HOW CANADA AND THE U. S. MAY BECOME ONE.

It is such a fad at present For each poet effervescent, To a.s.sail the "cross" or "crescent"

And the "Cleveland message" grim; That we pondered for a minute Thinking we would not be "in it"

If we did not aid some Linnet With a little of our din.

Now we're not at'all unwilling To receive a course of "drilling"

If successful in dispelling Just a little of the mist Which is hanging thickly over Our detractor, brother Grover, And that rank sedition mover, Called the jingo journalist.

There are men among you moving Who're ostensibly peace loving, While their conduct's always proving The reverse to be their toast; They eternally are blowing Like a game c.o.c.k, bent on showing By his loud defiant crowing That he's there to rule the roost!

Tho' you send a warlike "message"

Do not punctuate its pa.s.sage Crying "cut 'em into sa.s.sage, Now beware, you crippled cuss": All such ravings out of season Should be cla.s.sified as treason, Guard your tongues and use your reason In considering the "fuss."

If again your mind should rove Around the field of Carnage Grover, We would have you think it over In the light of common sense; Ponder well the pain and labor It would cause to quell your neighbor; And be sure you hide your saber 'Ere you venture through our fence.

Why rely on jingo blowing If you're bent upon subduing Brave Canadians who've been growing Since they met Montgomery?

Drop your systematic hounding, And your epithets loud sounding For we've pipers here abounding Who could blow you out to sea!

If you saw bold piper Ronald Of the warlike Clan Macdonald, And the way in which he pommelled O'er a hundred of your ranks; You would soon be after wishing You had always kept a-fishing Right at home, instead of swishing Warlines over Britain's banks!

And it seems to us so very Queer that Highlanders who quarry Monumental stones at Barre, Did not scare away your frowns: Had they started with their hammers Down among your city b.u.mmers, It would take you many summers To repopulate your towns.

Yea, at prospects of a battle From old Bangor to Seattle Each Canadian would skedaddle To defend his home and kin; And from Picton to Vancouver We would welcome each one over; Thus united, brother Grover, Would you have a chance to win?

Then relinquish Yankee dodges, We would warn you to be cautious; Silence rabid Cabot Lodges And your jingo journalists.

Friendship's thread already slender Needs a sapient defender-- As the lion's tail is tender From so many ruthless twists!

We have often heard it stated When by jingoists berated, That the people here were fated To be "taken in by Sam."

But believe us, brother Grover, Coming ages will discover That you cannot get us over In that manner by a d----!

There's another way that's better Than coercion and the fetter, And we'll tell you in this letter How to circ.u.mvent the end: Cultivate a better feeling For your neighbor in your dealing-- As you'll never see us kneeling For the favors you can lend.

Let events their course pursuing Glide along as they've been doing-- Let our people interwooing-- Intermarry--buy and sell; Let your friendly salutation, Be extended to this nation, Let the law of gravitation Do the rest and all is well!

You have often sold a daughter To some dude across the water, While the t.i.tle high(?) which bought her You so seemingly ignore; Why not send us a cotillion Of those girls who own a million For our hardy northern gillian On the old Canadian sh.o.r.e?

You may think this would not do, but We can tell you that your "blue blood"

Isn't "in it" with the true blood Of our bracing Northern clime-- Better far to take their chances With Xavier at Lac St. Francis Than to purchase the advances Of coin hunters of our time!

THE SULTAN AT THE KAISER'S KOURT

Enter SECOND SONS

Mohammed Dammed, gift of G.o.d!

The Sultan's second son, Enjoys a pilgrimage abroad With Eitel Fritz the Hun.

These second sons, of sons of guns, Are sure some friendly foes; But to what length their friendship runs Jehovah only knows.

Just now the Sultan, also, dines At Williams' kultured kourt, And downs the Kaiser's doctored wines While Kaiser downs his porte.

One day young Dammed said to Fritz: "Who started this fool row?

Whoever did was void of wits, As you must know by now."

Said Eitel, "Though I'm from Missour, Some say it was my Dad; But as they're going to Bag-dad sure, He'll wish he never had."

Said Dammed, "If they bag your Dad They'll bag my Daddy sure, And make him wish he never had Come here to seek a cure.

"Your father promised mine to win From Cork to Timbuctoo; If we would throw our Turkey in Your b.l.o.o.d.y Pots-dam brew!

"Besides, he promised on demand Star-eyed Parisian pearls!

Great hunks of Greece, Manhattan and A thousand chorus girls!

"He also swore by every beard The prophets ever tore, That great Mahomet had appeared Before his chamber door.

"And hurled his mantle--so revered-- The blooming transom o'er; And hence my foolish father feared The awful robe he wore!"

Fritz gazed upon the rolling Rhine With bleary, beery eyes, And as he sips his foaming stein, To Dammed thus replies:

"Thy father was a howling mutt Thus to believe my sire; For 'sc.r.a.ps of paper' never cut Much ice with any liar.

"That he has promised you too much Cannot be well denied; For many things will 'beat the Dutch,'

I find since Hannah died.

"My dad and 'first born' started out, To eat the world in gobs, But now they're down to spuds and krout, And what the army robs.

"I have no patience with the bunch That failed to win from France, The crown prince plainly lacks the punch-- Why not give me a chance!

"A million soldiers good and true Went down to death for him, And chances still of 'breaking thru,'

Are daily growing slim.

"I love him not, nor yet his clique, Who deem themselves so smart: I'd like to serve them all a kick Where their Prince Alberts part.

"To whip the French, they'll have to sail Thru blood to gay Paree-- Here's hoping Poilus will not fail To make crown prince of me!

"For O, I'd love to have a peep Into that promised land!"

Thus saying Eitel fell asleep-- And snored to beat the band!

And while Eitel was dreaming, Of something or other, The son of the Sultan Wrote home to his mother.

"On Linden when the sun was low,"

The Sultan's second wrote.

These mild impressions of the foe, That has his father's goat:

"Dear ma, according to my pledge, I write these lines to thee, While sitting on the ragged edge In dear old Germany.