Alexander MacGregor Rose (17 August 1846 - 10 May 1898 / Tomantoul, Scotland)
I live on Canada en Bas —
De fines' lan' you see —
An' Oncle Sam, a fr'en of mine,
He live nex' door to me.
Now, long tam' Sam an' me mak' trade,
W'enever that we meet,
An' Sam, he drive de bargain hard,
Sometime bigarre! he sheat.
I not say mooch about it, me,
I never t'ink no harm
Before I fin' mon Oncle Sam
He wan' my little farm.
An' w'en I not to heem will give
De lan' my fader hown,
Den Sam get mad an' say to me,
'I'll play my hand alone.
You kip away; I not will trade,
Don' come my place about!'
Ah! den I see hees leetle game
Was w'at you call 'freeze-hout.'
Mais, I can stan' de fros', for hice
To me is not'ing new;
Sir John mak' freeze agains' de Yanks —
See if dey lak' it, too.
But w'en Sir John t'row up his han'
An' die, 'twas change indeed;
No par'ner lef' could follow up
De fin' ole chieftain's lead.
An' de Canadian peup' was tire,
For dey was not mooch please
For pay big price for jus' to nurse
Les enfants industries.
Dey say, 'We wan' to buy our t'ing
On some mooch sheaper shop,
Dose enfants industries are sure
Long tam' for growing hup.'
For eighteen year dey pull l'argent
From bottom of de purse,
We t'ink it ees long tam' enough
For dem to be on nurse.
Den Tories try for bargain mak'
To trade wit' Sam again,
But was shok off as soon dey spik'
By Monsieur Jacques G. Blaine.
He say, 'My fren's, before we will
Wit you reciprocate,
You mus' agains' ole England mak'
One sharp discriminate.'
Dat took dem Tory breat' away,
Dey dropp de bees'ness den,
No more dey go on Washington
Nor write dere wit' de pen.
By'mbye last year, our Canada
T'en she know w'at she wants,
An' wit' her toe, de mont' of June,
She kick de Tory pants.
She sen' for Laurier, an' at once
Immediatement he comes,
She say, 'Instead of one boule-dogue
I'll have one gentilhomme.'
Sir Wilfrid, soon he tak' de chair,
An' dis he plainly state:
'For Anglan' — not agains' her — I
Will mak' discriminate.
'If Oncle Sam, from out his lan'
Will keep Canadian men,
We'll do de sam' to Yankee, too —
An' w'at will he do den?
'We'll play de game all sam' lak' heem,
An' mak' wan alien law,
An' more, bigarre! we'll hear him squeal
When he ees `hors de bois.''
Den Oncle Sam, he scratch hees head
An' say, 'Dat's quit' enuff,
I see Sir Wilfrid Laurier's vat
You might call `up on snuff!''
So w'en Sir Wilfrid go to talk
'Bout dem Pacific seal,
Mon Oncle Sam tak' heem one side,
An' mak' some smoot' appeal.
'I lak' Canadian, yes, for sure,
I wan' for be your fren'.'
'We lak' you, too,' Sir Wilfrid say,
But only now an' den;
'For we'en you kick Canadian hout,
An' tink to mak' a fuss
Agains' de Mother Lan', we say —
`You cannot bully us.''
'Jes so,' say Sam, 'we mak hall right,
We tak' de whole dat pack,
Wit' me an' you an' Anglan' too,
It mus' be give an' tak'.'
'Correc',' Sir Wilfrid rise an' say,
Den Sam an' he shak' hands,
To live no more lak' chat et chien,
But lak' les bons voisins.
Den Wilfrid, he come home again,
An' t'ings go well partout,
De markets rise, de trade increase —
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