typed by Bernie Monaghan

James McCartney, son of Andrew McCartney and Janet Wolff .
Born, March 16, 1889.
Died, February 15, 1931, at the age of 41 years at the Jeffrey Hale Hospital, Quebec City..
Lived in Valcartier Village. Buried in St. Andrew's Presbyterian Cemetery .
Left the farm to a Scottish Society.
Farm was bought by Wilfred Goodfellow.

Where the Wide Red River Flows

There's a little railway station in the land of Sunny dreams,
Where I first plied my vocation by the cunningest of stream;
I wonder in the twilight more than anybody knows,
What they're doing on the homestead, Where the Wide Red River flows.
There were Dad and sister Ethel, and a mother chief of all,
Kept faithful watch that we were fed and warm when we were small;
Till Jack and I struck out from school to see the Way one goes,
And weave our lives to manhood Where the Wide Red river flows.
Oh, I see the neighbor's buildings and I hear the trains come in,
As I've watched the tide of business for the folks that have the tin;
The lot appeared complete on earth for beings such as those,
Who pay for faithful service Where the Wide  Red River Flows .
But tides have changed quite quick at last for little Jack and me,
When hurried with our Regiment to cross the briny sea;
I long from dusk till daybreak for the atmosphere that blows,
About the haunts of freedom Where the wide Red River flows.
If some escape the curse of war, oh grant when they return,
They bear in peace a message to the anxious friends of Ourn
Tell Mother we shall meet her where the unfading lily grows,
For our heart's in the plantation where the Wide Red River flows.

The Banks of Souris

Come every bold Canadian boy, wherever that you stray,
I have lately took a notion for a little trip away;
With a sack upon my shoulder and unusual peace of mind,
Bound for the Turtle Mountains near the North Dakota Line.
On the twentieth of August in the year of four and four ,
I started for the Great North West, with half a dozen more;
All on the excursion to the harvest we did go,
In Southern Manitoba where the boundless grain fields grow.
There were stout hearts from Old Quebec on board that special train
There were Frank Brown and Freddie Kack, Guy Gordon and Gus McBain
And as we sped upon our way, their joyful chorus sang,
In hopes to spend our holiday with some by threshing gang.
But when we reached Napinka town,  there was a different tune,
Strong men stood around in sadness there, as nothing could be done;
'No work' we heard the people say, your trip is all in vain,
Two hundred men are idle in the streets of Deloraine.
We’ve hired with a farmer now and Clement is his name,
He is a clever fellow and from Ontario he came;
He threshes by the bushel and I think his eyes are blue,
He does a lot for Cooper and the honeys like him too.
The remnants of the buffalo herds are strewn along the way,
And the wild notes of the prairie birds, we hear at break of day;
When our lunch before daylight we get, by the lantern’s murky light,
The full moon finds us working yet, when she rises from the plain.  
Pete Siddle, when we are threshing, does the Separator run,
While Alex Bodd, as suguier  contribute to the fun;
Then little Billy Honey has as much as he can do,
While Charlie Darling of us all, surveys his Waterloo.
Jack Kennedy’s another place where we put in some time,
It’s where poor Walter Davy choked, I’ll mention in my rhyme;
He hails from P. E. Island with a whisker three weeks old,
And I’ve heard him whistle something called, The blue sky turned to gold.
There is Aikenhead, the Perthshire lad, who sings to charm the band,
And thrills their spirits in the night, with tunes of his own land;
Len burns Montana called for sport, might have been mentioned first,
He is a fair example that wild men are not the worst.
There is Hobble or Frank Armstrong, John Campbell and Bill Blair,
And myself your humble servant the four field pitcher are;
Dave Collie is the tank man, who has emptied Cosgrove’s well,
While the rest behind the stock teams, freshly wave their forks and yell.
There is little Charlie Pell with his brandy and his Jim,
And Mitchell with his Bob and Fly, I must remember him;
There is Millage Collieso and the trucks that Pete and Judy haul,
While Gus drives Jim and Cyclone Dick the dandies of them all.
There is Pelle and Sandy, Cooper’s team; then Fletcher’s Bess and Dan,
And the bronco that Jim Finley drives, McJones hired man;
Who lets them walk o’er sheaf and stock, until the pitchers swear,
Jack Reed’s a right good teamster, though he drives a branded pair.
The threshing almost over now and we will soon be free,
And far from Cooper’s ranch , where Mitchell pens these lines for me;
A day or more stack-working soon will finish us this play,
But I hope you will remember young McCartney far away.
Here’s adieu to Princess Township now, and to the Davy boys,
To Milton Paulk, to Hamilton, the hunters all likewise;
May nothing cause their hearths to sink, but keep free from all harm,
Until they cease to dwell in peace upon their great wheat farms.
Farewell ye banks of Souris, where the dark gray waters flow,
Where the Clements of Melita do their wheat and barley grow;
May they all unite their voices on the bright and sunny shore,
That us harvest boys return from where the coyotes weep no more.

The Snow Plough Light

On the nineteenth of December in the year of twenty-nine,
I started out for Market with a right good friend of mine;
Thirty pounds of turkey, for the Christmas trade and more ,
To meet the Eastern blizzard on the road thro' "Charlesbourg".
When we drew up at Asselin's mill, here were some signs of day,
I found him in the boiler-room and bargained for some pay;
The saw-logs were accepted, as was likewise "un dindon,"
However, well he cautioned me to bring one, "pas trop paysant."
The next stop was Paul Sionis, where they have a telephone,
And where our "Queenie" waited, well, it was a horrid zone;
The sister rang for turkeys, for a bargain looked alive,
I only asked for forty cents, she stuck at thirty-five.
Along the weary, winding road, we passed the Mother's Mill,
To plunge the ivory terraces that skirted "Kitty's Mill;
At Paradis ' the little girl has made up one and two ,
She promptly knocked a "quarter" off, but I'm the lucky Jew.
Our second sale at Jackson's had a hopeful business air,
For nine, eleven pounders , was the sum of this affair ;
One man could not get his wife, upon the telephone,
The blasted thing was out of repair, although "she" was at home.
Now I’ll praise the hand of Providence" that turned us from the Light,
Of the drift-encircled snow plough, as it struggled in the night;
Near to O'Donnell's Corner, on the road we chose to come,
When the "twenty-eight delivered we had set our sails for home.
Here’s to Kitty and her sweetheart, whom I must remember now,
That their lips may taste love’s sweetness, ‘neath their happy holly bough;
For her feed of oats the pony took, that lady’s gentle hand,
Seems worth the noblest suitor that Cape Diamond can command.
So here's to hospitality, wherever I may be,
May I not forget the loving hands that ministered to me;
Your kindness and good Irish wish, had cheered us thro' the day,
‘Till I get my Gomer coming with the bobsleigh and the gray:
Our anxious prayers were answered, for the daybreak came at last,
In the shelter of a farmer's home that dreadful night was passed;
In the beauty of a heavenly land, beyond this tempest roar,
May gentler winds caress the house of Alexander Moore.


Castle Roche Platte (Air of Falling of the Pine)

Written November 27, 1925

Ye wild undaunted heroes of Quebec's Northwestern Section,
Who fall the woods and till the fields by the fair Jacques Cartier wave;
With a turn of recollection, I would place your fond affection,
In one look to Dan's direction, a salute unto the brave.
'Twas on this great occasion that the wee "Pete" horse was raffled,
The winning ticket, sixty-seven was drawn for Cook  Simard;
Where the walls of Castle Roche Platte, frown down on mortal combat,
Midst a scenery like the Yosemite Valley, round our Lake Jock shore.
To strains of Stewart's lilting as the evening song sensation,
To meet in corvets like these was fit for the gathering of the Clan;
But it would take exaggeration, of the imagination,
To describe the situation on the night we met at Dan’s.
Our host went 'round in stately style, his large dark helmet wearing,
He thought the whole performance was the result of India Ale;
While the shouting and the tearing and the milder forms of swearing,
Would make a winner of the Victoria Cross from Dargai Heights, turn pale..
A town slasher undertook for a civil war to show them,
He got a welt, 'twas one he felt, as the belt slipped from his hand;
For the little chaps from Stoneham, admire the name of Noble,
He's a soldier, and we've known him, in the Regiment at Dan's.
They played a fine big Boswell draw, and all hands stood to attention,
They pledged their hearts united were unto love's eternal bands ;
But their names will not be mentioned, for they bore no ill intention,
To the marvelous convention that assembled up at Dan's.
There's just a little comment I would like to add,
I got it from a gentleman at the close of his career;
It’s a startling confession to have in one’s possession,
It’s a roaring fifth concession when she’s loaded with beer.

On the tenth day of October, when the battle it was over,
In the hopeful year of Skidoo' that's nineteen twenty-three,
‘Twas with gallant arms extended declaring all's over,
That Lord Raglan foes surrendered. so that all men might be free.

The Farmer’s Lament

Written by Jimmy McCartney, December 2, 1915

The lone farmer sat in his house on the plain,
He thought of the scenes he would ne’er see again ;
He longed for the return of the bright happy day,
When he looked o'er the fields where his children could play.
When our brother of acres once followed his plough,
The country was blessed far better than now;
A poor man could prosper, get paid for his toil,
No mortal so great as the lord of the soil.
Before speculation among them was known,
Our men could work happy, the land was their own;
They sang and they bargained, endowed with good cheer,
 And honor was counted of all things most dear.
Since expropriation has threatened our laws,
Our sons have went willing to bleed for this cause;
Each bread-winning child shall be taken and sworn,
And the friends we love best from our bosoms are torn.
They say we get paid when, we give up our right ,
Let then turn around and expect us to fight;
For a man rising sixty, not accustomed to roam,
You tear up his lifetime by taking his home.
The fields lie at waste where flocks fed in peace,
Our scores of fat turkey, our cattle and geese;
Our bush lots and fences their Dages laid low,
They trampled every blade that our scythes could mow.
The hum of our binders forever is still,
The timber wolf sneaked to the top of the hill;
Our wholesome contentment we speak of no more,
For the bold, brazen trooper, sniffs round at the door.
They dug their great trenches through our meadow land,
And in our rich grain fields their tent rows now stand;
They spread desolation for old and for young,
And the paths of their conduct, we leave them unsung.
Oh, where is the hope that's held out in return,
For the homes that we cherish, the hearths that you burn
We cannot forget for the Great Kindly hand,
Keeps account of the farmer lamenting his land.

The Florist’s Song

Come nature awake from a long dreamie winter,
Pleasure in plenty unto us bring;
Come nature removing the sadness ,
Tis thus that we greet a most beautiful spring.
Come daisies, come roses, Dame nature thus helping,
The violets and primrose with sweetest perfume;
Come well known geranium and welcome sweet william,
In earth's vacant field there is plenty of room.
Each flush of the household that ever was nature,
Spring up in your plot shaped by ideal ming;
A welcome the springtide when we must go outside.
And greet nature’s present to humble mankind.

When I hear about the moments, all beyond my recollection,
And watch the way that people strive to reach that great perfection;
It would make the devil lonesome if he saw the great display,
If "rejoicement in salvation" in Valcartier of today.
Round the corners of a workshop, you night see them slushing bear,
Then next Sabbath take communion supping wine with such good cheer;
Then they'll send out hard earned coppers to the foreign lands away.
Whilst there’s many a creature starving in Valcartier of today.
Now don't fall in love with mission fields but come along with me,
And the grandeur of a meeting house you'll have the fate to see;
So let nature now forsake your heart, let nobleness decay,
Whilst the falsest smile will suit in the Valcartier of today.
So our old and reverend worship is to come in its style,
New "endeavours" and new "topics" are the talk throughout the while;
So listen to their preachers, let us sinners clear the way,
For they're marching straight to Heaven in The Valcartier of today.

The Last Excursion

On the twentieth of August in the year of four and four
I started for the Great Northwest with half a dozen more;
All on the great excursion of the harvest we did go,
To Southern Manitoba where the boundless wheat fields grow,
There was Johnnie Jack and Oakley too aboard that happy train,
Likewise my old Valcartier chum the gallant Gus McBain;
Warm sunshine filled the cars with light each day we’d wake to find,
That morning beams had conquered night and left it’s ghost behind.
Six hours spent in Montreal, we met our friend Frank Brown,
While resting at the station of that God forsaken town;
He also was bound for the West, to spend two months or so,
On the plains about Napinka where the boundless grain-fields grow,
When we arrived about North Bay, one morning bright and clear,
We walked the platform every way and showed no sign of fear;
Till Freddy Kack came walking past with mischief in his eye,
Gordon Lavallee by his side and his other brother Guy.
When we got to Naprinka town, we found a different tune,
 Strong men stood round in sadness there as nothing could be done;
No work was what the people said, your trip was all in vain,
Two hundred men are starving in the streets of Deloraine..
The Kacks went on to Elva and Levallee stayed with them,
While Frank and Gus and I strode out toward the setting sun;
In search of labour which we found to serve our thirty days,
South of Melita, by good luck we made a little stay.
We hired with a farmer, Charlie Clement was his name ,
A jolly sort of fellow from Ontario he came;
He had a threshing outfit that was kept in god repair,
To make the plains around to hum and drown all dim, care.
The weather and the gain being fine, the battle soon began,
A place for ever team likewise a place for every man;
The scattered bones of buffalo herds were found along our way.
And the wild notes of the singing birds, we heard at break of day.
There was a binder in the crowd, Montana, was his name,
And when the threshing started, he the foreman became;
The moonlit night the stars shone bright, westruck Waskada Man.
With Len Burns holding to the reins of a racing two in hand.
That night as at the close of many another day,
We hailed with joy to the caboose till half past four to stay;
When our lunch before daylight we ate by the lantern's murky flame:
And the full moon found us working yet, when she rose above the plain.
Come all you brave Canadian boys, a warning take in time,
There's misery in the lumber Woods and all a long the line;
It's well perhaps that things are so in this broad we roam,
To make us glad for going away to cleave and love our home.
Adieu to Manitoba with her acres broad and fair,
I value more the happy hours that I have pondered there;
That all her treasures hid in store which men prize to the last,
But varnish and are seen no more, when wasted lives are past.
Farewell to Alex Hamilton and to the Davy boys,
To David Collie and Len Burns, the Clements all likewise;
May nothing cause their hearts t o sink, but keep them from all harm,
Till time has ceased and we’re at peace, far from this great wheat farm.

To the Scots Return

You far-famed Royal Scots Canadian, whom I eulogize this day,
When I met and knew and loved you all, too swift you went your way;
Now they say the war is over, but with hope for your return.
What's the world with all its treasure if dear laddie I must mourn.
Lay your pipe one solemn fribroch, fair Valcartier greets the view,
Cecil meets yon lassy Whiting who he fondly  bid adieu.
Rouse the war-locked hearts of lovers, send the thrill through every vein,
All to peace our contribution, faith and freedom hence again;
Full resource for every nation, guard and guide each hero boy,
To his cot and waiting loved ones which will make for wealth and joy;
Blends your songs ye child colonial with the dove’s wide wreath entwined,
Where the kiltie plays his bagpipe, breathe goodwill to all mankind.
By yon tower of St Andrew, as the sun was gleaming high,
In my careless roams and rambles, one good thing lit up mine eye;
I had seen the broadsword flashing, I have battled o’er the deep,
And the Indian pearls and laces have disquieted my sleep;
But the highest, greatest grandeur by a man or maiden known,
Let us prove to be the setting of true love upon her throne .

The Lake of the Fairies

There used to be a time when   I was lonesome, a time when all about seemed blue,
When I cuddle down to sleep and the stars would vigil keep; for the tamarack woods a mile away or two;
How the little snoozing woodsman. would get dreaming of the rabbits and snares and other things,
Down by the lake of the fairies, yes, the fairies with those wonderful wings.
I don't know when I first met Hazel Birchwood, she seemed so very kind to me,
All life began to take an effort for my sake and everything looked brighter if could be;
And we spent many happy hours together making up what we intended soon to do,
Down by the lake of the fairies, in the tamaracks a mile away or two.

How I gave up the art of moonlight knighting would be a story of it’s own,
They would tuck me into bed and cover up my head, the way the way I could sit and cry for what they’d done;
Then Hazel came to my relief in earnest with all the sweet caresses that she brings,
Down by the Lake of the Fairies, yes, the Fairies with the wonderful wings .

If you ever come across a little booklet that we told you of, upon another page,
You may be suddenly aware of a little cabin where we spent our days in love, a living wage,
But you needn't go and tell the world about it, though we’re happier than Kings and Queens,
Down by the Lake of the Fairies, yes , Fairies with their tamarack wings.

I Stand By the Farm

Oh, what would you have me to do, gentle spirit that speaks of a destiny. held out to man?
I've struggled with peril, 1’m poverty's namesake, but always intend to do well if I can;
I've little but cynics and critics about me, with nought in creation to keep me from harm,
Yet a God given and well for the nation, I've never been beat when I stood by the farm.
To seek worldly pleasure and travel a little, it once was my lot all that's handsome to see,
But to sit all alone while the vain crowd would tattle, was not elevating or comforting me .
I was welcome to work as I never could shirk, and for little odd jobs, how the pennies would swarm,
When it came to a pinch, though there's one thing a cinch, the bulk of my capital came from a farm.
I've tried selling eggs and a few pounds of butter, and always came out pretty well on the deal,
If I asked a price at the top of the market, l oft was assured how the lassies could squeal;
I once was inclined to demand their protection, with clauses and so forth to make them disarm,
But an honest man's made, to live up to his trade, so I thought better of it and stood by the farm.
I've lately escaped from a series of riot, brought out on the quiet for Alsace Lorraine,
Which caused a disturbance in Central Europe, and Germans world over are salt­ing with pain;
They tried to deface even at such a distance, I warded them off, though my blood it was warm,
Says I to myself, "Sure all war's for the devil, "I mustered my senses and stood by the farm.
If ever you weary of ways of well doing, oh, bring up a chair and sit close by my side,
I'll tell you a story that's fresh in the flavor, concerning the twistings and turns of the tide,
If we didn’t do something we’d turn into numbskulls, posterity’d call us a needless alarm;
So a hoist to my leg till I catch the next peg, I’m off to pitch hay on the sunny-brook farm.
I've just come to town for a charming, wee lassie, they say once you get one it's charm and delight,
A good cook would suit for my frail constitution, to help with the milking would scarcely be right;
I’ve bought Victory Bonds and I offered her one, the day of the wedding if she sets the charm,
Says she, I’m no fool to be let out of school, way back in the country to live on a farm."
‘Twas just then I mentioned dear Admiral Sampson, the folks say he worked on a farm when a boy,
Great Lincoln, split rails on a wild back wood clearing, I am sure he could plow if had but try;
And Burns at his best with a heart full of music, a-charming the mousie to rest on his arm,
Swore he was grieved when he had been deceived into hurting a creature that dwelt on the farm.

I am no soldier, it’s plain to be seen, for I wrote to Bill Keiser to call of his sport,
That was about the third year they were at it, when there was a chance of us all getting hurt;
He took some advice as we all understood, the Netherlands got him, he’s done enough harm,
So t’was better for me to stay right on the land and dictate to an Emperor from the farm.

The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo

I’ve just here from Paris, from the sunny Southern shore,
I to Monte Carlo went just to raise my writer’s rent;
Dame fortune smiled upon me as she never did before,
And I’ve now got lots of money, I’m a gent,
And I’ve now got lots of money, I’m a gent,
As I walk along the Bois Boulogne with an independent air,
You can hear the girls declare, He must be a millionaire;
You can hear them sigh and wish to die,
You can see them wink the other eye,
At the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo
I stay indoors till after lunch and then my daily walk,
To the great triumphal arch is one triumphal march;
Observed by each observer, with the keenness of a hawk,
I’m a man of money, linen, silk and starch,
I’m a man of money, linen, silk and starch
I patronize the tables at Monte Carlo Hall,
Till they had not got a sou for a Christian or a jew;
So I quickly went to Paris for the charms of mademoiselle,
Who’s the loadstone of my heart, what can I do,
Where with twenty tongues she swears that she’ll be true.

By the Grave of a Friend

The sun of heaven’s glory shines full on slab and spire,
The lifeless elm branches receive their light and fire;
Whilst ‘neath in solemn reverence the stranger bares his head,
Beside earth’s narrow chamber where my faithful friend lies dead.
The ranks that time has shattered, what strifes leave they sustained;
That banner of true friendship, what triumphs hath it gained,
Some meek and poor achievement may still survive the sod,
A source of some heart’s teaching that makes us kin with God.
When Love’s last hope is blighted and mingled with the dust,
With faith’s foundations  shaken, wherein have we trust;
Oh, grant a rich forgiveness ere so the eterna1 end,
Immortal Man of sorrows, Mankind’s most worthy friend.
Then the future battling with patience let us strike,
Content to spell our burdens and share the blows alike;
May He who loved the siriller and sought his soul to save,
Protect our wandering spirits from the darkness of the grave.

The Gallant Signal Boy

This place is one in Flanders where our fighting troops have been.
The date is tenth of January, nineteen and sixteen;
Dear lady, I'm requested for to tell the reason why,
There is lack of correspondence from your Gallant Signal Boy.
I go by plain Jack Chandler, fair Toronto is my home,
As soldiers we have been called abroad, the word at, last has come;
With the fourth mounted Rifles went your hero lad, and I,
But one is left to tell you of the Gallant Signal Boy.
We fought through some engagements where we strove with might and main,
To check the advancing Germans  and to drive them back again;
Our leaders cheered us bravely when to pursue or deploy,
They picked on Baby Bomber, or the Gallant Signal Boy.
We sang round many campfires when the rifle hail would cease,
And told each other stories as in scenes removed from these;
Like private, like lieutenant in those happy  days gone by,
But none could take the laurels from your Gallant Signal Boy.
He often sought to speak to me when we were quite alone,
He mentioned friends he dearly loved far from this fighting zone;
To see you all and greet once more , was his unbounded joy,
Had fate not laid an index hand upon your Signal Boy.
Dear lady, I would modify the cruel news I bear,
‘Twas on the fifth when hardly pressed our trenches to prepare;
And mounting the howitzer quite unsheltered standing by,
A sniper's bullet in the neck struck down your Signal Boy.
A comrade quickly raised his head to check the gushing wound,
Just then they called me over and we raised him from the ground;
He struggled for to whisper when he seemed to know t’was I,
That comforted those moments of the dying soldier boy.
His notebook and his wristlet watch, his papers in my care.
Tell that he contemplated for his will is written there;
A long unfinished letter unaddressed lest he would die,
For those who loved, now left to mourn the Gallant Signal Boy.

Melbourne Melita’s Giant

The shadows of evening had yet to be lowered,
The sun rode at anchor far out in the West;
Young Melbourne, there lay on the field overpowered,
No friend for to soothe him, or hear his request.
A flash, the vain visions of childhood stood by,
All seeming to taunt him in  his hour of pain;
Where dear old Melita stretched out ’neath the sky,
He basked in the light-riven wheat fields again.
The home horn for supper was all but disguised,
To his ear 'twas the roll call far off in the trench;
He turned from his wound and he feigned no surprise,
If this were his last night in the land of the French.
That honor had cost him he knew was his fate ,
He scorned not the role that awaited him still;
But like many who yearned that the Hun and its hate,
Would not have dominion, he fought with a will.
Bomb after bomb had he hurled to their doom,
A shot from a pistol, a slash from a blade;
For the dire desecrators of Liberty's bloom,
On earth it was meant that a battle be made.
His thirty-five summers made light of the task,
His volunteer spirit no redder could be;
A true prairie native, he saw through the mask,
From the black, frowning mirage, swore to be free.
His comrades about on that stark, dreary plain.
MacInnis and Dalton, how silent they lay;
The stars in conjecture spoke well delayed rain,
Alas! Like the tears for that ill-fortuned day,
Oh Parliament prove! That such merited son's
Have not died in vain, but will flourish on high,
 Forever in equity, muzzle the guns
That spoke with war’s terrors for souls thus to lie .
The gay and the fruitful in life’s sunny walk,
Once met far away by the deep township spring;
The daffodils whisper, the wildflowers’ talk,
For love was there counted a beautiful thing.
The star of the plains with their light on his brow,
No framed up presumption of monitive man;
Go gaze on his features and learn of him now,
What comes before death to life’s own sacred plan.
Ah, say not his last, that the world is so wide,
Each mortal a sort of a stepping-stone here;
With none to embellish and nought to confide,
No comrade to caution and nothing to cheer.
Thou purged crimson flood in the veins of your youth,
Go merit their sacrifice, still youth carry on;
Like Melbourne of Melita to honor and truth,
And feel in pursuance how dear life is won.

A Hymn

written February 2, 1916

O Blessed Trinity on High, in darkness we implore,
A knowledge of the living health of Thy abundant store;
For naught is lost when thou art great and to be magnified,
In closer precincts of the heart all other names beside.
Perdition like a swallowing cloud would cast our steps astray,
Wert Thou not Everlasting God forever more their stay;
So may our girded spirits tread this mortal scene below,
As those who know Thy Will nor dread the present path they go.
Teach us to love and hope and trust and strengthened unto  prayer,
Believe in Thee by whom our souls in grace created were;
And by whose all absorbing power their being yet sustained,
They flash like meteors in the mists by grace are yet constrained.
When Love’s appeals on earth have ceased with what accordance must,
Departing saints their joys increase and dying meet the Just;
Dr. with mercy from thy Throne are Heavenly courses riven,
O God, when truth, of truths are known and true salvation given.
The purpose of our loft estate would be us gain to Thee,
But like a pitying Father, Thou hast set Thy children free;
Then in the height of grateful song and vast unbounded praise,
We’ll set our ransomed harp to tune the: Great Redeemer's ways .

A Friend

written December 10, 1916

If all the world's millions were laid at our feet,
And the hurrying helpers abandoned the heap;
Could they anything safer to crown this all send,
Than the true, comprehensible heart of a friend.
I scorn not the gear that with reason destined,
Will comfort old age with assurance of mind;
But granting its place is to borrow and lend.
With far lesser grace than the worth of a friend.
Sumptuous gardens have flourished and grown,
From seed that a far-seeing parent has sown;
But hopeless to tread by each blossom bend,
Half chilled by the want of the warmth of a friend.
A tale that more true no grim scepter can tell,
Than 'tis blessed to love when another loves well;
 And how often we mortals each other defend,
With real satisfaction the name of a friend.
Then carve not man's graces in metal or stone,
If he has to enter the contest alone;
For surly as breath between now and the end,
Companionship's sweet when we share with a friend.

Corporal Jack Darlingson

By the light of the campfire one brisk autumn eve,
When we entered our billets to rest at ease;
Frosty winds caught up our boy's off on leave,
And they scurried from out of the West
One chap, by the hut door sat thinking alone,
No comrade was by him to cheer ,
And this was the thought of young Jack Darlingson
For some of us strangers to hear.
Oh, for the joy of a ride to Kay,
The neat little burg called home;
Where my friends are having a lot to say
Of the peaceful days to come.
Just set me dawn in sweet Kay Town,
And don't get too far away;
For the sun shines bright and there’s such delight
In that little resort of Kay.
One by one our friends sauntered round, Some worn by the trials of war ;
The song rattled on as each soldier boy found A place for himself in our car.
Each thought of companions he loved far Away, And many were prone to believe
A sweetheart awaited a loved one in Kay,
That solemn old autumnal eve.
The mademoiselle of great Paris are vain, The little Dutch maidens soon flee;
And long Western columns have found on the march, How often they want to go free.
There is style to the Greek and Romanian belle, with others we meet on the way;
But how they surpass there is no one to tell  
The pretty, fair damsels of Kay.
Now Corporal Jack was a long-headed  man, As many would think by his years;
So he turned him about and got up a plan, For the army did he give a damn.
I know how he spent those four nights on the train, And also the voyage by sea,
Was done in a hurry but later again,
We find that it got him to  Kay.