Lines On T.d. Mcgee

DeArcy. McGee,
All compliment thee,
The hope of the land,
On your lecture so grand.

Though that is your fort,
Oh, give us the sport
Of an hour of your chat ;
Then we'll laugh and grow fat.

For none but the vile
Could e'er cease to smile
When near to thee,
So brilliant and free.

Plant of Green Erin's isle,
Long in Canadian soil,
May you take deep root
And bear much noble fruit.

Our hopes were in vain,
Alas ! he is slain
By a crankish hand,
The flower of the land.