THE FENIAN RAID WHICH NEVER WAS MADE

From de country of de Yankee,

Where de heagle bird is roost,

Where de Star and Stripe is worship

All de way from coast to coast,

Comes a rumble of de danger

Dat is t'reaten us once more,

W'en de Fenian tak’ hadvantage

Of our trobble wit’ de Boer.

Some crank mans in New York City

Mak’ beeg speech dat soun’ lak’ joke,

And he tell us “what a pity

Canadaw wear British yoke!”

And dey shout out to de people

In de clap-trap of de brave:

“We will send it men and money

For to liberate de slave!”

P'raps dey mean all right for Joseph,

But I t'ink before dey come,

Dat someboda ought to tole it,

“Charata begin at home.”

And dey try to move McKinley

In de favor of Oom Paul —

Not because dey love de Boer,

But because dey hate John Bull.

Now if Joe he know de feeling

Of de U. S. at this tam,

All de foe of Queen Victoria

Is de foe of Honcle Sam.

It is hinsult to ma country

For dese men to yell and tell

Dat de Canuck do n't is loyal

To de queen he love so well.

Tak’ de history of ma people,

From de day of Wolfe-Montcalm,

An’ you'll find it patriotic

To de backbone jus’ de sam’.

I am sorry for dis fighting,

As I do n't dislak de Boer;

But ba gosh w'en its mean troub’, boys,

Den I lak’ ma country more.

Hip hoorah! for British soldier,

Hip hoorah! for British flag!

And God bless de Canuck forces

Gone to help uphold de rag!

Down wit’ all disloyal member

Of de body politik,

French or Henglish, rich or poor mans,

By de power let him trek!

( I'm not onderstan’ dis las’ word,

Do n't hinvent it in Quebec. )

Now I read it on de pepper

Dat J. Tarte is mak’ some sneer

On de patrihotic feeling

Of de Canuck volunteer;

So I'll tole ma frien’ Sir Wilfrid

For to check his runnin’ mate —

T'row heem out de sam’ lak Jonah,

Or he'll sink de ship of state!

Long ago w'en I was babby

Fenian mak’ it one beeg “raid”

For to capture Canuck country —

Hole an’ young an’ man an’ maid.

Up dey come from state of Var-mont,

Halso from de state of Maine,

To de state of destitution

Pretty near to Stanstead Plain!

Dere dey met two t'ree hole farmer,

Wit’ some sickle in her han’,

An’ she hask hinvading army

W'at dey want on top her lan’.

Dey could mak’ no hones’ hanswer,

So de farmer tole‘ em “leave,”

An’ before you say Jack Robin!

Dey skedaddle lak de dev’!

Yes dis rag-tag bob-tail soldier

Start across de “line” on run,

Jus’ de sam’ lak’ Coxey army,

W'en it march from Washington!

Nodder tam two t'ree more Fenian

Come aroun’ ma home to tak’

W'en ma fadder an’ ma grandpa

Was off fish upon de lak’.

Noboda aroun’ but womans

W'en de Fenian come dat day,

An’ ma gran'ma wit’ de pitchfork

T'rowim over fence lak hay!

No, I do n't want Fenian, t'ank you,

For to lif’ de British yoke,

I can wear it leetle longer

On ma farm at Centre Stoke.

So, if stranger cross de border

For hinvasion of dis’ lan’,

We will meet it in good order

Wit’ strong weapon in de han’.

Yes, let Finnigan de Fenian

Cross de “line” to hole Quebec,

An’ lak chicken of de story

She'll get somet'ing in de neck.

We will grab it by de collar,

And some place dat's near de seat,

An’ dere rags will mak’ a flutter

In de gutter of de street;

An’ ba Christmas she will fin’ me

Wit’ ma shoulder to de “yoke,”

Waiting for dat rag-tag army

Of hinvasion — watch ma smoke!