“I didn’t steal the money— But I’m going to pay it back.”

There are always indications around that the boss’s unfinished work on the world of Toronto journalism in the late nineteenth century would be great to have. So many journalists these days are calling the story of Duffygate and Nigel Wright’s incredibly generous personal cheque unparalleled in our history. I wish they could all have spent a bit of time with my great uncle Phil. As part of his research, the boss found the fine poem, “McKellar’s Defence” (Toronto Mail, 5 April 1873, reprinted in The Political Experiences of Jimuel Briggs, Toronto: Flint, Morton and Company, 1873, 104-106.) It is reproduced below in full. Uncle Phil was engaged at the time as a Tory “slangwhanger” on The Mail using the pseudonym, Jimuel Briggs. He would change teams in the years ahead, before finally settling as an equal opportunity, non-partisan slangwhanger in the service of labour and socialism. The McKellar of the “McKellar’s Defence” was Archibald McKellar, the Minister of Agriculture in the Blake and Mowat governments of Ontario in the early 1870s. The “Elgin frauds” scandal involved a Grit fundraising misadventure that was supposed to raise funds for William King’s community of freed slaves in North Buxton. Some of the funds mysteriously ended up in Grit party coffers. The refrain “I didn’t steal the money—But I'm going to pay it back” is unforgettable. If it were a more settled part of our tradition, today’s scribes would not have to scurry about looking for explanations for Tiny Mike’s expense misfortunes. We’ve been there before.

McKellar’s Defence

I appear tonight before ye,
Although time scarce affords,
To refute that little story
About the Elgin Frauds.
It’s a monstrous fabrication,
A slander base and black,
I didn’t steal the money—
But I'm going to pay it back.

I never went to Glasgow,
The Rev. King was sent,
Why, I was home attending
In my place in Parliament.
T’is true the folks in Scotland,
In giving were not slack,
But I didn’t steal the money,
Though I'm bound to pay it back.

I never ran that mission,
Nor took a single cent
Though my influence and position
To the cause were freely lent.
Here’s the Secretary's letter,
To prove in white and black
That I couldn’t steal the money—
But I mean to pay it back.

It’s a wicked Tory libel
That I pocketed the rocks
See these half dozen letters
To the Rev. Horrocks Cocks.
The writers say they freely gave
To elevate the black.
Now, would I steal the money?
Why, of course, I’ll pay it back.

Yes, I did receive subscriptions
From one ungodly beat
His name, I think, was Millar,
He lives in Fenchurch Street.
The vengeful cuss had followed me
Like a sleuth-hound on the track
Just as if I’d stole his money!
But I mean to pay it back.

I appeal unto my record
Spotless, unstained and fair;
I look within my conscience
And find approval there;
I swear by all that’s holy
It’s a slanderous attack—
That I never stole the money—
But I’ll surely pay it back.

Sir, we spent some of that money
To improve the negro’s case;
And as voting for Grit candidates
Is a sign of saving grace;
We converted several hundreds
To Brown principles, though black,
Do you call that stealing mission funds?
But I’m bound to pay it back.

What became of all the balance?
Who pocketed the cash?
Why, you know commercial ventures
Are liable to smash.
We lost it all in business;
Of the details I’ve lost track;
But I'll swear I never stole it—
Still I mean to pay it back.

Oh, have ye got no sympathy
For the poor down-trodden slave,
In whose behalf philanthropists
Their cash so freely gave?
Do ye scorn and hate the negro,
Because his skin is black?
No, I didn’t steal that money—
But still I’ll pay it back.

JIMUEL BRIGGS, D.B.,

Graduate of Coboconk University.
Ottawa, April 3rd.

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Local Update: It would also be easy to imagine Uncle Phil memorializing our local Mayor, whose shenanigans on video have the whole world watching, and coming up with something like what he wrote about Archibald McKellar:

‘Twas in a squat on Dixon Road—
We sent out for a snack
Of deep-fried chicken wings
Flavr'd with smoke of crack
They promised that there'd be no Skype
When I was passed the pipe . . .

I’m going to get the boss’s daughter on to this. She’s the best poet in the house.