So raise it ev'ryw'ere, lak' de ole tam voyageurs, Hooraw! For de flag of de la Salle an' Cadillac. William Henry Drummond (1854-1907] WRECK OF THE "JULIE PLANTE” ON wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre, De win' she blow, blow, blow, An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante" Got scar't an' run below; For de win' she blow lak hurricane, Bimeby she blow some more, An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre, De Captinne walk on de fronte deck, He call de cook also. De cook she's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal, Was chambre maid on lumber barge. On de Grande Lachine Canal. De win' she blow from nor'eas'-wes'- W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher Captinne, Den de Captinne t'row de big ankerre, But still de scow she dreef, De crew he can't pass on de shore, De night was dark, lak' one black cat, W'en de Captinne tak' de Rosie girl I Den he also tak' de life preserve, An' jomp off on de lak', An' say, "Good by, ma Rosie dear, I go drown for your sak'." Nex' mornin' very early, 'Bout ha'f-pas' two-t'ree-four- For de win' she blow lak' hurricane An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,^^. MORAL Now, all good wood scow sailor man An' go an' marry some nice French girl An' s'pose she blow some more, You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre, William Henry Drummond [1854-1907] HUMPTY DUMPTY "Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall; Humpty Dumpty had a great fall: Not all the king's horses nor all the king's men FULL many a project that never was hatched Falls down, and gets shattered beyond being patched; If each restless unit that moves among men And grasped the great helm, who would stand by the ropes? Or if all dainty fingers their duties might choose, Who would wash up the dishes, and polish the shoes? Suppose every aspirant writing a book Contrived to get published, by hook or by crook; Would be startled, I fancy, to find a formation Or even suppose all the women were married; Where would be the good aunts that should knit all the stockings? Or nurses, to do up the singings and rockings? Wise spinsters, to lay down their wonderful rules, No! Failure's a part of the infinite plan; Who finds that he can't, must give way to who can; Each stumbles at last to his suitable place. So the great scheme works on, though, like eggs from the wall, Little single designs to such ruin may fall, That not all the world's might, of its horses or men, Could set their crushed hopes at the summit again. Adeline D. T. Whitney [1824-1906] STRICTLY GERM-PROOF THE Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup Were playing in the garden when the Bunny gamboled up; They looked upon the Creature with a loathing undisguised; It wasn't Disinfected and it wasn't Sterilized. They said it was a Microbe and a Hotbed of Disease; They steamed it in a vapor of a thousand-odd degrees; They froze it in a freezer that was cold as Banished Hope And washed it in permanganate with carbolated soap. In sulphrueted hydrogen they steeped its wiggly ears; They trimmed its frisky whiskers with a pair of hard-boiled shears; They donned their rubber mittens and they took it by the hand And 'lected it a member of the Fumigated Band. There's not a Micrococcus in the garden where they play; The Bunny and the Baby and the Prophylactic Pup. CAVE SEDEM! BEWARE the deadly Sitting habit, A little ginger 'neath the tail Man was not made to sit a-trance, To circulate among his kind. And so, my son, avoid the snare Which lurks within a cushioned chair; Theodore F. MacManus [18 REVIVAL HYMN From "Uncle Remus " Он, whar shill we go w'en de great day comes, Wid de blowin' er de trumpits en de bangin' er de drums? How many po' sinners'll be kotched out late En fine no latch ter de golden gate? No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer! De sun mustn't set on yo' sorrer, W'en de nashuns er de earf is a-stan'in' all aroun', Who's a gwine ter be choosen fer ter w'ar de glory-crown? Who's gwine fer ter stan' stiff-kneed en bol', En answer to der name at de callin' er de roll? You better come now ef you comin'- De wheels er distruckshun is a hummin'— De song er salvashun is a mighty sweet song, De time is right now, en dish yer's de place- En you'll allers fine a latch ter de golden gate. No use fer ter wait twel ter-morrer, Ax de Lord fer ter fetch you up higher! Joel Chandler Harris [1848-1908] |