02 May 2016

The Barefoot Fugitive and Other Mysteries



The Wild Olive
[Basil King]
New York: Harper, 1910

Basil King wrote the bestselling novel of 1909.

Who knew?

Hardly anyone.

That novel, The Inner Shrine, was published anonymously. Its story of a woman's reputation sullied by the base claims of a cad captivated readers almost as much as the mystery of its authorship. Speculation centred on Henry James, Edith Wharton and the daughter of William Dean Howells as King kept to the shadows. When The Wild Olive appeared the following year it was credited only to "the author of 'The Inner Shrine'". I'll be damned if the new work didn't do nearly as well. In its summary of sales for 1910, Publishers Weekly placed The Wild Olive third, behind Florence L. Barclay's The Rosary and A Modern Chronicle by Winston Churchill.

There's no accounting for taste. The Wild Olive is a far better than the Barclay and the Churchill; it's also better than The Inner Shrine. In fact, The Wild Olive is the best
Basil King book I've ever read. It begins in mystery: a barefoot man, a fugitive, scrambles through darkness in the Adirondack wilds. Coming upon a tasteful, well-appointed house, he walks through open doors to find Judge Wayne, the very man who had just hours before sentenced him to death.

A great coincidence, I know. There will be others.

The fugitive – name: Norrie Ford – only entered the house because he thought he'd heard a noise made by one of his pursuers. 'Twas in fact the light tread of a lithe young woman dressed in white. Silently, she beckons Ford back outside, then leads him in silence to a remote artist's studio somewhere in the vicinity of Lake Champlain. There he's left, hidden from the law, surrounded by sketches and watercolours depicting trappers, voyageurs, Indians and nuns. The woman in white reappears daily, bringing food, clothing and companionship of a sort.

The clothes she brings belonged to her deceased father, a Virginian who made a great deal of money in the northwest of Canada. "I was born on the shores of Hudson Bay," she tells Ford. "My mother was married to a French-Canadian voyageur." Not a suitable topic for polite dinner conversation, perhaps, but Ford's saviour is proud of her past. Her present, however, is off-limits; she won't reveal so much as her name.

This mystery woman may be a bastard born, but Ford recognizes her as the most refined of women; something to do with having been raised in a Quebec City convent, no doubt. And yet she retains such inhibition, such a spirit of freedom:
In her eagerness to buy the domestic place she had not inherited she reminded him of something he had read or heard of the wild olive being grafted into the olive of the orchard.
Ford is keen to impress that he is innocent of the crime for which he was convicted – the murder of an uncle – but to this wild olive his words means nothing:
"He was very cruel to you – your uncle? – wasn't he?" she asked, at last.
     "He was very cantankerous; but that wouldn't be a reason for shooting him in his sleep – whatever I may have said when in a rage."
     "I should think it might be." He started. If it were not for the necessity of making no noise he would have laughed.
     "Are you so bloodthirsty – ?" he began.
     "Oh no, I'm not; but I should think it is what a man would do. My father wouldn't have submitted to it. I know he killed one man; and he may have killed two or three."
Just as her mother helped her father escape from prison, so too the wild olive aids Ford in alluding the authorities. After an untold
number of days – a couple of weeks, I'm guessing – she serves as guide through dense forest to the shores of Lake Champlain. There he's handed a plan of escape to Canada, complete with canoe, map, money, train schedule and a ticket for England on RMS Empress of Erin (read: Empress of Ireland).

And so, Norrie Ford is given a second chance at life as "Herbert Strange", the... er, unusual name recorded on the steamer ticket. In this effort to make something of himself, Ford follows the mystery woman's suggestion that he make for the Argentine. "I happen to know a lot about it," said she. "Everybody says it's the country of new opportunities."

Indeed, it is. On a whim – he recalls passing mention made by the wild olive – the newly christened Strange seeks employment with Stephens & Jarrott, an American firm with offices in Buenos Aires. Eight years pass. Strange rises through the ranks, becomes engaged to a Jarrott relation, is transferred to New York, and then attends a dinner party at which he is seated to the left of the wild olive. To her right is Judge Wayne.


What are the chances?

Not bad, actually. One expects coincidences in an Edwardian novel, and there are several here, but setting aside the first, none beggar belief. The mystery woman's casual reference to Stephens & Jarrott, a firm to which she has the thinnest of connections, set Ford on a course that would bring him back to her. It was all quite unintentional on her part, but there you are... rather there he is.

I won't say any more for fear of spoiling the plot – it's so remarkably clever – except to say that the final page came as a complete surprise. The Wild Olive doesn't end so much as trails off leaving so many mysteries intact. What sent the wild olive's father to prison? How did her mother get him out? What of her French-Canadian husband? How did Ford escape his jailers? For goodness sake, what happened to his shoes?

Bloomer:
"You can't realize what all this means to me. If we succeed – that is, if you succeed – I hardly dare to tell you of the extent to which I shall be grateful."
     He felt already some of the hero's magnanimity as to claiming his reward.
     "You needn't think about that," he smiled. "I sha'n't. If by making Evie happy I can serve you, I shall not ask for gratitude."
     She looked down at her muff and smoothed its fur, then glanced up swiftly. "No; but I shall want to give it."
Trivia I: The most sympathetic character in the novel is Judge Wayne, a good soul who recognizes and struggles with the injustice of the justice system. When first we encounter the man – during Norrie Ford's first night on the lam – we see that he is going blind. Because he is beyond the help of the best German oculists, "poor Wayne" has descended into darkness by the time he and Ford share the same dining table. Ah, but the judge's hearing has grown more acute, right? I spoil things in revealing that he recognizes Ford's voice. However, Wayne keeps the knowledge to himself, choosing not to turn Ford in because, of course, justice is blind.

King himself was going blind when he wrote this novel.   

Moving Picture World
July 1915
Trivia II: In 1915, The Wild Olive became the first of seven Basil King novels to be adapted to the screen. A lost film, one of the very few images known to have survived is the publicity shot above of silent film star Myrtle Stedman as the Wild Olive. In the novel, she has a dog named Micmac. Forgotten English actor Forrest Stanley plays Norrie Ford.

Object: An attractive 346-page hardcover with eight illustrated plates by Lucius Hitchcock (who also provided illustrations for The Inner Shrine). My copy, a first edition, was purchased last month at Ottawa's Patrick McGaherne Books. Price: US$20.

Access: The Prince Edward Island Public Library Service succeeds were all other public libraries fail. Twenty-seven of our academic libraries have it in their holdings. Curiously, a third are found in Alberta.

Loads of copies being offered online at prices ranging from US$5 to US$564. Ignorance and greed aside, there is no reason for the wide range. Anyone looking to invest in a copy is warned that the Harper edition went through numerous printings, and was followed by a cheaply produced Grosset & Dunlap reissue. Those considering the later are warned that it features only one of the eight plates.

Speaking of ignorance and greed, print on demand vultures have been all over The Wild Olive. This post gives me an excuse to share an absurd old cover (right) from defunct Tutis Classics.

Good news is found in the fact that The Wild Olive can be read and downloaded here at the Internet Archive. I must add that an excellent audiobook recording read by Simon Evers is available gratis here through Librivox. Recommended!

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18 April 2016

Small-town Boy Makes Good, Founds Small Town



Jean Rivard
Antoine Gérin-Lajoie [Vida Bruce, trans]
Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1977

"The classic novel whose themes have influenced French-Canadian literature for more than a hundred years."

So why is the translation out of print?

Jean Rivard is everything that was good and bad about our moribund, once important New Canadian Library. The thing is just about as ugly as can be, complete with clumsy cover pitch. NCL's Jean Rivard is no "classic novel," but a translation of two novels: Jean Rivard, le défricheur and Jean Rivard, économiste. Both have been bowdlerized.

A "great man," Jean Rivard is a student of nineteen when his father's death calls him back to the family home in Grandpré. He is at a loss as to what to do next. Jean Rivard's education had set him on the path to becoming a lawyer or doctor, but those professions are so overcrowded that its members scramble to feed themselves. Fearful of being a burden to his widowed mother – of twelve – Jean Rivard turns to the curé of Grandpré, M l'abbé Leblanc, who advises the young man to take up farming. Pursuit of a professional career will only lead to debt and hardship, he is warned. "Even supposing that you are one of the privileged few in your profession," sayeth the curé, "you will be thirty, perhaps older, before you can marry."

Thirty! Before lying with a woman!

The way is clear. He takes the modest inheritance left by his father and leaves fictional Grandpré "in the valley of Lake St. Pierre on the north 
shore of the St. Lawrence" for the very real Eastern Townships. There Jean Rivard buys one hundred acres of land, which he begins to clear with the aid of his jovial hired man Pierre Gagnon. All proceeds extremely well "thanks to a Providence that seemed to take our hero under its special care." Sadness comes only in the form of letters from Gustave Charmenil. Jean Rivard's old schoolmate, poor Gustave has followed the very path M l'abbé Leblanc had advised against, and is wasting money in pursuit of a career as a lawyer. What's worse, the young man is also caught up in city life, which involves significant expenditures on dress and things cultural.

Meanwhile, Jean Rivard stays the course. Three years after arriving in the Townships, one year ahead of schedule, he marries pious Grandpré girl Louise Routier, bringing Jean Rivard, le défricheurJean Rivard, Settler in the translation – to a close.

I lie.

In fact, the novel does not end with a wedding, but with prolonged discourse delivered the following day by M l'abbé Leblanc. His message:
  • of all professions, farming is most suited to bring happiness;
  • recognize and appreciate your heritage;
  • live modestly; 
  • don't get too big for your britches.
The sequel, Jean Rivard, économiste, goes along at a good clip. We all know that time passes more rapidly with age – and this is exactly what happens here. Other farmers follow Jean Rivard in clearing neighbouring woodland and become successful in turn. The great man is held in such esteem that the settlers name the new community Rivardville. The community grows. Jean Rivard becomes head to the militia, justice of the peace, and after becoming mayor founds a lyséeJean Rivard, économiste Jean Rivard, Economist – ends with a tour of Rivardville, an idyllic community in which the air is clean and the people pure.

I can see I've been a bit unfair in criticizing the NCL bowdlerization. In her Introduction, translator Vida Bruce writes that she removed much of the repetition; she also spared me from spending time on pages like these from the 1877 J.B. Rolland & Fils edition:

(cliquez pour agrandir)
In the bulk maintained, we find passages such as this:
Canada owes part of its prosperity to the manufacture of these alkalis [potash and pearlash]. In the course of these last three years alone our country exported more than fifteen million francs worth of potash and pearlash. In European markets potash from America is held in the highest esteem as long as our forests remain, this product will continue to be one of our principle sources of wealth.
What follows relates directly to Jean's ability to generate wealth:
On his return to Louisville Jean Rivard had to stop for a day or two at Lacasseville. There, while looking after various affairs he made the acquaintance of an American merchant named Arnold who had been established for some years in the same village. He knew that Jean Rivard was clearing land and asked him if he didn't intend to get some profit from the ashes produced by the wood he would be obliged to burn in the course of his operation. Jean Rivard replied that his intention had at first been to convert the ash into potash or pearlash but that the lack of roads and hence the difficulties of transportation obliged him to abandon the project.
     After a lengthy conversation, in the course of which the perspicacious American was convinced of the strict honesty, intelligence, and industry of our young settler, he proposed entering into a mutual agreement. He, Arnold, would undertake procure on credit the kettle, basins, and the rest of the things necessary for the manufacture of potash and transport them at his own expense to Jean Rivard's cabin, on the condition that Jean Rivard would commit himself to deliver to the said Arnold, in the course of the next three years at least twenty-five bushels of potash at twenty shillings a hundredweight. The ordinary price for potash was thirty to forty shillings, but Arnold in this case, paid the costs of transportation, a consideration of prime importance to Jean Rivard. 
Nothing is lost in the translation.

These arid passages speak to purpose. Gérin-Lajoie's Jean Rivard novels aren't meant to entertain or enlighten but inspire readers to follow the nonexistent great man's path – a course the author regretted not having chosen himself. Facts and figures are there to validate the author's  overly romantic depiction of rural life. 


If anything, the Jean Rivard novels proved even more influential than Patrice Lacombe's La terre paternelle (1846) in establishing the roman de la terre. It is truly remarkable that they hadn't been translated earlier. The New Canadian Library cover pitch may be clumsy but its claim is true. These two novels had an influence on French Canadian literature lasting more than a hundred years.

I'm not so sure that was a good thing.

About the author: A journalist, lawyer and civil servant, Antoine Gérin-Lajoie is best known for "Un Canadien errant." Foreigners may know it from the rather unconventional rendition found on Leonard Cohen's Recent Songs. In the clip below, from Harry Rasky's 1980 documentary The Song of Leonard Cohen, the poet translates.


His great-grandfather, Jean Jarin (Jarrin or Gérin), who originally came from the diocese of Grenoble, France, arrived in Canada around 1750 as a sergeant in the colonial regulars and took part in the Seven Years’ War. He subsequently settled in the region of Yamachiche. His high spirits and good humour earned him the nickname of “Lajoie,” which was added to his family name.
Object and Access: A 280-page mass market paperback. The last page lists the first 53 volumes in the New Canadian Library (Jean Rivard is number 134). As far as I've been able to determine, the Bruce translation enjoyed nothing more than one printing. Six copies are currently listed for sale online, ranging in price from US$1.25 to US$12.50. Condition is not a factor. I purchased my copy late last year at Attic Books in London. Price: 85¢.

Library patrons will have to rely on Library and Archives Canada, Bibliothèque et Archives nationals du Québec and our universities.

Jean Rivard, le défricheur first appeared serialized during 1862 in Les Soirées canadiennes. Jean Rivard, économiste appeared in Le Foyer canadien two years later. Editions in the original French are common, stretching back nearly fifteen decades. The two novels are currently available in a single Bibliothèque québécoise volume: Jean Rivard, le défricheur suivi de Jean Rivard, économiste.

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13 April 2016

'A Tribute to St. Mary's [sic], Ontario'


Dawn on the River Thames, St Marys, Ontario (detail)
Anyès Kadowaki Busby
2016
This month marks the eighth anniversary of our move from downtown Vancouver to the picturesque town of St Marys, Ontario. As a young Montrealer longing to live in Manhattan I would've been horrified. In my thirty-second year, when my wife and I moved west to Vancouver, I complained that the city was too small. And yet here we are, living in community that isn't an eighth the size of my alma mater.

I wouldn't have it any other way. The Montreal I love seems increasingly foreign. The city will always be my true home, but it's becoming difficult to negotiate. Visits, which aren't at all infrequent, find me frustrated in looking to dine at restaurants that no longer exist and shop in stores that have long since closed. Other old haunts have been remade, remodelled and propelled out of price range.

No complaints. Montreal is the greatest city in North America.

Manhattan?

What was I thinking?

That said, St Marys has a growing place in my heart. It's here we've made a home for ourselves – in a large Victorian Italianate, overlooking the Canadian Thames, dwarfed by the town's Presbyterian Church.


I'm not the first Quebecer to fall for this small town. In the nineteenth century, Megantic's foremost Son of Temperance, Archibald McKillop, recognized "beautiful St. Mary's [sic]" in his "A Tribute to St Mary's [sic], Ontario".

"Such scenery nowhere is / For many leagues around", writes the poet.

Now consider this: Archibald McKillop was blind.

Such is St Marys' beauty!

The poem in its entirety follows.


A TRIBUTE TO ST. MARY’S, ONTARIO
                           Where beautiful St. Mary’s
                                Lies nestling ’mongst the hills,
                           The pleasing prospect rare is,
                                Its grandeur me enthrills. 
                           From flow’ry gardens nigh me
                                The balmy breezes blow;
                           The classic Thames runs by me
                                With peaceful, gentle flow. 
                           What kindly, friendly greetings
                                Have cheered me on its shore;
                           And O! such temperance meetings
                                I’ve never seen before. 
                           Good Affleck, Pierce and Manning,
                                Carswell and Watson too,
                           With famous Ross were planning
                                What temperance men should do. 
                           (For here, in Grand Division,
                                The Sons of Temperance met,
                           To work for Prohibition,
                                The law that we must get.) 
                           Thou town of peerless beauty;
                                 Ye friends so kind to me;
                           It is my pleasant duty
                                 To sing this eulogy. 
                           Such scenery nowhere is
                                 For many leagues around;
                           And in this fair St. Mary’s
                                 Let peace and wealth abound.
Collected Verse
Archibald McKillop
Winnipeg: [n.p.], [c. 1913]

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12 April 2016

Tour de Force Reawakens!



Word comes from Canadian Notes & Queries headquarters that my column about Pierre Berton and Charles Templeton's Tour de Force trivia game is now available online. You can read it – gratis – here.

But wait, there's more! This evening at The Walton in Toronto comes the opportunity for the game's  aficionados to show their stuff.

My title as Tour de Force champion is for the taking.

A bow tie event.


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08 April 2016

The Busiest Man in England Lays Down His Pen



Hilda Wade: A Woman With Tenacity of Purpose
Grant Allen [and Arthur Conan Doyle]
New York: Putnam, 1900

A novel written by a dying man, Hilda Wade ends in reconciliation, redemption and a deathbed scene. Arthur Conan Doyle tells us that this is just as the author intended. I don't doubt it. A good friend, Doyle completed the novel Allen could not, following the story the stricken author sketched from his own deathbed. "He was much worried because there were two numbers of his serial, 'Hilda Wade,' which was running in 'The Strand' magazine, still uncompleted," Doyle writes in his Memories and Adventures. "It was a pleasure for me to do them for him, and so relieve his mind, but it was difficult collar work, and I expect they were pretty bad."

Such modesty.

Doyle's chapters are every bit as good as the average. The best of Hilda Wade comes in the first half of the  book, in which narrator Doctor Hubert Cumberledge introduces our heroine. Hilda Wade is a nurse at
London's St Nathaniel's Hospital. Not the finest of institutions, she left the more prestigious St. George's for the opportunity to work with the world-famous Professor Sebastian, a man who has done more than any other to advance the science of medicine. In Nurse Wade's words, she wants "to be near Sebastian." Cumberledge understands fully – then he doesn't understand at all. Our narrator, who sees Sebastian as the greatest of men, a godlike presence in a milieu in which death threatens, is bewildered that Hilda does not share his unquestioning admiration.

There is mystery about Hilda. She reveals nothing of herself, yet knows much about others. Blessed with an eidetic memory and "so large a  measure of the deepest feminine gift – intuition," she proves her character exemplary in several dramas that play out in St. Nathaniel's
and amongst Cumberledge's family members and friends. Hilda's powers are boosted by her creator's theories about evolution and high regard for Furneaux Jordan's 1896 Character as Seen in Body and Parentage (acknowledged incorrectly as "Character in Body and Parentage" in the novel's first edition). Nowhere is this more evident than in third and fourth chapters – "The Wife Who Did Her Duty" and "The Man Who Would Not Commit Suicide" – in which Hilda predicts correctly that Cumberledge's gentle friend Hugo Le Geyt, QC, will kill his newlywed wife. The nurse goes on to forecast the murderer's suicide, which she is certain will be made to look like an accident. No clairvoyant, Hilda cites the actions of several of Le Geyt's ancestors and relatives as providing a template:
"Another, Marcus, was said to have shot himself by accident while cleaning his gun – after a quarrel with his wife. But you have heard all about it. 'The wrong was on my side,' he moaned, you know, when they picked him up, dying, in the gun-room. And one of the Faskally girls, his cousins, of whom his wife was jealous – that beautiful Linda – became a Catholic and went into a convent at once on Marcus's death: which, after all, in such cases, is merely a religious and moral way of committing suicide..." 
My favourite passage in the book.

The doctor comes to play Watson to Hilda's Holmes. I like to think Doyle was amused. Midway through the novel, the secret of Hilda Wade – true name: Maisie Yorke-Bannerman – is revealed to both reader and villain. That villain is, of course, Sebastian. The professor tries to murder the nurse, but his ingenuity is no match for that of our heroine. He fails because hers is the greater mind; indeed, Hilda – Maisie, if you prefer –  is the most intelligent character encountered in the ten Allens I've read thus far.


Given the circumstances of composition, it might be unseemly to complain about the novel's weaknesses, but regular readers know I will. After Sebastian's botched attempt on her life, Maisie flees for Africa, seeking refuge until it is safe to return return to London. A besmitten
Cumberledge uses Maisie's methods of detection and, taking advantage of a lucky break, manages to find her in South Africa. Though the seven (of twelve) chapters that follow, narrator and heroine wander, as does the novel itself. Rhodesia, India, Tibet and the Mediterranean feature as the narrative shifts, rather abruptly, from one of Victorian mystery and detection to a series of adventure stories set in the colonies. Each is interesting in its own way – one features escape from a Matabele uprising by bicycle – but the reader recognizes that there was serialization to consider. Twelve numbers were demanded and, thanks to Doyle, twelve numbers were delivered.

I've noted before, because I believe the claim to be true, that Allen considered himself "the busiest man in England." He died at the age of fifty-two, leaving behind dozens of articles, poems, short stories, and a greater number of books than years lived. Had they been bad, the numbers would mean nothing, but Allen is easily the finest novelist born in Victoria's Canada.

He is a writer worth knowing.

Certainly, Doyle thought so.

RIP:

Object and Access: A 383-page novel with ninety-eight – ninety-eight! – illustrations by Gordon Browne and five pages of advertisements for other Putnam titles, including Allen's Miss Cayley's Adventures (also illustrated by Browne).

The stuff of academic libraries, though residents of Allen's birthplace are served by the Kingston Frontenac Public Library. The Canadian Museum of History Library and Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec succeed where Library and Archives Canada fails.

The dreck produced by print on demand vultures aside, Hilda Wade is not at all common. The novel made its debut in the pages of The Strand (March 1899 - February 1900). The true first edition was published in 1900 by London's Grant Richards (right). The first Canadian (Copp, Clark) and American (Putnam) followed that same year.

Follow the flag? I'd say so. Of the three, Copp, Clark's is easily the most rare; there isn't one listed for sale online. Of the few that are in other editions, a £30 defaced copy of the Grant Richards offered by a Goring-by-Sea bookseller is by far the cheapest. Ignore him and you're left with three other copies priced at £452,  £495 and £500. Pictured right, the £500 copy was listed  for sale (not auction) on eBay just two days ago. The copy to own, I say, it's inscribed by the author's widow, Nellie.


The Putnam edition is offered by a couple of Yankee booksellers, but they're no bargains: US$224.25 and US$250. I won my copy on eBay for US$6.00 at the beginning of February. It might be a good idea to watch and wait.

The novel was last published in 1902 by George Newnes as part of his Popular Sixpenny Novels series. Not a sign of that edition, either.

The Grant Richards, Putnam and Copp, Clark editions can be read and downloaded gratis at the Internet Archive.

I'm aware of two translations: Polish (Hilda Wada, 1900) and French (La Vengeance de Hilda Wade, 2013). Michael Wynn's brilliant and invaluable Grant Allen website raises the possibility of an  Italian text.

07 April 2016

A Poet's Angry Word With the Fenian Botherhood



Angry verse on this 148th anniversary of Thomas D'Arcy McGee's assassination found in Evan MacColl's Poems and Songs (Toronto: Hunter, Rose, 1883).

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 souls, 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.
            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.


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