By Trench and Trail in Song and Story Part 5

There's a wink from the "traps", And a meal with the j.a.ps, And a shuffle of cards as they go.

There's a trip to the play, A few "smiles" by the way, And a box by themselves at the show.

O how slyly they wink As they sip at their drink, And maliciously help him to his; And he drinks it, alas!

'Though the foam on the gla.s.s Floats around with a death-dealing fizz.

Thus the night pa.s.ses by Till the victimized "guy"

Is sufficiently "doped" to "go through"; And the stupefied lout, When he's finally out, Will possess but a nickel or two.

Wholly drunk, and half blind, With confusion of mind, And to rum-selling vultures a prey, He is found at the "Mug"-- Takes a ride to the jug, And there slumbers his potions away.

Coming out the next morn, Sober, sick and forlorn, To a world that has quickly grown cold!

A poor outcast he roams While in sumptuous homes Whilom friends(?) are enjoying his gold.

Where is now the glib friend Of his bounty to lend The poor devil the price of a plate?

He has vanished like mist Of the morning, sun-kissed-- And the victim is left to his fate.

Not a wink from a la.s.s, Nor a clink from a gla.s.s, With "your health", as it's borne to the lips; Not a sign from a trap, Not a bite from a j.a.p-- All his suns.h.i.+ne has suffered eclipse!

Not a kindly "invite"

From the friends of the night, To "step in and have something on me."

Not a drop from the fakes Just to steady the shakes, And to "knock" the effects of the spree.

As he wanders the street Not one friend does he meet, Not a soul that will greet him today; "Broke" and hungry--alone, With a heartrending moan, He must totter along to the bay.

O, the groans which now surge With the tones of a dirge From that soul so late given to song, And how scenes long since fled Like a wail from the dead, Rise to hasten his footsteps along.

Yea, dim memories rush To his mind, and a flush Of deep shame drives all pallor away, As he thinks of the East And the home he has lost By the life that leads on to the bay.

"Robbed and wronged all around,"

Is the sob of the sound, But no mortal comes forward to save; So with mutterings of wrath He goes down to his death Through the green, clammy depths of the waves.

Hark the tones of despair Which arise on the air From the shades of the low moaning bay; They will float through the years And encircle the spheres, And be heard at the great Judgment Day.

Soon a poor, bloated form, Tossed about by the storm, Floating 'round on the crest of each wave, With seaweed for a shroud, Is beheld by the crowd, And a failure is borne to his grave.

'Tis a jump from the train And a trip up on [A]Main, And a sip with a friend (?) on the way.

Just a step to the "Mug", And a ride to the "jug"-- Then a leap to his death in the bay.

But the Lord from his seat Looketh down on each street, Where such h.e.l.l-born inventions are on, And with infinite wrath He will sweep on their path-- And they'll reap on that day what they've sown.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote A: Main Street, Seattle.]

GAGNE'S CAVALRY

or

THE CANADIAN HABITANTS' ANSWER

to

THE FAMOUS "CLEVELAND MESSAGE."

My Rosie read to me somet'ing, In pepper week ago.

She say, "De States he want to fight On Canada and Joe; An' dat de Yankee Presidon, He write to Johnnie Bull, An' tole him kip his nose at home, Or it would get one pull."

An' two three Yankee Senator, He mak' one Yankee speech, An' t'ink dat all de Canaya Will tremble in his breech-- He say to Honcle Sam, "Go up, An' lick de hole dem crew-- Go, tak' Quebec an' Hottawa, An' Lac Megantic too."

I jomp on top ma moccasin, An' dance aroun' de floor; I grine ma teet', I pull ma hair, An' den I jomp some more; I say, "hurrah for Canada!"

So loud as I can't yell, Till Rosie say, "Ba gosh, hole man!

You're crazy I can tell."

"Oh I'm not crazy, Rosie, I am only patriot-- Dat mean a man who never want His country go to pot-- Yes, I'm 'hole man,' but don't you fret, I'm not yet invalid, I'm good for fight on any war As ten men when she's dead.

"I can't fight? Me? Ba gosh you hask Ma honcle Polyeaux; He used to fight lak' tiger On de war of Papineau; You know I'm just the sam' lak' him, I'll do what he can done; An' I can fight lak' tiger, too, Dat Yankee son-of-gun."

Ma Rosie say: "You crack hole man, Such tom fool speech to mak', I t'ink you are most crazy man Dat live on top de lac-- Your boy is in de State, you know, An' work in Yankee mill, An' w'at you do he lose his job, His bread an' greenback bill?"

"Baa, you mak' mistak', dear Rosie, If you t'ink we starve to dead; If we can't get de Yankee work, His brown bean an' his bread, Grease pie, hot doughnut--biscuit, Is good t'ing for mak' a dude; But we got somet'ing better here Den Yankee 'speptic food."

Chorus:

Ma peasoup am bully, boys, An' buckwheat is good, You nevair get one better t'ing To work upon de hood; W'en it get hold de handle axe, It mak' de chip to fly T'ick as snowflak' in de winter, Or mosquito on July.

Paul will come from Manchester, An' Xavier from Lowh.e.l.l; Joe will come from River Fall, Immediate--pell mell; An' every mill of Honcle Sam Will have to close de loom, W'en all our boys aroun' de State Will come to fight at home.

O by de jomp up hooricane!

If Yankee don't stop brag; She'll fin' more star on top his head, Den he got top his flag; She'll fin' one tiger on his track, Wit' blood-shot on his eye, And ev'ry Yank dat cross de line For fight, is sure to die.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Gagne's Cavalry.]

De Lac Megantic m'litia man Is sure to tak de lead, You bet your life w'en he get rouse Someboda got to bleed!

An' w'en from Lac St. Francis Come de Greenland Grenadier He'll mak' all Yankee man he meet Go home de top his bier.

De Horseman from La Patrie too, Will come an join de fray, An' blow his tin horn bugle, On de top Canada gray; De Voltigeurs from Weedon, An' de Lampton Light Brigade, Will come an' show to Jameson De way to mak a raid.

O' we can fight dat Yankee man As fadders fought before!

On battle of Chateaugay, W'en five Frenchman kill a score!

De Hinglish, Scotch, an' Hirish, too, Will join us, don't you fear-- Dere's notting top dis earth can lick Canadian Volunteer!

An' for one more good leader man, We'll send for Louis Cyr, An' he'll tak' charge de Chesham Corps An' Ditton Fusileer; De Hinfantry from Emberton Will join de Yankee hunt, And Peter Gagne's Cavalry Will gallop on de front!