To Hon. Malcom Cameron.

A poem by Nora Pembroke

By many a bard the Cameron clan is sung,
Their march, their charge, their war cry, their array;
Their laurels that from bloody fields have sprung,
Where they have kept the sternest foes at bay.

The flowing tartan and the eagle plume,
The gathering, and the glories of the clan,
Let others sing, we will not so presume,
We bring our humble tribute to the man.

The man with heart benevolent and kind,
The man with earnest and persuasive tongue;
Would there were many like him heart and mind
To combat with this fashionable wrong;

Who longs to remedy these human ills,
Feeling God made of one blood all the earth;
Whose sympathies have passed his native hills,
And spread beyond the clan that gave him birth.

Is it not sad when in high places so
No sense of honour or of shame remains;
Men who make laws while reeling to and fro,
Statesmen with swaying step and muddled brains!

For scenes disgrace our new-built palace walls,
And Canada on some reformer waits;
Shall vice within the Legislative Halls
Be rampant as the lions on the gates?

Oh for a man of action and of prayer,
Who feels this sin a national disgrace;
A man who has the strength to do and dare
The pluck and courage of the Celtic race.

If thou art he, thou'rt welcome to the van,
To battle for the right in time of need;
To win fresh laurels for the Cameron clan,
And thousands bid thee heartily God speed.

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