In performing all his public duties, Massey projected a stern-looking exterior that was devoid of fun and humour. In private, however, His Excellency could display another side. You will find below a poem Massey read to the assembled reporters attending one of the legendary Press Gallery dinners on Parliament Hill on this date in 1956. I’m confident you’ll enjoy it as much as I have!

Rt. Hon. Vincent Massey:

I thank you, Mr. Chairman, most sincerely,

But you have not removed my fears—or nearly,

For, Mr. President and gentlemen,

Again I’m found inside the lions’ den.

Still, it is pleasant to be here once more

Despite the terror of the lions’ roar.

 

I offer you a doubtful form of sport—

The reading of my annual report.

It comes this evening in the form of verse,

Or what you’ll think is infinitely worse!

 

Four times we’ve met at this delightful meal;

Four times you’ve suffered from a grim ordeal,

For when you fondly hoped the bar to reach—

You’ve always had to listen to my speech!

 

But still I say to all you gentlemen,

I’m happy to be with you here again—

Happy that is, if happiness can be

Found in a miserable wretch like me,

Meeting his audience with shaking knees,

Casting a gloom on their festivities,

While sadly stifling yawns with one accord,

Around the tables sit the festive bored.

 

You watch the clock and listen for the gong,

And groan, “How long must we wait here, how long?”

However, if you callously deride me,

I have a stern Prime Minister beside me,

Waxing in stature, growing ever wiser.

(And this is well, for he is my adviser!)

 

Lots of advisers have I got, comprising

Over a score—and how they love advising!

Each year they give me their combined advice

On plans to implement—or put on ice.

Their views I give you, seated on the Throne,

Reading the pages in a level tone.

 

Under their orders I can have no choice,

The country hears me as His Master’s Voice,

Transmitting policies that are not mine;

I’m just an old Trans-Canada Pipe Line!

 

But once the Speech is finished, I must own,

I use a large blue pencil, all alone;

Just how, no one must know, whate’er his mission,

With either Government or Opposition!

 

Over the years the Speech seems always longer—

And so, the reader must grow ever stronger—

Not mentally; his efforts must be towards

Keeping the vigour of his vocal chords.

 

He plagues his listeners from sea to sea.

Some of them listen in captivity;

Helpless they sit, and hear from first to last

The endless list of bills that will be passed...

 

I’ve travelled on my broad itinerary

A mari usque several times ad mare.

(There were, alas, imposed upon the mileage,

The photographs; we might call them the smileage.)

 

The year has covered solemn things and gay

In great profusion. So along the way,

I found myself at church or at a dance

Or functions where I had to wear striped pants.

Programmes included, as the journeys grew,

Shipyards and curling clubs; a civic zoo,

And armouries and city halls and mines

And missions, ballet schools and radar lines

And colleges and factories making cheese

And packing plants and mills and jamborees

Till I was tempted never more to roam,

But just to settle in an Old Folks’ Home..!

 

But now, no more—to end my tale were wise,

And thus the time has come to finalize.

 

Although before there dawns another day

There are so many things I’d like to say,

I feel my speech should end, the curtain drop—

In other words, I think that I should stop.

 

How shall I end, and show you I’ve got through it?

“Long live the Press!”—I think that ought to do it.