DeArcy McGee,
All compliment thee,
The hope of the land
On your lecture so grand.
Though that is your forte,
Oh give us the sport
Of an hour of your chat,
Then we’ll laugh and grow fat.
For none but the vile
Could ’ere 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.