I see the scorn within thine eye
As some evicting chief goes by—

One whose forbears would sooner die
Than dispossess a Highlander.

But shall those dastards have their way,
And we stand by, unheeding? Nay!
Thy cause is ours :-No true man may
Sole-fighting see my Highlander.
Up, clansmen! Why alone should he
Do battle with the enemy?
'Twere nothing less than infamy

To let them crush our Highlander.

Think of the heartless knaves who long
To rob you of your mother tongue,
And thankful be the craven throng

Well watched are by my Highlander.
When dies its speech a nation dies,
No more to a new life to rise:
Would you avert such fate, be wise,

And rally round my Highlander.

Despoilers worse than Cumberland
Are thickening on us,--law in hand,
Peopling with forest beasts the grand

Old country of the Highlanders.
'Tis time we tried to stop their game,-
If need be, facing sword and flame,
And, as our proper birthright claim
The Highlands for the Highlanders!

A WORD WITH THE FENIAN BROTHERHOOD.

(Suggested by the assassination of Thomas D'Arcy McGee, in 1868.)

"THE Fenian Brotherhood"! the phrase sounds well,
But what's your right to such a title, tell?
Strangers alike to honour, truth, and shame-
Conspirators to aim at Fenian fame !

If truly sang the bard of Selma old,

The Fenian race were of no cut-throat mould;
Though sometimes they in Erin loved to roam,
A land more north was their heroic home;
The "Cothrom Féine, "* was their pride and boast;
Of all base things they scorned a braggart most;
Besides 'twas not a custom in their day,
Assassin-like, one's victim to way-lay

And shoot unseen--contented if, cash down,
The price of blood were only half- a crown!
Fenians, indeed! all true men of that race
Fraternity with you would deem disgrace;
Fenians, forsooth! renounce that honour'd name;
"Thugs" would more fitly suit your claim to fame!

Poor sculs, I pity your demented state;
You will be vicious if you can't be great.
Better for Erin any fate would be,
Than to be ruled by bedlamites like ye:
The war of the Kilkenny cats renewed,
She'd find, I think, a very doubtful good.
*The equal combat,

O wondrous-valiant, treason-hatching crew,

If words were deeds, what great things might ye do? Ye, who have left your country for her good—

Ye talk of righting all her wrongs in blood!
'Tis laughable—the more so, that we feel

Your necks were made for hemp, and not for steel.
At Britain's lion you may spare your howls,—
That noble beast is never scared by owls;
'Tis well for you, with all your vapouring frantic,
You have 'tween him and you the broad Atlantic.

Let no one think that he who now cries shame
On your misdeeds, your Celtic blood would blame;
A Celt himself, his great grief is to see

The land that nursed you cursed by such as ye.

So bright the record of her better days-
So much to love she still to us displays-
So rich her heritage of wit and song-
So warm her heart, so eloquent her tongue,-
He honours Erin. 'Tis to fools like you
Alone the tribute of his scorn is due.

Union is strength. Joy to the nations three
As now united ! May they ever be
The first and foremost in fair freedom's van-
An empire built upon the Shamrock plan—
A seeming THREE and yet a perfect ONE.

UP AND AT THEM! SPARE THEM NOT!

(Verses occasioned by the threatened invasion of Canada by the "Fenians," in 1870.)

MUSTER! muster! On's the order!
On then, Saxon, Celt, and Scot!
Fenian fiends are on our border;
Up and at them! spare them not!

Anarchists with hell in union
Merit well reception hot :
Cannucks all of this opinion,
Up and at them! spare them not!

On the soil they seek to plunder
Give we their vile bones to rot;
Sudden as the crash of thunder

Up and at them! spare them not!

At Fort Erie quite a tasting

Of their flesh the kites have got;
Cornwall's crows will soon have feasting;
Up and at them! spare them not!

Not alone the land that bore them-
Earth were well rid of the lot;
Haste we, then, the doom before them;
Up and at them! spare them not !

Onward onward! never ceasing

Till their last you've hanged or shot,
Earning thus all good men's blessing :

Up and at them! spare them not!

THE CADI BEN-BRAMMACH TO HIS BEAKS.

A "JUSTICE SHOP" LYRIC.*

HURRAH for a dozen "drunks!"
Hurrah for a regular haul
Of suckers to skin, to-morrow, in

The shop that maintains us all!

Look sharp then, my hearties, look sharp

Through back street, and front street, and square ! Nothing charms me so much as a cove" in your clutch, And the smell of fat fines on the air.

What would be the use of Jails,

Of Magistrates or Police, Asylums or Orphans' Homes,

Were the traffic in grog to cease?

Cease! mercy forfend, or else

To us 'twere a bad look out

No fun and no fee-and for "horns" going free
Think of quenching one's thirst at the spout!

*At the time the above lines were penned, Police Magistrates in Canada were allowed to pocket all the fees imposed by them on all "the drunk and disorderly " brought before them,