The Song of the Exile-A Canadian Epic Part 21

For although thou wilt take us by storm, dear, Looking sweet, as thou certainly wilt, Yet, you know, it is very bad form, dear, And not English to wish for a "tilt."

And I thought, (but of course was mistaken, For my hopes lie around me all spilt), That my Ethel would never awaken To sigh for a Hielander's "tilt."

None the less will I try to be glad then, Nor let courtesy play me the jilt; Though I know that my heart will be sad when Little Ethel is wearing her "tilt".

DEAR LITTLE ETHEL.

Dear little Ethel, Child that I love, Come, as an angel, Down from above.

Golden-rayed tresses, s.h.i.+ning and bright, Inviting caresses, Mirroring light.

Eyes blue and tender, Beaming with joy.

Who would offend her?

Who would annoy?

Ripple thy laughter!

Bubble thy glee!

Loud will the rafter Echo to thee.

Clinging to mother, Set on her knee; She has no other Dearer than thee.

Slave thou hast bound her; Nestles thine arm, Twining around her, Telling thy charm.

Innocent speeches Silencing strife; Hallowed each is: Pearls of a life.

Come, come and kiss me, Child of my heart.

Oh! I would miss thee Were we to part.

G.o.d in His mercy Shelter my dove, Dear little Ethel, Child that I love.

TO D. R. P.

(_In imitation of A. Lindsay Gordon._)

Well, Douglas, I'm sorry you've got to be homing, Though I grant it's unwise to continue your roaming, But the evening's to spare ere you drop me astern, So come up to my room and indulge in a yarn.

Here's tobacco in plenty--"Gold Flake," very good; No "Birdseye," or "Honeydew," that's understood.

But this isn't bad, though a stranger to you-- (Here is d.i.c.k: Bring up ginger and whiskey for two).

And now take a seat, there are two, as you see, The red rocker for you and the other for me.

Don't demur, for no guests will arrive, I am sure; If they do, why there's room on the bed or the floor.

So you're going to England again. Well, your visit Has nigh made me homesick--no miracle, is it?

I was born there, and there I was nurtured and bred, And I love the old land. (There's a match overhead).

It is four years ago, more than that, since I started Away from my home. Well, I'm not chicken-hearted, But your accent, your manner, the things you have said, Have just taken me back to the life I once led.

And it seems there's a canker that Time will not heal, Though I certainly thought that I never should feel Its soreness again. I had settled down here, Thinking happiness mine, till your lords.h.i.+p drew near.

And now, with your talk of the land of my birth, All those sad recollections you rudely unearth.

Don't apologise, man, for I'm glad it is so, There's a joy in the grief that I wouldn't forego.

There's a joy in remembering all that has been, And recalling the pleasures that once I have seen; And if bitterness follows, I'm ready to suffer, For this morsel is sweet though the next may be tougher.

Let the fool in his folly antic.i.p.ate sorrow, I, for one, will refuse to take thought for the morrow.

There is joy in our life if we will but enjoy it; But the most of us do what we can to destroy it.

For we fume and we worry and fret ourselves thin By regret for what might be or what might have been; And the blessings of life we incessantly miss By ignoring entirely the pleasure that is.

You have taught me a lesson; though little you thought Or intended to do it, the lesson is taught.

By your actions, not words, have I learned to be wise, To embrace every joy, every sorrow despise.

Did I say that I _thought_ there was happiness here?

I was wrong, for I _know_ it; 'tis perfectly clear.

If you'll listen a bit, take your pipe up again And continue your smoke, I will try to explain.

To begin with, the land I've adopted as mine Has a place in my heart, a peculiar shrine.

And my love for the country is true and sincere; If I can't live in England I wish to live here.

Then, I freely confess, if my way has been hard, And my path somewhat rough, still I have my reward.

Let my rung on life's ladder be low as it may, I have fought single-handed each step of the way.

It is well to have fortune, mayhap it is well In the tents of the n.o.ble and t.i.tled to dwell; But the man who has builded his home with his hand Is the happiest man in the happiest land.

Let milord and milady inherit their wealth, I am legatee only of vigor and health; Every cent that I own has been earned by the sweat Of my brow, and I'm proud to acknowledge it yet.

There's a happiness here every other beyond, Except one: to be bound in the mystical bond Which is woven with throbs of the heart that is true, And the glances of eyes of a love-lightened hue.

And, perchance, even I may have tasted the bliss That is found in the warmth of the soul-inspired kiss; And it may have been mine--But I travel too fast.

It is time that the cobbler returned to his last.

But your silence has been philosophic and deep, And I hope you've enjoyed--why, the man is asleep!

Only closing your eyes? Well, perhaps that will do To tell the marines, but it's grossly untrue.

I was speaking of England? Undoubtedly so, So I was, but it's just twenty minutes ago.

I've been talking since then in a serious strain, And perhaps 'tis as well that I've spoken in vain.

Don't apologise. What, is it time for your train?

Well, Douglas, then here's to our meeting again And meanwhile, old man, don't forget the pedantic And long-winded fellow across the Atlantic.