There was a small boy of Quebec,
Who was buried in snow to his neck;
When they said. “Are you friz?”
He replied, “Yes, I is—
But we don’t call this cold in Quebec.”
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Dim dawn behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron-yellow— |
God of our fathers, known of old,— The tumult and the shouting dies,... |
“what are the bugles blowin’ for?” said Files-on-Parade. |