We saw a few partridges: we also met a lusty fellow in a forest road with a keg of whisky slung round him, who called to us ‘Come boys and have some grog, I'm what you call a canuck:’ a (Canadian).
Well, what do you think of the Canuck elections?.
Who'll buy my caller herrin'? / Cod, turbot, ling, delicious herrin', / Buy my caller herrin', / They're every one Kanucks!.
I'll sit here and blow till he comes round with his old go-cart, and then I'll hang on to the tail of it, and try legs with that little Kanuck of his.
On the deacon-seat in the leapin' heat / With the corn-cobs drawin' cool and sweet, / And timin' the fiddle with tunkin' feet, / A hundred men and a chorus. / “Roule, roulant, ma boule roulant,” / all Canuck but a good song; / Lift it up then, good and strong, / for a cozy night's before us.
It is a pity these Canadian militiamen spoilt the good work they had done by never-failing bluster. But for pure and unadulterated brag I will back the lower-class Canuck against the world. The Yankee is a very sucking dove compared to his northern neighbour.