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YOUNG CANADA.

Ye hopeful youth of Canada,

Attend unto my ditty, .
Ye'U find there's truth in't, tho' it may

Be neither wise nor witty,
But first let's throw the beaver up,

And talk as tail's the steeple,
That all the lower world may know,

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,
No doubt have I, but lads so 'cute,

Will better the instruction.
Your fathers are but silly fools,

Old relics of a past age,
No wonder they can't comprehend,

This go-ahead, this fast age.

The good old souls believe in God,
And in a church we joke at,

But our belief is in the bank,
And in the breeches pocket;

Old superstition vainly tries,

To frighten and enslave us,
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For our new Gospel plainly says
'Tis science that can save us.

There's Brunei, Hudson, Stephenson,

Their mighty works consider,
Why any of them's worth the whole

Apostles put together;
Compare George Comb's philosophy

With that of ancient sages,
'Tis worth all that has floated down,

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,
It's neither good to eat nor wear,

To walk nor yet to sail wi'.

And then the Wizard, Walter Scott,
With his old world stories,

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,
It's power and knowledge, sense and worth,

And pious reputation.
Get cash, and 'gainst all human ills,

You're armed and you're defended,
For in it even here on earth,

All heaven is comprehended.

And now my lads if ye would reach

The height of exaltation,
Take my advice, let work alone,

And stick to speculation;
Work was not meant for gentlemen,

It's low and its degrading,
And so my lads live by your wits,

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;
And you must master all the crooks,

Of little legal lying;
And all the intricacies of

Hard swearing and denying.

Buy up town lots, start shaving shops,

And issue out your paper,
A bank's a bank, altho' it be

A bank of wind and vapor;
The world is filled with pigeons, and

Your business is to pluck them,
And what were the goats sent for here,

But that the wise might suck them.

Now all the rowdies in the land,
Around you, you must gather,

By soft sawder and whiskey punch!
You are a City Father,

And having grown by villany,
To such exalted stature,

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