We will conquer with our music If our fighting fails to win, Whom bold Larry cannot vanquish We will silence with our din; Thus we'll proudly march to glory And in midst of all the fray We'll be cheered by French of Scotstown As he whistles "Cabar Faidth."

And McLennan with his bagpipes, He's a bra.s.s band in himself, We will have him with his music To conjure the fighting elf.

There is nothing so inspiring As a loyal tune or song, To arouse a soldier's spirits And to cheer the "boys" along.

We will have them there from Scotstown, From Ben gal and Echo Vale, Men imbued with faith and courage, Highland traits which never fail; And to swell the fighting faction We've the twins of Murray's Clan, Who can fight their weight in wildcats-- Not to mention mortal man!

And we've armies to fall back on, Whose supply will never fail, Troops which cross the wild Atlantic On all ships of steam or sail; You will find them throughout Canada, Wherever you may roam, And the natives call them "home boys", For they never stop at home.

Chorus

Beat the drums and blow the bugle, boys, And whoop it all you're worth, As a token to the nations You are rulers of the earth!

If you wish to shine as soldiers You must all be up to date, And uphold the reputation Of Battalion 58.

THE FENIAN RAID WHICH NEVER WAS MADE

During the Boer War a number of prominent gentlemen addressing a great ma.s.s-meeting in New York advised the Tammany Tiger to go up and clean out the Canadian jungles, intimating that the majority of the French Canadians were ready to cast off the "British Yoke."

From de country of de Yankee, Where de heagle bird is roost, Where de Star and Stripe is worship All de way from coast to coast, Comes a rumble of de danger Dat is t'reaten us once more, W'en de Fenian tak' hadvantage Of our trobble wit' de Boer.

Some crank mans in New York City Mak' beeg speech dat soun' lak' joke, And he tell us "what a pity Canadaw wear British yoke!"

And dey shout out to de people In de clap-trap of de brave: "We will send it men and money For to liberate de slave!"

P'raps dey mean all right for Joseph, But I t'ink before dey come, Dat someboda ought to tole it, "Charata begin at home."

And dey try to move McKinley In de favor of Oom Paul-- Not because dey love de Boer, But because dey hate John Bull.

Now if Joe he know de feeling Of de U. S. at this tam, All de foe of Queen Victoria Is de foe of Honcle Sam.

It is hinsult to ma country For dese men to yell and tell Dat de Canuck don't is loyal To de queen he love so well.

Tak' de history of ma people, From de day of Wolfe-Montcalm, An' you'll find it patriotic To de backbone jus' de sam'.

I am sorry for dis fighting, As I don't dislak de Boer; But ba gosh w'en its mean troub', boys, Den I lak' ma country more.

Hip hoorah! for British soldier, Hip hoorah! for British flag!

And G.o.d bless de Canuck forces Gone to help uphold de rag!

Down wit' all disloyal member Of de body politik, French or Henglish, rich or poor mans, By de power let him trek!

(I'm not onderstan' dis las' word, Don't hinvent it in Quebec.)

Now I read it on de pepper Dat J. Tarte is mak' some sneer On de patrihotic feeling Of de Canuck volunteer; So I'll tole ma frien' Sir Wilfrid For to check his runnin' mate-- T'row heem out de sam' lak Jonah, Or he'll sink de ship of state!

Long ago w'en I was babby Fenian mak' it one beeg "raid"

For to capture Canuck country-- Hole an' young an' man an' maid.

Up dey come from state of Var-mont, Halso from de state of Maine, To de state of dest.i.tution Pretty near to Stanstead Plain!

Dere dey met two t'ree hole farmer, Wit' some sickle in her han', An' she hask hinvading army W'at dey want on top her lan'.

Dey could mak' no hones' hanswer, So de farmer tole 'em "leave,"

An' before you say Jack Robin!

Dey skedaddle lak de dev'!

Yes dis rag-tag bob-tail soldier Start across de "line" on run, Jus' de sam' lak' c.o.xey army, W'en it march from Washington!

Nodder tam two t'ree more Fenian Come aroun' ma home to tak'

W'en ma fadder an' ma grandpa Was off fish upon de lak'.

n.o.boda aroun' but womans W'en de Fenian come dat day, An' ma gran'ma wit' de pitchfork T'rowim over fence lak hay!

No, I don't want Fenian, t'ank you, For to lif' de British yoke, I can wear it leetle longer On ma farm at Centre Stoke.

So, if stranger cross de border For hinvasion of dis' lan', We will meet it in good order Wit' strong weapon in de han'.

Yes, let Finnigan de Fenian Cross de "line" to hole Quebec, An' lak chicken of de story She'll get somet'ing in de neck.

We will grab it by de collar, And some place dat's near de seat, An' dere rags will mak' a flutter In de gutter of de street; An' ba Christmas she will fin' me Wit' ma shoulder to de "yoke,"

Waiting for dat rag-tag army Of hinvasion--watch ma smoke!

A LEAP-YEAR BALL AT LINGWICK

The night before last Hallowe'en Tho' wet as any ever seen, Must henceforth mark a date supreme In Lingwick's social lore.

As on that eve the ladies all Came forth to give their leap-year ball-- And long ere ten the dancing hall Was crowded to the door.

Since Scottish heroes sang duans Upon the field of Prestonpans, So fine a gathering of the clans Was surely never seen.

And brilliant Byron's "ladies fair"

Who danced in Belgium's balmy air Could never with our girls compare In beauty's realm, I ween.

Were I a Burns I'd sing their praise In grateful sympathetic lays, And tell them how a bard repays The smiles on him bestowed.

O! for a pure poetic drift, Or bard McRitchie's splendid gift, To give those charming girls a lift On chummy Hymen's road.

Since first the red man trod those lands, In happy, reckless, roving bands, Where now the town of Lingwick stands, Until the present time.

No festal scene deserved such note, Of such a scene no poet wrote, Tho' painted with a double coat Of stirring prose or rhyme.

The lively Galson girls were there, With dancing eyes and wavy hair, And roses stamped by caller air On every blooming cheek.

And other ladies, fair and bright, Who live near by, were there that night, Contributing the keen delight Of beauty, so to speak.

Oh bachelors, how sweet to glide With such bright charmers by one's side!

And ev'ry heart a surging tide Of leap-year sentiment!

You might perambulate around Until you'd hear the trumpet sound-- No better quarters could be found To pitch your earthly tent.

At 12 o'clock the ladies came And took each blushing(?) humbled swain Across the road, where Eddie's dame Had placed a royal feast.

Each charmer paid (alas how rare!) Her own and hungry fellow's fare, And splendid food was furnished there For o'er an hour at least.

We must congratulate each belle From mountain, vale and Fisher Hill, Who paid her leap-year tax so well Last Friday night at Gould.

Had we our wish we'd gladly call Twice yearly for a leap-year ball, For surely we were happy all The while the women ruled.

And we beseech you throw your charms Around the lonely mountain farms, Where bachelors are up in arms Against your luring spell.