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Song of the Bass

 
Over the waters, merrily dancing,
Softly glides our light canoe,
While the phantom mirror glancing,
Shines alternate white and blue.
 

Chorus.

 
Never can tell when the bass is a-coming,
Never can tell when he’s going to bite;
First thing you know your reel will be humming,
Strike him quickly and hold him tight.
 
 
Past the maples, red and yellow,
Crimson oak and purple ash —
Gosh! you’ve hooked a monstrous fellow!
Golly! don’t you hear him splash?
 
 
Hold him lightly, reel him slowly
If you wish your fish to save;
Nothing’s gained by hurry – Holy
Moses! what a jump he gave.
 
 
Lower your rod; now take the slack up —
Thank your stars you’ve got him yet!
Now he sticks his thorny back up —
Now you’ve got him in the net!
 
 
In the basket, wrapped in fern, he’ll
Lie in state in scaly grace;
In the pan, when we return, he’ll
Find a warmer resting place.
 
 
Let him fry in crumbs and butter —
Hear the appetizing fizz!
No weak words that I could utter
Can describe how good he is.
 
 
Serve him with a slice of bacon,
Quickly to the banquet come,
And unless I’m much mistaken
Your remark will be “yum, yum!”
 

Never can tell when the Bass is a-comin’

Words: Drs. Ellis & Spencer. Music: Adapted.

Allegro piscatore: con brio.

[play]

Maskinongewagaming ³

 
Would you slay the Maskinongé
In the fastness where he lurks?
Leave a card pour prendre congé
On the town and all its works.
 
 
Leave the tram-car’s jarring jangle
For the silent bark canoe;
For the forest’s leafy tangle,
Bid the dusty streets adieu.
 
 
As befits her slender tonnage,
In our tiny craft we stow
Cunningly our modest dunnage —
Shove her off, away we go!
 
 
Joy once more to grasp the paddle!
Farewell worry, doubt and gloom.
Care, who clings behind the saddle,
Finds in our canoe no room.
 
 
Off we go! The lake before us
Stretches far and stretches fair;
Forest scents are wafted o’er us;
Forest voices fill the air.
 
 
Paddling past the pebbly beaches
Where the ancient cedar grows;
Toiling in the open reaches
When the stiff nor’wester blows.
 
 
Winding down the silent river
Where the scarlet maples blaze,
And the pallid aspens quiver
Through the warm September days;
 
 
Past the oily eddies sweeping
Where the hidden boulder lies;
Down the rapid gaily leaping
Where the spray about us flies.
 
 
Poling through the gravelly shallows,
Floating ’neath the alder’s shade,
Where the moose at noon-tide wallows,
And the beaver plies his trade;
 
 
Shoving through the rustling sedges,
Battling with the autumn gale;
Lifting over rocky ledges,
Sweating on the portage trail —
 
 
On we go, with steadfast faces,
Till at last with gladdened eyes,
We behold the secret places
Where the Maskinongé lies.
 
 
Shall we find him in the rushes?
Where the waterlilies grow?
Where the roaring torrent gushes?
In the foam-flecked pool below?
 
 
Fierce and cunning, bold and cruel,
Is the Maskinongé grim,
Who shall dare him to a duel?
Who shall fight and conquer him?
 

* * * *

 
Proudly with his spoil returning,
We with shouts the victor greet;
By the camp-fire brightly burning,
He shall have the warmest seat.
 
 
Is he hungry? Pile the platter;
Thirsty? Join the gay carouse;
Weary with his toil? What matter?
Heap his bed with balsam boughs.
 
 
Fill his pipe with rare Virginian,
Cheer him till the echoes ring,
Monarch of his new dominion,
Maskinongewagaming.
 

1904.

Magaguadavic ⁴ and Digdeguash

“Are not Abana and Pharpar rivers of Damascus better than all the waters of Israel?”

 
Let each man praise the river
That’s dearest to his heart,
The Rhine, the Guadalquivir,
The Danube or the Dart.
Let others sing the Tavy,
The Tweed, the Wye, the Lea,
Give me the Magaguadavic,
The Digdeguash for me.
 
 
Some men choose lakes for fishing —
Ceceebe or Couchiching,
Namabinagashishing,
Kenongewagaming.
I’ll take my affidavy
That what they say is bosh;
Give me the Magaguadavic,
Give me the Digdeguash!
 
 
Beneath the shady willow
Cast cunningly your flies,
His wake a widening billow;
Behold the monster rise!
No dreadnought in the navy
Could make so big a splosh;
You’d hear at Magaguadavic
The trout of Digdeguash!
 
 
Behind the purple spruces
The golden sunset dies,
As each his pipe produces
And puts away his flies.
The basket’s full, the slavey
To-morrow morn shall wash
The spoils of Magaguadavic,
The loot of Digdeguash!
 
 
And when upon the table
They come to lie in state,
Hardly shall we be able
A decent grace to wait.
They need no sauce nor gravy,
For none can beat, by gosh!
The trout of Magaguadavic,
But those of Digdeguash!
 
 
O restless Bay of Fundy,
O mist and fog and rain,
Hope whispers I may one day
Behold you yet again.
How gladly would I brave ye,
Nor ask a mackintosh,
To see the Magaguadavic,
To fish the Digdeguash.
 
 
Callirrhoe’s fair daughters
Have fled their ancient grots;
The voice of many waters
Turns shrieking into watts.
But spare, oh! spare, I crave ye,
Amid the general squash,
The falls of Magaguadavic,
The rips of Digdeguash!
 

1910.

Rhona Adair

 
How dull these links to me!
Rhona’s not there,
She whom I long to see,
Rhona Adair!
Who has a swing so true?
Who such a follow through?
Who, who can putt like you,
Rhona Adair?
 
 
Who drives her ball so far,
Far through the air
Swift as a shooting star?
Rhona Adair.
Who hits her ball so clean,
Landing, whate’er’s between
Dead on the putting green?
Rhona Adair!
 
 
Whose strokes, of all who strike
With hers compare?
Who has a waggle like
Rhona Adair?
Of all the girls I’ve seen
Playing across the green
You, Rhona, are the Queen!
Rhona Adair!
 

The Duffer’s Elegy

 
“Oh! put me on your waiting list
I’ll be a golfer if I may
And learn the joys too long I’ve missed
Before I get too old to play!”
 
 
They gave him on the list a place
And year by year they let him wait,
For golfers are a long-lived race
And very seldom emigrate.
 
 
When, after many weary years,
He reached the top his sponsor said,
“The friend (excuse these natural tears)
Whom I proposed has long been dead.”
 
 
And when at last in Charon’s wherry,
It was the sponsor’s turn to stand
His friend came down to meet the ferry
A phantom niblick in his hand.
 
 
“Welcome to Hades,” thus the shade
In hollow-sounding accents spoke
Then spied a puff-ball and essayed
To loft it, but he muffed his stroke.
 
 
“Permit me, pray, to be your guide
Until you’ve learnt your way about
Our golf course is our greatest pride
Old Colonel Bogey laid it out.
 
 
“Some people say Avernus stinks
And Acheron smells like a sewer
But Fernhill golfers like our links
They find the air so fresh and pure.
 
 
“Cocytus, Styx and Phlegethon
As hazards serve extremely well,
In this particular alone,
The Lambton links are just like Hell.
 
 
“The asphodel wants cutting sadly,
The lies are wretched, more’s the pity
But everything is managed badly
By that infernal Green Committee.
 
 
“Come, lay aside your shroud and pall
And play a friendly round with me.”
(A Dead Sea apple was the ball,
A pinch of church-yard dust, the tee.)
 
 
He took the club of cypress wood
And smote what seemed a mighty blow,
But, though the aim was true and good
The ball remained in statu quo.
 
 
“Alack and well-a-day,” he cried,
“A duffer must I ever be,
A duffer I have lived and died
A duffer through Eternity.”
 

1905.