Where the golden lilies, gleaming, Star the watch-towers of Quebec. Look! The shadow on the dial Marks the hour of deadlier strife; Days of terror, years of trial, Lo, the youth, become her leader! All her baffled tyrants yield; Through his arm the Lord hath freed her; Crown him on the tented field! Vain is Empire's mad temptation; "By the name that you inherit, Listen not to idle questions If its bands may be untied; Doubt the patriot whose suggestions Strive a nation to divide!" Father! We, whose ears have tingled With the discord-notes of shame, We, whose sires their blood have mingled Gathering, while this holy morning Trust us, while we honor thee ! CLASS OF '29. FOR THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1856. YOU'LL believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes, To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone Which have greeted me oft in the years that have flown. Were I gray as the grayest old rat in the wall, you all; My locks would turn brown at the sight of There are noontides of autumn, when summer returns, Though the leaves are all garnered and sealed in their urns, And the bird on his perch that was silent so long Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks into song. We have caged the young birds of our beautiful June: The voices of morning! How sweet is their thrill When the shadows have turned, and the evening grows still! The text of our lives may get wiser with age, Look off from Then think what we fellows should say and should do, If the 6 were a 9, and the 5 were a 2. Ah no! For the shapes that would meet with us here From the far land of shadows are ever too dear! Though youth flung around us its pride and its charms, We should see but the comrades we clasped in our arms. A health to our future, a sigh for our past! And for all the base lies that the almanacs hold, While we've youth in our hearts, we can never grow old. FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB. 1856. THE mountains glitter in the snow Though years have clipped the eagle's plume That crowned the chieftain's bonnet, The sun still sees the heather bloom, The silver mists lie on it; With tartan kilt and philibeg, What stride was ever bolder Than his who showed the naked leg Beneath the plaided shoulder? |