Lost Illusions

One by one, our fond illusions Are discarded as delusions— Just romances. With the plague of joy-deprivers, There will soon be no survivors Of our fancies.

Some say Wellington (oh! drat 'em) Never said, "Up, Guards, and at 'em!" Just a whopper. And it's ignorant palaver That George ever told his father Of the chopper.

Now each reader of this Journal, Since he heard the gallant Colonel, Well aware is, That the climate of Siberia Is as good, if not superior, To our prairies.

Where we pictured convicts weary, Chained and cheerless, he showed cheery Landed gentry. Whose oppressors gave, unknowing, To a land with wealth o'erflowing, Right of entry.

So though robbed of cherished errors, We may be relieved of terrors That have scared us; And if truth does cause a flurry, There's no doubt a lot of worry May be spared us.