By Trench and Trail in Song and Story Part 16

I gained momentum down the ridge, And jumped John Moggish's hump-backed bridge; Then climbed the mountain, hedge by hedge, Unto the crest.

And thought it there my privilege To take a rest.

I could not find the mountain store Which Channel mentioned in his leor, My vision's better than before, I really think: Aye, C---- accounts for one or more-- And he don't drink.

But stores aside, I wandered on To where the school house windows shone, Altho' there seemed to me but one-- A dancing glare: I thought the northern lights were on The programme there.

And just within, O "hully gee!"

Is that a single Christmas tree, Or is my vision still aglee?

For lack of breath-- A moving forest do I see As saw Macbeth?

And better still the forest gleams With all a youngster most esteems: A greater crop, as groaning beams Did there attest Than Tupper saw in wildest dreams Of wheat out West.

And bachelors (might they be fewer)!

I thought I'd see you single, sure, But there they sit, at least a score, On benches stuck; Each one a wilted, lone wall flower Awaiting pluck.

We pray you, O a.s.sultin Turk, So noted for unholy work, To send his devilship your clerk Across the seas: To drive our single men to kirk With marriage fees.

Or send Armenians not yet dead And take our bachelors instead; Should you then hanker for their head Just plant their hide: And thus avoid that h.e.l.lish dread Infanticide!

[Ill.u.s.tration: _Another Finlay like your own, you'll never know._]

Behold! I've reason now to stare!

For are there not two Finlays there-- And only one on earth I swear-- Come off my hat!

A worthier to fill a chair Has never sat.

Red Mountain, thy neglect condone-- Within that "chair" your bard enthrone: Instead of bread, don't give a stone As others do-- Another Finlay like your own You'll never know.

Sweet singer! may your mother tongue, Embellished by thy gift of song, Be ever heard the clans among While print is read-- May future bards thy notes prolong When thou art dead.

Thus on and on, while cycles roll, May Gaelic--language of the soul-- Be heard in song from pole to pole, From east to west, Until the final tempests bowl This earth to rest!

Concluding--I would humbly ask All hypocrites to shun the task Of shooting from behind a mask Their fellow men-- And help us all to fling our flask To Hinnom's glen!

We've heard the loud, despairing moan Of sinners, reaping what they've sown, In midnight fields with thistles grown Where devils glean.

Yet let the first to cast a stone Himself be clean.

No living mortal can invite The gaze of creatures who delight In showing spots upon the white Which G.o.d hath gi'en.

Alas, alas, a little spite Will find the stain.

But who's to judge? The serpent's there, In every breast that breathes the air, Though some with skill and acting rare His form conceal; While others full to view must wear The squirming eel!