Weep, weep, each loyal partisan,
For Buckley, king of hearts;
A most accomplished man; a man
Of parts—of foreign parts.
Long years he ruled with gentle sway,
Nor grew his glory dim;
And he would be with us to-day
If we were but with him.
Men wondered at his going off
In such a sudden way;
’Twas thought, as he had come to scoff
He would remain to prey.
Since he is gone we’re all agreed
That he is what men call
A crook: his very steps, indeed,
Are bent—to Montreal.
So let our tears unhindered flow,
Our sighs and groans have way:
It matters not how much we O!—
The devil is to pay.