Canada, My Land Part 5

THE ROARIN' GAME.

The roarin' game, the roarin' game, From Scotland's bonnie land it came, The land of loch and firth and ben, And comely dames and stalwart men; It crossed the broad Atlantic tide With Scots who came to dwell this side, And bring our country wealth and fame, The roarin' game, the roarin' game.

The roarin' game, the roarin' game Makes every land to Scotsmen "hame"; Where'er the winter's breath congeals The water, see the st.u.r.dy "chiels"

With "stane" and besom play and sweep, Intently gaze, and shout and leap, With genial fervor all aflame:-- The roarin' game, the roarin' game.

The roarin' game, the roarin' game, Though stupid folk may think it tame, Affect the smile that wisdom casts On rattle-brained enthusiasts, And jest in condescending tones Of boys and marbles, men and stones; 'Tis fine enjoyment just the same, The roarin' game, the roarin' game.

The roarin' game, the roarin' game Its meed of praise may justly claim: As firm as ice upon the pond It is of hearts a brother bond; It trains us to be wise and true In all we undertake to do, And fits for every higher aim, The roarin' game, the roarin' game,

The roarin' game, the roarin' game Will never give us cause for shame, No shattered nerves and aching heads, Bad consciences and nameless dreads, But health and strength and minds serene And kindly hearts and friendly mien: No honest tongue will e'er defame The roarin' game, the roarin' game.

THE OLD SCOTTISH MINISTER.

A man he was of Scottish race, And ancient Scottish name; Of common mould, but lofty mien, That dignified his frame.

And he lived a humble, quiet life, Obscure, unknown to fame; G.o.d's glory and the good of man His constant, only aim: Like a fine old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

He dearly loved his gentle wife, As everyone could tell; And watched his children as they grew, Lest any ill befell; And as he looked upon his boys His bosom oft would swell; For he reared them in the fear of G.o.d, And ruled his household well: Like a true old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

A father, too, he was to all His congregation there: To all he felt a father's love, And showed a father's care: He wisely counselled them with speech, And pled for them in prayer; And ever for the needy ones He something had to spare: Like a kind old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

The servant of the Lord he was, In hovel and in hall,-- The high amba.s.sador of heaven Whom earth could not enthrall; Like Christ among the wedding guests, Or by the funeral pall; And he made his daily life sublime, A pattern unto all: Like a grand old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

For truth and righteousness and love His voice was ever heard; And minds were kindled into thought, And consciences were stirred, And weary, heavy-laden hearts To faith and hope were spurred, As from the pulpit he proclaimed The everlasting Word: Like a faithful Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

And when, amid his elders grave, Extended in a line Beside the table of the Lord, He kept the rite divine, His face with a rapt, unearthly look Was seen to strangely s.h.i.+ne, As he broke the white, symbolic bread, And pa.s.sed the sacred wine: Like a saintly Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

His lot was hard, his task severe; He found the burden light: When darkly o'er his pathway hung The shadows of the night, His heart was steadfast, for he walked By faith, and not by sight; And ran triumphantly his course, And fought a goodly fight: Like a brave old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

And when upon a summer's day He laid him down to die, He called his household to his side Without a moan or sigh, And blessed his children each in turn, And said a fond good-bye, And then consigned his soul to G.o.d, And went to live on high: Like a good old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

THE MACS.

There's a race, or a part of a race, if you will, Of renown prehistoric, and vigorous still, Who back from their fastnesses scornfully hurl'd The redoubtable legions that trampled the world; They repelled, and they only, the Roman attacks, The stalwart, courageous, impetuous Macs.

When the red-bearded pirates, the Saxons and Danes And Angles, came swarming across the sea plains, And the old British stock to exterminate tried, Caledonia and Erin their efforts defied; And the conquering Normans were glad to make tracks From the Macs and the Mics (who are properly Macs).

Their proud patronymics, they rightfully hold, Proclaim them descended from heroes of old.-- Ill.u.s.trious t.i.tles that throw in the shade The dukedoms and earldoms but yesterday made; And even the King with his royalty lacks A lineage as ancient as that of the Macs.

They are old and yet young, with a spirit possest By the dream of the East and the hope of the West; The earth is their country, the race is their kin; In populous cities their guerdon they win, And in gold miners' cabins and lumbermen's shacks You will find the ubiquitous, venturesome Macs.

Distinguished they've been with the sword and the pen; In pulpit and parliament, leaders of men; Prime ministers, presidents, merchants, viziers, They have manag'd the business of both hemispheres; And the Dago day-laborers laying the tracks Are boss'd by the Macs or the Mics (who are Macs).

'Twas thought by the ancients that Atlas upbore The sphere on his shoulders--'tis thought so no more; Prometheus and Atlas and all of their kith, The t.i.tans, are now but a fable, a myth.

The men who are bearing the world on their backs Are the Macs and the Mics (who are mixed with the Macs).

THE PARSON AT THE HOCKEY MATCH.

It's very disagreeable to sit here in the cold, And a sinful waste of time--ah, well, it's too late now to scold; I'll think about my sermon and my prayers for Sunday next, And the young folks may be happy--let me see--what was my text?

But what a throng of people--an immortal soul in each: With such an audience this would be a splendid place to preach.

I'd have the pulpit half-way down--what ice! without a smirch!

Here are the men--I wonder if they ever go to church.

"The teams?" Ah, yes, "the forwards, point, and cover-point and goal"; Thank you, my dear, I understand--is that a lump of coal?

"Rubber?" Ah, yes, "The puck?" just so! One's holding it, I see-- That fellow with his clothes all on--ah, that's the referee.

What was he whistling for--his dog? Why, they've begun to play; Well, well, that's rough; I really think we're doing wrong to stay.

It's sickening, deafening; dear! I wish this uproar could be stilled.

I do sincerely trust there'll not be anybody killed.

It's a wondrous exhibition of alertness, speed, and strength.

I suppose there's not much danger--there's a fellow at full length.

He's up again; that's plucky. Well, the little lad has pluck-- And now he's master of the ice, possessor of the puck.

He dodges two opponents, but collides with one at last, A Philistine Goliath--David baffles him and fast Darts onward o'er the whitening sheet, while from each crowded row The crazed spectators cheer him on--Look!--has he lost it? No!

He's clear again. Played, played, my boy. I'd like to see him score:-- (I'll have no voice for Sunday if I shout like this much more)-- But there his ruthless enemies o'erwhelm him in a shoal-- Well played, you hero, safely pa.s.sed. Now for a shot on goal.

Shoot, shoot, you duffer; shoot, you goose, you a.s.s, you great galoot, You addle-pated idiot, you nincomp.o.o.p, you--shoot!

You've lost it! Never mind--well tried--that other dash was grand.

Why do they stop? "Off side," you say? I don't quite understand.

That's puzzling. I suppose it's right. I wish they'd not delay.

This is a most provoking interruption to the play.

"Cold?" Nothing of the sort. I was--I'm heated with the game.

I'm really enjoying it; indeed, I'm glad I came.

I'd like to see both ends at once; I can't from where we sit.

They've scored one yonder--What's the row? A player has been hit?

Such things are bound to happen in a rapid game like this; They'll soon resume the play, my dear; there's nothing much amiss,-- Some trifling accident received in a rough body check, A shoulder dislocated or a fracture of the neck.

Oh, no, it's nothing serious--the game begins again.

They're here, a writhing, struggling ma.s.s of half a dozen men Battling and groaning with the strife, and breathing hard and fast, Swayed back and forth and stooping low like elms before the blast, Changing their places like a fleet of vessels tempest-driven That blindly meet within the waves and part with timbers riven, Waving their sticks with frantic zeal--But isn't this a sight?

My goodness! I could sit and watch a game like this all night.

There, dirty trousers, there's your chance. m.u.f.fed it! Why weren't you quick?

This is a sight to make the sad rejoice, to heal the sick, To rouse the drones and give them life to last them half a year-- Hit him again!--I wish I had my congregation here.

My stars! and this is hockey. Hockey's the king of sports.

This is the thing to come to when you're feeling out of sorts.

This is the greatest holiday I've had for many weeks.

This helps one to appreciate the feeling of the Greeks.

I understand my Homer now--O Hercules, behold Yon Trojan giant, he that's cast in an Olympian mould, Ye G.o.ds, he more than doubled up that other stalwart cove-- Here comes swift-footed Mercury, the messenger of Jove.

Adown the blue, outstripping all, he speeds. Oh, what a spurt!