English

And what a charm is in the rich hot scent
Of old fir forests heated by the sun,
Where drops of resin down the rough bark run,
And needle litter breathes its wonderment.

The old fir forests heated by the sun,
Their thought shall linger like the lingering scent,
Their beauty haunt us, and a wonderment
Of moss, of fern, of cones, of rills that run.

The needle litter breathes a wonderment;
The crimson crans are sparkling in the sun;
From tree to tree the scampering squirrels run;

And wasna he a roguey,
A roguey, a roguey,
And wasna he a roguey,
The piper o' Dundee?
The piper came to our town,
To our town, to our town,
The piper came to our town,
And he played bonnilie.
He played a spring the laird to please,

And truly it is a most glorious thing
Thus to hear men pray, and God's praises sing.
O how great comfort is it now to see
The churches to enjoy full liberty,
And to have the gospel preached here with power,
And such wolves repelled as [all] would else devour.

But God will still for his people provide
Such as be able them to help and guide,
If they cleave to him and do not forsake
His laws and truth and their own ways do take.
If thou hast viewed the camp of Israel,
How God in the wilderness with them did dwell.

And thus went out this Lamp of Light,
Who 'gainst the Pope fought a good fight.

A Cruelty beyond compare,
And such the Papists mercies are.

Those who in Blood their chiefest pleasure have,
Most commonly in Blood roul to their Grave.

Blood will have Blood, and seldom seen we have
That Murtherers go quiet to their Grave.

Thus some do make a sport of Cruelty,
And with delight do practice Villany.

Those who to such a height of Pride aspire ,
The Devil and not God must be their Sire.

And thou! whose sense, whose humor and whose rage
At once can teach, delight, and lash the age,
Whether thou choose Cervantes' serious air
Or laugh and shake in Rabelais' easy chair,
Praise courts and monarchs, or extol mankind,
Or thy grieved country's copper chains unbind;
Attend whatever title please thine ear,
Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver.
From thy Boeotia, lo! the fog retires,
Yet grieve not thou at what our isle acquires;
Here Dullness reigns, with mighty wings outspread,
And bring the true Saturnian age of lead

And thou, Dalhousie, the Great God of War,
Lieutenant-Colonel to the Earl of Mar.

[Written by Dr. Bossidy for an alumni dinner of Holy Cross College.]

And THIS IS good old Boston,
The home of the bean and the cod,
Where the Lowells talk to the Cabots,
And the Cabots talk only to God.

And this is England! June's undarkened green
Gleams on far woods; and in the vales between
Gray hamlets, older than the trees that shade
Their ripening meadows, are in quiet laid,
Themselves a part of the warm, fruitful ground.
The little hills of England rise around;
The little streams that wander from them shine
And with their names remembered names entwine
Of old renown and honour, fields of blood
High causes fought on, stubborn hardihood
For freedom spent, and songs, our noblest pride

And they have thrust our shattered dead away in foreign graves,
Exiled forever from the port the homesick sailor craves!
They trusted once in Spain,
They're trusting her again!
And with the holy care of our own sacred slain!
No, no, the Stripes and Stars
Must wave above our tars.
Bring them home!

On a thousand hills the darling dead of all our battles lie,
In nooks of peace, with flowers and flags, but now they seem to cry
From out their bivouac:
" Here every good man Jack

And then it rained, oh, then it rained,
All night, all day, it rained and rained.
And the birds stayed home
And brooded their young.
And the waterfall, roaring,
Was brown with mud.

And then it stopped, oh, then it stopped.
Sun broke through, and the raining stopped.
And the birds came forth
And sang on the posts.
And the waterfall, thinning,
Was bright as glass.