By Trench and Trail in Song and Story Part 10

Fan to a flame the sluggish smoke, Place Gibourd in a double yoke, And give friend Finlay Ian a poke To keep him hale and well.

Dear girls, keep up your enterprise And dazzle all those "bache's" eyes, Before the present leap-year dies And robs you of your rights.

Take pity on the lonely men From "Midnight" to big corner "Ken,"

Or later on "it might have been"

Will rob your sleep o' nights.

The 'legibles we'll briefly scan: There's Merchant Donald B. Buchan, Who is a dear, good-natured man, And not too old to mend; And Layfield, too, by George! you bet, A closer friend it's hard to get-- Besiege their hearts, they're both to let, And bliss will rule the end.

And finally O'Norman "Hoe", Can Cupid's dart e'er conquer you, And penetrate your bosom through To kindle there a flame?

Shall living mortal ever see A bouncing baby on your knee Whose lisping tones will add with glee "Papa" unto your name.

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER Or THE HOLLERIN' HOHENZOLLERIN

Dear Gott! der weight of "right divine"

Iss on my shoulters heavy yet; Und worries grow for me und mine For fear our thrones should be upset.

Democracy disturbs my dreams Und leaves Thy Villiam veak und vorn; Der worldt iss upsite down, it seems, Since Chermany was made to mourn.

Ve deemed der throne of "Nick" secure From Gottless hordes who scheme and scoff; But foes of mineund Thine, impure, Rebelled und bowled der Romanoff!

Und also Greece went on der skids, For Constantine, my Constantine!

Und other kinks may lose their lids Till all are gone safe mine und Thine!

If von by von ve lose our crown My schemes on earth vill be upset; Und Gott! if Ireland turns us down Ve're in der soup alretty yet!

Der Yankees, too, are now in France, To aid der hateful Philistine, Und swear they'll make der Kaiser dance Der Turkey trot across der Rhine!

(Aside) Yes, I vill dance und I vill trot, Der Shottiss und der minuet, But, by der power of "Me und Gott"

U. Sam vill pay der piper yet!

Gott, I've been faithful to my trust Since Thou dids't place me on der throne; My sword wa.s.s neffer known to rust Vile it coult yet extract a groan.

Wheneffer yet I drew dot sword To make der helpless victim bleed, I alvays called upon der Lort To guide my arm und bless der deed!

I sink der ships on all der seas, My submarines are on der chob!

Despairing cries invade der breeze Und music's in der dying sob!

I rain der pombs from oudt der sky, On schools and hospitals below; Der vimmen und der chiltren die-- For thus do ve reduce der foe!

Lort help me mit my war to prove To all der swine as they shoult know, Thou are der ruler up above Und I am ruler down below!

I am der Moses as of oldt, I smite der heathen hip and thigh-- Lort send me Aaron yet to holdt Thy fainting servant's handts on high!

On Gideon still holdt der sun-- Thou dids't for "Josh" in years agone; Und let der melancholy moon Still flood der vale of Ajalon!

(Aside) O Chermany! dear Chermany!

Der Lort of Hosts vill see you through!

Ve are der chosen people ve, Und not der Scotch or cunning Jew!

Vonce, Lort, Thou knowest ve vere chums, Und everything did come my vay; But now Thou'rt turning down der thumbs, No matter how so loudt I bray!

Remember, Chermany's Thy friendt; Upholdt it, Lort, for our dear sake; Der line of Hintenburg is bent-- O help us, Gott, before it break!

I'm trusting in Thine aid divine, Und bray und fight mit shot and sh.e.l.l, But Himmel fails to hold der line Against Canucks dot fight like h.e.l.l!

I bray at morning, bray at night, Und bray at noon ven it is hot; But Gott is keeping oudt of sight-- He answers not, He answers not!

O! can it be, as scoffers say, Der race iss for der von who runs?

Und dot no matter how ve bray Der Lort is mit der biggest guns?

If so it be, then all iss lost; Farewell, farewell, dear Chermany!

Lloyd Chorge can figure up der cost And charge it all to Gott und me!

HOW WE SETTLED THE ALASKAN BOUNDARY QUESTION

These lines were penned long before the breaking out of the present great war. Note the remarkable spirit of prophesy which pervaded the poem, especially its allusion to the Armenians.

Now that little Venezuela Has her navy back in tow, With the "allies" in the distance Waiting for the promised "dough", It may not be deemed improper For the mind that loves to roam, Just to focus its attention On some matters nearer home.

We are also growing weary Of the "war clouds in the East", Which bob up to entertain us Once or twice a year at least.

And we'd bear the "bobbing" better If it did not always bring To the "concert of the Powers"

An unfailing chance to sing.

They are masterful musicians With chin music as their forte, And a penchant strong for love songs When they serenade the Porte!

While they sing the Sultan dances Like a strolling Dago's bear, Till one really feels the presence Of roast Turkey in the air!

Thus they exorcise the spirit Of destruction in the Turk, And adjure the imp to vamoose And forego its b.l.o.o.d.y work.

Doth he vamoose? Yes, a season, To return with "seven more,"

While the Sultan's still insultin'

And his fingers still in gore.

But we'll leave this doubtful concert And its harem-scarem tones, Meant to drown the voice appealing In the dying Christian's groans; And examine rather closer Into troubles of our own.

To uproot the crops of mischief Which old Satan may have sown.

People must with friendly feelings, And the best intentions, try To elucidate the muddle Termed "Alaskan boundary."

There's a rumble in that region, And it shouldn't louder grow-- Just a little cloud of worry 'Mid the flurry of the snow.

Why, oh why, should kindred people Quarrel over hunks of ice?

If they knew each other better They would settle in a trice.

But Miss Canada is frigid And Columbia is cold, So in presence of the couple There's an iciness untold.