inhey's praise--
And well he might sing with loud swell,
"The Lamb of March" deserved it well!
A man of learning, wit, and sense,
No shallow thing of vain pretence,
The true stamp of the current guinea
Bore March's Father, Hamnett Pinhey.
To "Muddy Little York" went he,
The Independent and the Free
To represent with power effective
Amid the wisdom most collective,
In the old days of Compact Rule
Ere Grittism yet had gone to school;
Dalhousie District's Archives too,
Can show what he was wont to do.
Paddy, though not of _genus ferae,_
Was yet a queer _lusus naturae_;
His vital organs played beneath
A shield of solid bone 'till death,
Without a yielding space between,
Where ribs in other men are seen,
Though not a feathered bird, his toes
Were web'd as well the writer knows,
And joined in one in style most rare
His molars and incisors were;
His voice, when at its loudest swell,
Was like a railway whistle's yell;
In stature he was six feet tall,
So there is Paddy for you all!
But strike I now a strain sublime,
A touch heroic into rhyme.
As memory doth with truth uncoil
The history of old Bob Boyle,
A British soldier, bold and free,
Of the old Ninety-Ninth was he,
Who bravely fought and 'scaped from harm,
At Lundy's Lane and Crysler's Farm,
And gallantly his bayonet bore,
At Fort Niagara, and the shore
Of Sackett's Harbor trod of yore,
When "Uncle Sam," our friend and brother,
Or cousin, kicked up such a "bother"
In 1812, and tried
In vain to lower Britain's pride,
By cutting from her parent side,
By a Caesarean operation,
The proudest offspring of the nation!
The Union Jack, thank heaven! still
Floats proudly over vale and hill,
Of this Dominion grand of ours;
And shattered be the vital powers,
By fatal stroke, like that which slew,
Sennacherib's Assyrian crew,
Of him who's traitor hand shall dare
To furl one fold that flutters there!
And palsied be the traitor tongue,
And from its root uptorn and wrung,
That dares to utter but one word
To weaken the soul-anchored cord,
Which binds Canadians heart and hand
In love to the old Mother Land!
Bob Boyle, "I thank thee" that thy name
Hath stirred the patriotic flame,
In days like these, when treason's veil
Drops when passions fierce assail,
And leaves exposed to public view
The traitor double-dyed in hue!
Hear, spawn of disaffection's thrall!
Rouge, Annexationist and all
This--ere the Union Jack shall fall,
The path of treason red with blood
Shal