Expansive puppets percolate self-unctionBeneath a portrait of the Prince of Wales.Miss Crotchet's muse has somehow failed to function,Yet she's a poetess. Beaming, she sails
From group to chattering group, with such a dearVictorian saintliness, as is her fashion,Greeting the other unknowns with a cheer-Virgins of sixty who still write of passion.
The air is heavy with Canadian topics,And Carman, Lampman, Roberts, Campbell, Scott,Are measured for their faith and philanthropics,Their zeal for God and King, their earnest thought.
The cakes are sweet, but sweeter is the feelingThat one is mixing with the literati;It warms the old, and melts the most congealing.Really, it is a most delightful party.
Shall we go round the mulberry bush, or shallWe gather at the river, or shall weAppoint a Poet Laureate this fall,Or shall we have another cup of tea?
O Canada, O Canada, Oh canA day go by without new authors springingTo paint the native maple, and to planMore ways to set the selfsame welkin ringing?
