In the bully year of ’seventy-five

’Twas when they launched the enterprise

Cajun Ploude and E.B. Dee

In the Riverview Arms on a drunken spree.

In the roaring pub ’midst beer and smoke

The Welshman pondered and drank, then spoke:

“By the spirits of Bliss and Charles G. Dee

Fornicating hacks of the last century,

In homage to the ravished ’Vangeline

Let us plant new seed, sire a magazine!”

Ploude, he whooped and called for drink.

His face contorted, he tried to think.

His lips they moved; he gave a yell.

We’ll call it, we’ll call it Esh. Shee. Ell!

To the nation’s capital, to the old C.C.

Went Cajun Ploude and E.B. Dee.

In the Albion Tavern they agreed to meet

To prepare for their foray on Sparks, his Street.

Scribbling their budget on a Belvedere pack,

Gulping their beer, they lost the track.

In vain did wait both Gates and Fink[1]

For wayward editors drowned in drink.

Ten years have gone. ’Tis very sad

For some have died and some went mad.

But, then again, in this drear, cold season

As you now know, there is a reason

To toast those sots who did their bit

For all what Studies in Can. Lit!