to the cadence of the falling April rains;We have heard the crash of water where the snow-fed rivers run,Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in the sun;We have known the resurrection of the Springtime in the land,Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words of her command,Felt the thrill of springtime twilight and the vague, unfashioned thoughtThat the season's birthday musters from the hopes we had forgot.
We have heard the cattle lowing in the silent summer nights;We have smelt the smudge-fire fragrance—we have seen the smudge-fire lights—We have heard the wild duck grumbling to his mate along the bank;Heard the thirsty horses snorting in the stream from which they drank;Heard the voice of Youth and Laughter in the long, slow-gloaming night;Seen the arched electric, splendor of the Great North's livid light;Read the reason of existence—felt the touch that was divine—And in eyes that glowed responsive saw the End of God's design.
We have smelt the curing wheat fields and the scent of new-mown hay;We have heard the binders clatter through the dusty autumn day;We have seen the golden stubble gleaming through the misty rain;We have seen the plow-streaks widen as they turned it down again;We have heard the threshers humming in the cool September night;We have seen their dark procession by the straw-piles' eerie light;We have heard the freight trains groaning, slipping, grinding, on the rail,And the idle trace chains jingle as they jogged along the trail.
We have felt the cold of winter—cursed by those who know it not—We have braved the blizzard's vengeance, dared its most deceptive plot;We have learned that hardy races grow from hardy circumstance,And we face a dozen dangers to attend a country dance;Though our means are nothing lavish we have always time for play,And our social life commences at the closing of the day;We have time for thought and culture, time for friendliness and friend,And we catch a broader vision as our aspirations blend.
We have hopes to others foreign, aims they cannot understand,We, the "heirs of all the ages," we, the first-fruits of the land;Though we think with fond affection of the shores our fathers knew,And we honor all our brothers—for a brother's heart is true—Though we stand with them for progress, peace, and unity, and power,Though we die with them, if need be, in our nation's darkest hour—Still the prairies call us, call us, when all other voices fail,And the call we knew in childhood is the call that must prevail.
"A COLONIAL"
(In some circles the term "colonial" is still allowedto imply inferiority and dependence.)
Onlya Colonial!Only a man of nerve and heartWho has spurned the ease of the life "at home,"Only a man who would play his partIn a new breed-birth on a distant loam;Only a man of sense and worthWho is not afraid of the ends of earth.Only a Colonial!Only a man who has cornered FateAnd matched his strength with the Unattained;Only the guard at the Outer Gate,Who holds for you what he has gained,That your children, seized of a better sense,May share with him Toil's recompense.Only a Colonial!Only a man who has bridged the deep,And stained the map a British hue,Who builds an Empire while ye sleepAnd deeds the ownership to you.'Tis the Viking blood which gave you birthThat has driven him to the ends of earth.Only a Colonial!Wherever the flag that ye think is greatIs flown to the farthest winds that blow,Wherever the colonists ye berateIn their blind faith-vision onward go,Ye may find ye hearts that are British still—In your self-conceit do ye count them nil?Only a Colonial!Rough as the bark of his forest treeHis ways may seem to the fat and sleek,But ye owe your Empire to such as he,Though the hoar-frost glisten on his cheek;He has carried your flag where ye dared not go,And little ye reck of the debt ye owe.Only a Colonial!No doubt he is raw on your social lawsAnd grates on your sense of caste and creed,But he lives too near to Facts and CauseTo study heraldry and breed;And, knowing man in his primal state,He scorns the claims of the social great.Only a Colonial!The name in cheap contempt ye fling,Is not the whim of birth or chance,We well ignore the flippant sting,Or charge it to your ignorance;The colonist, and sons of his,Have made the Empire what it is.
Onlya Colonial!Only a man of nerve and heartWho has spurned the ease of the life "at home,"Only a man who would play his partIn a new breed-birth on a distant loam;Only a man of sense and worthWho is not afraid of the ends of earth.Only a Colonial!Only a man who has cornered FateAnd matched his strength with the Unattained;Only the guard at the Outer Gate,Who holds for you what he has gained,That your children, seized of a better sense,May share with him Toil's recompense.Only a Colonial!Only a man who has bridged the deep,And stained the map a British hue,Who builds an Empire while ye sleepAnd deeds the ownership to you.'Tis the Viking blood which gave you birthThat has driven him to the ends of earth.Only a Colonial!Wherever the flag that ye think is greatIs flown to the farthest winds that blow,Wherever the colonists ye berateIn their blind faith-vision onward go,Ye may find ye hearts that are British still—In your self-conceit do ye count them nil?Only a Colonial!Rough as the bark of his forest treeHis ways may seem to the fat and sleek,But ye owe your Empire to such as he,Though the hoar-frost glisten on his cheek;He has carried your flag where ye dared not go,And little ye reck of the debt ye owe.Only a Colonial!No doubt he is raw on your social lawsAnd grates on your sense of caste and creed,But he lives too near to Facts and CauseTo study heraldry and breed;And, knowing man in his primal state,He scorns the claims of the social great.Only a Colonial!The name in cheap contempt ye fling,Is not the whim of birth or chance,We well ignore the flippant sting,Or charge it to your ignorance;The colonist, and sons of his,Have made the Empire what it is.
Onlya Colonial!Only a man of nerve and heartWho has spurned the ease of the life "at home,"Only a man who would play his partIn a new breed-birth on a distant loam;Only a man of sense and worthWho is not afraid of the ends of earth.
Only a Colonial!Only a man who has cornered FateAnd matched his strength with the Unattained;Only the guard at the Outer Gate,Who holds for you what he has gained,That your children, seized of a better sense,May share with him Toil's recompense.
Only a Colonial!Only a man who has bridged the deep,And stained the map a British hue,Who builds an Empire while ye sleepAnd deeds the ownership to you.'Tis the Viking blood which gave you birthThat has driven him to the ends of earth.
Only a Colonial!Wherever the flag that ye think is greatIs flown to the farthest winds that blow,Wherever the colonists ye berateIn their blind faith-vision onward go,Ye may find ye hearts that are British still—In your self-conceit do ye count them nil?
Only a Colonial!Rough as the bark of his forest treeHis ways may seem to the fat and sleek,But ye owe your Empire to such as he,Though the hoar-frost glisten on his cheek;He has carried your flag where ye dared not go,And little ye reck of the debt ye owe.
Only a Colonial!No doubt he is raw on your social lawsAnd grates on your sense of caste and creed,But he lives too near to Facts and CauseTo study heraldry and breed;And, knowing man in his primal state,He scorns the claims of the social great.
Only a Colonial!The name in cheap contempt ye fling,Is not the whim of birth or chance,We well ignore the flippant sting,Or charge it to your ignorance;The colonist, and sons of his,Have made the Empire what it is.
LITTLE TIM TROTTER
LittleTim Trotter was born in the West,Where the prairie lies sunny and brown;Never was, surely, so welcome a guestIn the stateliest halls of the town;For Little Tim Trotter was thoughtful and brave,And a lover of summer and shower,And Little Tim Trotter took less than he gaveTo the hearts that were under his power.Little Tim Trotter would play in the sun,Or lie in the buffalo grass,And in fancy he saw the wild buffalo runAnd the brave-riding Indians pass;And with eyes that were deep as the infinite blueHe would picture himself at their head,For no one so young as this hunter-man knewThat the herds and the riders were dead.Little Tim Trotter would lie in his bedWhile the fire-light played low on the floor,And strange were the thought that in Little Tim's headPlayed low like the fire at the door;The hopes that were his, and the wonders he knew,And the yearning he had in his heart,With the glimmering light of the future in view,And Little Tim just at the start!Little Tim Trotter has heard the long callAnd has answered with joy and surprise,And the thoughts and the things that are hid from us allTo-day are revealed to his eyes;And he rides in the van of his buffalo herd,Or in camp with his Indians brave;But Little Tim Trotter speaks never a wordThrough the mound of a little green grave.
LittleTim Trotter was born in the West,Where the prairie lies sunny and brown;Never was, surely, so welcome a guestIn the stateliest halls of the town;For Little Tim Trotter was thoughtful and brave,And a lover of summer and shower,And Little Tim Trotter took less than he gaveTo the hearts that were under his power.Little Tim Trotter would play in the sun,Or lie in the buffalo grass,And in fancy he saw the wild buffalo runAnd the brave-riding Indians pass;And with eyes that were deep as the infinite blueHe would picture himself at their head,For no one so young as this hunter-man knewThat the herds and the riders were dead.Little Tim Trotter would lie in his bedWhile the fire-light played low on the floor,And strange were the thought that in Little Tim's headPlayed low like the fire at the door;The hopes that were his, and the wonders he knew,And the yearning he had in his heart,With the glimmering light of the future in view,And Little Tim just at the start!Little Tim Trotter has heard the long callAnd has answered with joy and surprise,And the thoughts and the things that are hid from us allTo-day are revealed to his eyes;And he rides in the van of his buffalo herd,Or in camp with his Indians brave;But Little Tim Trotter speaks never a wordThrough the mound of a little green grave.
LittleTim Trotter was born in the West,Where the prairie lies sunny and brown;Never was, surely, so welcome a guestIn the stateliest halls of the town;For Little Tim Trotter was thoughtful and brave,And a lover of summer and shower,And Little Tim Trotter took less than he gaveTo the hearts that were under his power.
Little Tim Trotter would play in the sun,Or lie in the buffalo grass,And in fancy he saw the wild buffalo runAnd the brave-riding Indians pass;And with eyes that were deep as the infinite blueHe would picture himself at their head,For no one so young as this hunter-man knewThat the herds and the riders were dead.
Little Tim Trotter would lie in his bedWhile the fire-light played low on the floor,And strange were the thought that in Little Tim's headPlayed low like the fire at the door;The hopes that were his, and the wonders he knew,And the yearning he had in his heart,With the glimmering light of the future in view,And Little Tim just at the start!
Little Tim Trotter has heard the long callAnd has answered with joy and surprise,And the thoughts and the things that are hid from us allTo-day are revealed to his eyes;And he rides in the van of his buffalo herd,Or in camp with his Indians brave;But Little Tim Trotter speaks never a wordThrough the mound of a little green grave.
THE VORTEX
Hefarmed his own half-section and was doing fairly well;There were seasons when the yield was rather small,But he always had his living and had always stuff to sell,And a little to his credit in the fall;But he wearied of his labor and he turned a wistful eyeWhere the City flashed its glamour on the stranger passing by;He was sick of hogs and cattle—he was sick of barn and sty,And the City sucked him in.He was doing homestead duties—he was in his second year,And his quarter was the finest out-of-doors;He'd a neighbor in the township—and they called that pretty near,And he only had to eat and do the chores;Now he should have been contented with a kingdom of his own;He'd a fiddle and a rifle and a "bally gramophone" . . .He was sick of isolation, sick of living there alone,And the City sucked him in.He owned a little country store and traded goods for eggs;He was salesman, buyer, manager and clerk;And the farmers gathered in his shop and sat around on kegsWhile they smoked andwishedthey didn't have to work;He was tired of tasting butter that he didn't dare condemn,He was tired of narrow farmers, he was tired of serving them,And he thought him of the City, where they close at six P. M.,And the City sucked him in.He ran a country paper in the town of Easy-go,And he hustled news and helped to "dis" the "dead";He was editor and devil, he was master of the show,And the Union had no halter on his head;But he couldn't raise his circulation over twenty quires,He was tired of washing rollers, he was tired of building fires,He was tired of eulogizing men he knew were mostly liars,And the City sucked him in.He practised law and real estate and owned a house and lot;He'd a client every once-awhile or so;He drove into the country when the summer days were hot,Or in winter for a sleigh-ride in the snow;He'd enough to live in comfort and he always paid his bills,But he tired of country customs and he wanted Fashion's frills;He was sick of fire insurance, he was sick of drawing wills,And the City sucked him in.He'd a loyal congregation and his views were orthodoxThough his salary was less than he was worth,He'd a personal regard for the future of his flocks,And he shared with them their sorrow and their mirth;But he longed for larger service and for bright companionship,And a stipend that would justify his wife to take a trip;And he read his resignation and he packed his little grip,And the City sucked him in.She was just a country maiden with ambitions of her own,She could wash and she could churn and she could cook,But she longed for broader vision and a bigger, better zone,And she studied all about it in a book;She'd a home and she had kindred, she'd a roof above her head,She had time for work and leisure, she'd a chance to love and wed;But they saw her leave the village—they had better seen her dead—And the City sucked her in.Now there's one of them a millionaire and one of them in jail,And one of them is working on the street;And one is washing dishes, and one has "hit the trail,"For six have drunk the sorrows of defeat;And one that's never spoken of where once she was supreme,And one—they found him floating in an eddy of the stream:They have paid the price of knowledge, they have dreamed their little dream:And the City sucked them in.
Hefarmed his own half-section and was doing fairly well;There were seasons when the yield was rather small,But he always had his living and had always stuff to sell,And a little to his credit in the fall;But he wearied of his labor and he turned a wistful eyeWhere the City flashed its glamour on the stranger passing by;He was sick of hogs and cattle—he was sick of barn and sty,And the City sucked him in.He was doing homestead duties—he was in his second year,And his quarter was the finest out-of-doors;He'd a neighbor in the township—and they called that pretty near,And he only had to eat and do the chores;Now he should have been contented with a kingdom of his own;He'd a fiddle and a rifle and a "bally gramophone" . . .He was sick of isolation, sick of living there alone,And the City sucked him in.He owned a little country store and traded goods for eggs;He was salesman, buyer, manager and clerk;And the farmers gathered in his shop and sat around on kegsWhile they smoked andwishedthey didn't have to work;He was tired of tasting butter that he didn't dare condemn,He was tired of narrow farmers, he was tired of serving them,And he thought him of the City, where they close at six P. M.,And the City sucked him in.He ran a country paper in the town of Easy-go,And he hustled news and helped to "dis" the "dead";He was editor and devil, he was master of the show,And the Union had no halter on his head;But he couldn't raise his circulation over twenty quires,He was tired of washing rollers, he was tired of building fires,He was tired of eulogizing men he knew were mostly liars,And the City sucked him in.He practised law and real estate and owned a house and lot;He'd a client every once-awhile or so;He drove into the country when the summer days were hot,Or in winter for a sleigh-ride in the snow;He'd enough to live in comfort and he always paid his bills,But he tired of country customs and he wanted Fashion's frills;He was sick of fire insurance, he was sick of drawing wills,And the City sucked him in.He'd a loyal congregation and his views were orthodoxThough his salary was less than he was worth,He'd a personal regard for the future of his flocks,And he shared with them their sorrow and their mirth;But he longed for larger service and for bright companionship,And a stipend that would justify his wife to take a trip;And he read his resignation and he packed his little grip,And the City sucked him in.She was just a country maiden with ambitions of her own,She could wash and she could churn and she could cook,But she longed for broader vision and a bigger, better zone,And she studied all about it in a book;She'd a home and she had kindred, she'd a roof above her head,She had time for work and leisure, she'd a chance to love and wed;But they saw her leave the village—they had better seen her dead—And the City sucked her in.Now there's one of them a millionaire and one of them in jail,And one of them is working on the street;And one is washing dishes, and one has "hit the trail,"For six have drunk the sorrows of defeat;And one that's never spoken of where once she was supreme,And one—they found him floating in an eddy of the stream:They have paid the price of knowledge, they have dreamed their little dream:And the City sucked them in.
Hefarmed his own half-section and was doing fairly well;There were seasons when the yield was rather small,But he always had his living and had always stuff to sell,And a little to his credit in the fall;But he wearied of his labor and he turned a wistful eyeWhere the City flashed its glamour on the stranger passing by;He was sick of hogs and cattle—he was sick of barn and sty,And the City sucked him in.
He was doing homestead duties—he was in his second year,And his quarter was the finest out-of-doors;He'd a neighbor in the township—and they called that pretty near,And he only had to eat and do the chores;Now he should have been contented with a kingdom of his own;He'd a fiddle and a rifle and a "bally gramophone" . . .He was sick of isolation, sick of living there alone,And the City sucked him in.
He owned a little country store and traded goods for eggs;He was salesman, buyer, manager and clerk;And the farmers gathered in his shop and sat around on kegsWhile they smoked andwishedthey didn't have to work;He was tired of tasting butter that he didn't dare condemn,He was tired of narrow farmers, he was tired of serving them,And he thought him of the City, where they close at six P. M.,And the City sucked him in.
He ran a country paper in the town of Easy-go,And he hustled news and helped to "dis" the "dead";He was editor and devil, he was master of the show,And the Union had no halter on his head;But he couldn't raise his circulation over twenty quires,He was tired of washing rollers, he was tired of building fires,He was tired of eulogizing men he knew were mostly liars,And the City sucked him in.
He practised law and real estate and owned a house and lot;He'd a client every once-awhile or so;He drove into the country when the summer days were hot,Or in winter for a sleigh-ride in the snow;He'd enough to live in comfort and he always paid his bills,But he tired of country customs and he wanted Fashion's frills;He was sick of fire insurance, he was sick of drawing wills,And the City sucked him in.
He'd a loyal congregation and his views were orthodoxThough his salary was less than he was worth,He'd a personal regard for the future of his flocks,And he shared with them their sorrow and their mirth;But he longed for larger service and for bright companionship,And a stipend that would justify his wife to take a trip;And he read his resignation and he packed his little grip,And the City sucked him in.
She was just a country maiden with ambitions of her own,She could wash and she could churn and she could cook,But she longed for broader vision and a bigger, better zone,And she studied all about it in a book;She'd a home and she had kindred, she'd a roof above her head,She had time for work and leisure, she'd a chance to love and wed;But they saw her leave the village—they had better seen her dead—And the City sucked her in.
Now there's one of them a millionaire and one of them in jail,And one of them is working on the street;And one is washing dishes, and one has "hit the trail,"For six have drunk the sorrows of defeat;And one that's never spoken of where once she was supreme,And one—they found him floating in an eddy of the stream:They have paid the price of knowledge, they have dreamed their little dream:And the City sucked them in.
THE OLD GUARD