On Christmas night I sallied forth, To the Red Mountain in the north; The bright abode of men of worth ‘ Twixt here and heaven;
Where Finlay's stakes in mother earth Are firmly driven. I ambled up the village road, Past many an Irishman's abode,
And carried quite a heavy load — The most inside; I faith sincerely thanked the code The way was wide.
Here conscience loudly whispered, “Dhu, How oft hath it been told to you, The end that way would lead you to Should you persist —
With soldiers of the ribbon blue At once enlist.” I answered conscience, “give me peace, The time of pledges draws apace,
When we must swear to shun the glass And all its riot; We've but a single week of grace So let's enjoy it.”
I followed up by Keenan's gate Unto the “turn” where two ways meet, Thence to the left the mountain street Would guide me right,
Tho’ for my life I could not see't, Just in that light. For where two highways ran before, I saw a dozen tracks or more;
And which to take, I was n't sure, By either eye; ‘ Twas but a chance against a score, And yet I'd try.
I started on with divers tacks, And strove to reconcile the tracks Which darted round, like jumping jacks, Before my gaze;
‘ Twould take a dozen crowd a cacks Their course to trace. Had I big John's and Eddie's charts, To tell me where the highway parts,
Reducing by their magic arts Nineteen to two; I would have from my heart of hearts Poured blessings due.
Confusion worse confounded, gee! On every track a horse I see, And all alike it seems to me As barley scones —
I vow, Pete Gagne's cavalry — Proud, prancing roans! Their bones were rattling in the cold Like vales of which Ezekiel told!
A few indeed did seem too old To nibble corn; The colt among them all was foaled Ere “Smoke” was born.
Ah! crippled, gaunt and wild-eyed steed, Thy woes are great, your want is feed! Reminds me of D. Bunker's breed That gasps for breath;
Aye, one and all are built for speed — To certain death! I asked the leader of the band, If he could tell, upon which hand,
The mountain turnpike pierced the land Around those parts; I'd shipped a sea, I told him, and Had lost my charts.
“The left!” he answered with a yell; “Tis easy, sir, your course to tell; And that will lead you down to — well, To “Robert's road.”
Then straight away on yonder hill Is “Smoke's” abode. “The right hand road you must not take, As that will lead to Moffat Lake,
Where Cookshire sportsmen saw “big snake” Through Alden's glass. And thots of serpents make me quake From head to cass.”
I gave my guide a social wink, And started on, is cha ro blink, Till my exuberance, I think, Broke into song:
I said “good evening” to the “Mink,” And passed along. The air was keen, the night was bright, And in the north that mystic light,
( In my exaggerated sight ) Was one to please; The whole suggested yellow, white Or greenish cheese!
I gained momentum down the ridge, And jumped John Moggish's hump-backed bridge; Then climbed the mountain, hedge by hedge, Unto the crest.
And thought it there my privilege To take a rest. I could not find the mountain store Which Channel mentioned in his leor,
My vision's better than before, I really think: Aye, C —— accounts for one or more — And he do n't drink.
But stores aside, I wandered on To where the school house windows shone, Altho’ there seemed to me but one — A dancing glare:
I thought the northern lights were on The programme there. And just within, O “hully gee!” Is that a single Christmas tree,
Or is my vision still aglee? For lack of breath — A moving forest do I see As saw Macbeth?
And better still the forest gleams With all a youngster most esteems: A greater crop, as groaning beams Did there attest
Than Tupper saw in wildest dreams Of wheat out West. And bachelors ( might they be fewer )! I thought I'd see you single, sure,
But there they sit, at least a score, On benches stuck; Each one a wilted, lone wall flower Awaiting pluck.
We pray you, O assultin Turk, So noted for unholy work, To send his devilship your clerk Across the seas:
To drive our single men to kirk With marriage fees. Or send Armenians not yet dead And take our bachelors instead;
Should you then hanker for their head Just plant their hide: And thus avoid that hellish dread Infanticide!
Behold! I've reason now to stare! For are there not two Finlays there — And only one on earth I swear — Come off my hat!
A worthier to fill a chair Has never sat. Red Mountain, thy neglect condone — Within that “chair” your bard enthrone:
Instead of bread, do n't give a stone As others do — Another Finlay like your own You'll never know.
Sweet singer! may your mother tongue, Embellished by thy gift of song, Be ever heard the clans among While print is read —
May future bards thy notes prolong When thou art dead. Thus on and on, while cycles roll, May Gaelic — language of the soul —
Be heard in song from pole to pole, From east to west, Until the final tempests bowl This earth to rest!
Concluding — I would humbly ask All hypocrites to shun the task Of shooting from behind a mask Their fellow men —
And help us all to fling our flask To Hinnom's glen! We've heard the loud, despairing moan Of sinners, reaping what they've sown,
In midnight fields with thistles grown Where devils glean. Yet let the first to cast a stone Himself be clean.
No living mortal can invite The gaze of creatures who delight In showing spots upon the white Which God hath gi'en.
Alas, alas, a little spite Will find the stain. But who's to judge? The serpent's there, In every breast that breathes the air,
Though some with skill and acting rare His form conceal; While others full to view must wear The squirming eel!
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