Thomas Frederick Young

The fairest flowers often fade,
And die, alas! too soon,
Ere half their life is sped, they droop,
And wither in their bloom.

But may thy life thro' future years,
In healthful beauty shine,
And when you think of other days,
Think of this wish of mine.

Youth is the time when all is bright;
The mind is free from care;
No thoughts of aught, save present joys,
Can find an entrance there.

And, if a thought of future years
Steal o'er the careless mind,
That thought speaks of a happier time
When years are left behind.

But when the years of youth have fled,
And life is fill'd with pain,
We think full oft of vanish'd years,
And wish them back again.

And oft this wish will soothe our pain,
And oft allay our woe,
Oh, sweet to us is mem'ry then,
When we think of long ago.

May thou live on till youth has pass'd,
And feel but little pain,
And may thou, in a blest old age,
Live o'er your youth again.

My friend of days, but not of years,
With kindly heart these lines I trace,
To tell you of a kindly wish,
Which I upon this page would place.

It is that thou thro' future years
May meet with very much of joy,
And just a little grief, because
Continued happiness will cloy.

And when, in future years, you read
What I to you just now have sung,
Let others praise or blame, do thou
Think pleasantly of T. F. Young.

Memories of happy school-days,
In which we view the years gone by,
Long they last, and long they cheer us -
Live well the moments as they fly,
Your youth is passing swiftly by.

See, then, Milly, that your school-days
Can no mem'ries sad retain.
Onward! upward! be your motto,
Try and try, and try again,
The future will reward the pain.

OH brothers, friends, down by the sea,
We can thy voices hear,
And painful is their tone, and free,
Upon each brother's ear.

We hear each voice, pitch'd strong and high,
And, could we see you now,
Our hearts would heave another sigh,
At each beclouded brow.

We hear thy voice, from day to day,
In one long, doleful strain,
Oh tell us why, oh brethren say
Why sounds that voice of pain.

Are we not one, in race and creed,
Rul'd by one gracious queen?
And we have all receiv'd our meed
Of praise and pelf, I ween.

Why vex her now, who's rul'd so long
Upon her virtuous throne?
Why sing her such a doleful song,
And send her such a groan?

And why annoy that whiten'd head,
Our land's adopted son,
Who wisely drew ...

I've had my share of bright employ,
My share of pain and blame,
But thro' it all, I've thought, with joy,
Of tender woman's name.

Her healing tones have often brought
New gladness to my soul;
Her breath hath rent the darken'd clouds,
That often o'er it roll.

Her voice hath often cheer'd my heart,
In sickness and in pain,
And help'd me bear the surgeon's knife,
Or fever's fervid reign.

But, oh, that voice can change its tone,
That tender feeling die,
Those gentle, loving tones become
A terrorizing cry.

In kindly sound, a woman's voice
Is happiness alone;
And may it ever be my lot
To hear its tender tone.

But let me never know the thoughts
Of vengeful woman's heart,
Or hear the voice that breathes them ...

Ye patriot sons of Canada,
Whate'er your race or creed,
Arise, your country claims you now,
In this, her hour of need.

Arise, with right and valor girt,
To battle with the foe,
Which threatens to defy our laws,
And lay our country low.

Arise, for black rebellion's flag,
Again may 'mongst us wave,
And traitors in our country's camp,
May dig our country's grave.

The law was righteously enforc'd,
Riel did fairly die,
And why should we give way to those,
Who raise the rebel's cry?

In spite of priest's or statesman's voice,
Quebec, forsooth, must rage,
And, with her wrongful acts and words,
Insult experience and age.

And demagogues, with purpose vile,
Must lead the trait'rous cause,
And hound unthinking ma...

The morning of a gladsome day in spring
Had scarce its freshness brought to weary men,
When, o'er the meadows wet, a boy did sing,
And whistled o'er a tune, and carroll'd-it, again,
In youthful happiness unconscious then
Of aught which time might bring, of pain or woe,
But careless, pitching stones in bog or fen,
It seem'd as if he buried there, also,
All worldly cares, so blithely did he onward go.

And yet he was no careless, heedless boy,
Who thought but of the present time alone.
Of future years he thought, but with such joy,
His thoughts but pleasure gave, nor caused a groan
From out the breast that claim'd them as its own;
His thoughts were of the future, fair and bright,
And fresh from his unburden'd heart, alone,
Untarnish'd by the hard and glarin...