A CHRISTMAS DREAM.

On Christmas night I sallied forth,

To the Red Mountain in the north;

The bright abode of men of worth

‘ Twixt here and heaven;

Where Finlay's stakes in mother earth

Are firmly driven.

I ambled up the village road,

Past many an Irishman's abode,

And carried quite a heavy load —

The most inside;

I faith sincerely thanked the code

The way was wide.

Here conscience loudly whispered, “Dhu,

How oft hath it been told to you,

The end that way would lead you to

Should you persist —

With soldiers of the ribbon blue

At once enlist.”

I answered conscience, “give me peace,

The time of pledges draws apace,

When we must swear to shun the glass

And all its riot;

We've but a single week of grace

So let's enjoy it.”

I followed up by Keenan's gate

Unto the “turn” where two ways meet,

Thence to the left the mountain street

Would guide me right,

Tho’ for my life I could not see't,

Just in that light.

For where two highways ran before,

I saw a dozen tracks or more;

And which to take, I was n't sure,

By either eye;

‘ Twas but a chance against a score,

And yet I'd try.

I started on with divers tacks,

And strove to reconcile the tracks

Which darted round, like jumping jacks,

Before my gaze;

‘ Twould take a dozen crowd a cacks

Their course to trace.

Had I big John's and Eddie's charts,

To tell me where the highway parts,

Reducing by their magic arts

Nineteen to two;

I would have from my heart of hearts

Poured blessings due.

Confusion worse confounded, gee!

On every track a horse I see,

And all alike it seems to me

As barley scones —

I vow, Pete Gagne's cavalry —

Proud, prancing roans!

Their bones were rattling in the cold

Like vales of which Ezekiel told!

A few indeed did seem too old

To nibble corn;

The colt among them all was foaled

Ere “Smoke” was born.

Ah! crippled, gaunt and wild-eyed steed,

Thy woes are great, your want is feed!

Reminds me of D. Bunker's breed

That gasps for breath;

Aye, one and all are built for speed —

To certain death!

I asked the leader of the band,

If he could tell, upon which hand,

The mountain turnpike pierced the land

Around those parts;

I'd shipped a sea, I told him, and

Had lost my charts.

“The left!” he answered with a yell;

“Tis easy, sir, your course to tell;

And that will lead you down to — well,

To “Robert's road.”

Then straight away on yonder hill

Is “Smoke's” abode.

“The right hand road you must not take,

As that will lead to Moffat Lake,

Where Cookshire sportsmen saw “big snake”

Through Alden's glass.

And thots of serpents make me quake

From head to cass.”

I gave my guide a social wink,

And started on, is cha ro blink,

Till my exuberance, I think,

Broke into song:

I said “good evening” to the “Mink,”

And passed along.

The air was keen, the night was bright,

And in the north that mystic light,

( In my exaggerated sight )

Was one to please;

The whole suggested yellow, white

Or greenish cheese!

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 do n'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 assultin 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 hellish dread

Infanticide!

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, do n'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 God 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!