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Ye hopeful youth of Canada,
Attend unto my ditty, .
Be neither wise nor witty,
And talk as tail's the steeple,
We are a mighty people.
We claim the new inventions in
The art of public robbing, And for an infant colony,
We beat the world at jobbing; We've quacks of every calibre,
From him who sells the gum drug, To him who in the rostrum stands,
And preaches up his humbug.
A poor but honest limner I,
Your portraits let me show you, Not pretty, yet so deeply marked,
That all the world may know you; I tender you some sage advice,
'Twill help to fix your status, You ought to be encouraged lads,
So here you have it gratis.
And as ye're all born with the gift
Of scenting out corruption,
Will better the instruction.
Old relics of a past age,
This go-ahead, this fast age.
The good old souls believe in God,
But our belief is in the bank,
Old superstition vainly tries,
To frighten and enslave us,
For our new Gospel plainly says
There's Brunei, Hudson, Stephenson,
Their mighty works consider,
Apostles put together;
With that of ancient sages,
Upon the tide of ages.
The poets have reigned long enough,
'Tis time their reign was over, For they must be the Kings henceforth,
Who keep the world in clover; What's all that Shakespeare ever wrote,
Compared but to a railway,
To walk nor yet to sail wi'.
And then the Wizard, Walter Scott,
They're only fit for sucklings,
Or old benighted tories; Religion's good enough, no doubt,
To keep the poor from stealing, But it would never, never do,
To mind it in your dealing.
'Tis money rules the world now,
It's rank and education,
And pious reputation.
You're armed and you're defended,
All heaven is comprehended.
And now my lads if ye would reach
The height of exaltation,
And stick to speculation;
It's low and its degrading,
And learn the tricks of trading.
Learn all the loop-holes of the law,
And how to wriggle through them, For many a knave might save his neck,
If he but only knew them;
Of little legal lying;
Hard swearing and denying.
Buy up town lots, start shaving shops,
And issue out your paper,
A bank of wind and vapor;
Your business is to pluck them,
But that the wise might suck them.
Now all the rowdies in the land,
By soft sawder and whiskey punch!
And having grown by villany,