YOUNG CANADA. Ye hopeful youth of Canada, Attend unto my ditty, Ye'll find there's truth in't, tho' it may But first let's throw the beaver up, We claim the new inventions in 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, That all the world may know you; And as ye're all born with the gift The good old souls believe in God, But our belief is in the bank, S For our new Gospel plainly says "Tis science that can save us. There's Brunel, 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, 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 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, And having grown by villany, To such exalted stature, |