Poetry

My friends we sing Canadian themes,
For in them we proudly glory,
Her lakes and rivers and her streams,
Worthy of renown in story;
And in these leaves we hope is strewn
Some wheat among the chaff,
And maple boughs by rude axe hewn,
Where one may find a rustic staff;
To help him o’er the rugged lines
If he to weariness inclines.
Some see no beauties near to home,
But do admire the distant far,
They always love abroad to roam,
View glory in but far off star;
But let it never be forgot
That distant hills when closer seen
Are after all a barren spot
Not like your own hills clad in green;
You’ll find they are but idle dreams
To seek for happiness afar.
At home there’s lovely lakes and streams,
Remain content now where you are;
At us we hope you will not rage
Because we sing of local charms
In each varied town and village
As well as round our local farms,
But our address it must be brief,
So now we bid you all adieu,
But of our book pray read each leaf
Until the whole you have gone through;
Each one doth know it is not wise,
Though our songs may not be vocal,
Chants of our home for to despise,
But prize them ’cause they are local.

A wail went o’er broad Canada,
When it was known a vile outlaw
Had at midnight’s awful hour,
With ruffian hand blown up the tower.

’Neath which had slept the gallant Brock
Who bravely fell on Queenston’s rock,
But graceful column soon shall rise,
Its beauteous shaft will kiss the skies.

For from Queenston’s woody height
You may behold a pleasing sight,
The grim old veterans of the war,
Militiamen with many a scar.

Indian braves from each nation,
Grouped to pay their last ovation,
Round the remains of General Brock,
Who led them oft in battle’s shock.

Old heroes now again do rally,
Feebly they move along the valley,
Not as they rushed in days of yore
When torrent like they onward bore.

And swept away the foeman’s ranks
O’er Niagara’s rugged banks,
So indignant was their grief
On losing of their warrior chief.

Now with triumphant funeral car,
Adorned with implements of war,
The sad procession slow ascends,
As round the hill its way it wends.

Marching to mournful, solemn note,
While grand old flags around it float,
And now may peace be never broken
’Mong lands where Saxon tongue is spoken.

“For peace hath victories by far
More glorious than horrid war,”
England doth Longfellow revere,
And America loves Shakespeare.

Hail Britannia’s noblest daughter,
Who is surrounded by the water
Of many a lake and broad sea,
Land of beaver and of maple tree.

Her lofty brow is wreathed with smiles,
For from the far Atlantic isles
In pomp have come their delegates,
All seeking to unite their fates.

With Canada great northern queen,
And now throughout the land is seen,
High festival and stately dance,
Triumphant nuptials to advance.

And soon shall Red River valley
And distant Vancouver rally,
To form this Empire gigantic
From Pacific to Atlantic.

In his long voyage o’er the sea,
To where doth grow the maple tree,
May he be blest with pleasant gales,
The coming man, the Prince of Wales.

The maple grows but in good soil,
Where nature doth reward for toil
The farmer splitting his fence rails,
He welcome bids the Prince of Wales.

In the woods the axe is ringing
And the yeoman merry singing,
The song resounds o’er hills and dales,
Our future king the Prince of Wales.

Round the brow of our future chief
We’ll weave a wreath of maple leaf,
For o’er broad Canada prevails
Kind feelings to the Prince of Wales.

When in this land the Prince arrives,
May he have many pleasant drives,
And on our lakes have merry sails,
Great king of princes, Prince of Wales.

I laid me down one day in June,
It was late long afternoon,
A very sultry summer’s eve,
Such times the senses oft deceive,
The place was ’neath a maple tree,
Soon from all cares and troubles free,
By a gentle, kindly slumber,
No more our sorrows we could number,
But we heard a plaintive wail
Such as we find in fairy tale,
It was the genius of the tree
Who in sad guise appeared to me,
And then she sadly did give vent
Unto this awful grave lament:
Though I am gay in month of June,
All decked in green, yet very soon,
Alas my beauty will be faded
And my charms be all degraded,
For is my time of glory brief,
So often flattered is my leaf.
In Canada so broad and free
All poets sing of the maple tree,
High I stand in their opinion,
Emblem of the New Dominion,
The reason I do them upbraid
Some never slept beneath my shade,
And yet they take the liberty
To chant about the maple tree,
They dare to poetise my leaf,
This is the source of all my grief,
I think their praises all so rude
And as but base ingratitude,
So often hackneyed is my name
That every fall I burn with shame,
Like maiden’s cheek which blushes red
When vain rash youth asks her to wed,
Then do these foolish ones descry
In me fresh beauty and they sigh,
And then renew their songs of praise.
But unto me how sad their lays,
For then I know my days are brief,
’Tis hectic flush upon my leaf;
True poets then should mournful sing
When the destroyer’s on the wing,
For then I know my leaves of gold
Will all soon mingle with the mould,
No one does ever think to praise
The fell destroyer when he slays,
None rejoice in the flushed cheek
When the poor girl is low and weak,
Perhaps they’ll say and it is true
In spring my glories I’ll renew,
But ’tis poor comfort after all
To lose my offspring every fall,
Small consolation to mother
To tell her that soon another
Will replace her fond darling boy
Who has been source of all her joy,
But you know all about my wood
You know that it is strong and good,
And I have full many a curl
And pleasing eye and charming nurl,3
Some love me as fond nature grained
And some prefer my beauty stained,
But my dear friend I hope that you
My varied shades love pure and true,
For of the woods you know the staple
Stoutest and best is good maple,
The youth my sugar eat with glee,
And old maids love me in their tea,
In me do various uses meet
In summer shade, in winter heat,
For I do make a glorious blaze
All worthy of the poet’s lays,
But to their praises I’ll be deaf
If more they harp about my leaf.
They call me gay when I am sober
To me ’tis gloomy month October,
But saints on earth when they die
Hope for true bliss beyond the sky,
So winter does bring no alarms
Though it strip bare my trunk and arms,
For now I know that time will bring
More glorious foliage in the spring,
Then all nature will rejoice
Triumphing with glorious voice,
And birds will in my branches sing
Hosannas to the lovely spring.

Lines on Violets

Once, while digging ’neath the snow,
’Mid Canadian winter, lo!
To our joy and surprise
We saw some violets in full bloom,
Gazing at us with loving eyes,
Thanking us for opening their tomb,
Yet still they seemed so cozy and nice
Enshrined in the crystal ice,
While all else were drooping dead
Gaily they held up their head.

Rejoice, rejoice, we all do stand,
United in one mighty band;
No traitors in our land we find,
All one in heart, all one in mind;
Resolute in their opinion,
None shall conquer our Dominion;
For every man with dauntless mien
Will rally round our flag and Queen.

A buffalo, lord of the plain,
With massive neck and mighty mane,
While from his herd he slowly strays,
He on green herbage calm doth graze,
And when at last he lifts his eyes
A savage wolf he soon espies,
But scarcely deigns to turn his head
For it inspires him with no dread,
He knows the wolf is treacherous foe
But feels he soon could lay him low,
A moment more and there’s a pair
Whose savage eyes do on him glare,
But with contempt them both he scorns
Unworthy of his powerful horns;
Their numbers soon do multiply
But the whole pack he doth defy,
He could bound quickly o’er the plain
And his own herd could soon regain;
His foes they now are full a score
With lolling tongues pant for his gore,
He hears their teeth all loudly gnash
So eager his big bones to crash,
On every side they him infest,
The north, the south, the east, the west
Fierce rage doth now gleam from his eye,
Resolved to conquer or to die,
’Round him they yelp and howl and growl,
He glares on them with angry scowl,
They circle closer him around,
He roars and springs with mighty bound,
And of his powers gives ample proof,
Felling them with horn and hoof,
Though some lay dead upon the plain,
Yet their attack was not in vain,
For they have tasted of his blood,
Resolved it soon shall pour a flood,
He feels that they have torn his hide
And streams gush from each limb and side,
He rushes on them in despair
And tosses them full high in air,
But others rush on him and pull
Down to the earth that glorious bull;
On the flesh of this noble beast
Their bloody jaws they soon do feast,
Full worthy of a better fate
Far from his herd and his dear mate,
Who now do look for him in vain
His bones do whiten now the plain.

Disaster to Steamer Victoria at London

At London Thames is a broad stream,
Which was the scene of a sad theme,
A fragile steamer there did play,
O’ercrowded on a Queen’s Birthday,
While all on board was bright and gay,
But soon ’neath the cold waters lay,
Naught but forms of lifeless clay,
Which made, alas! sad month of May.

Two youths, employed at the fur fort,
Resolved to have half-day of sport;
From Jasper House, in the far north,
For game, they joyous issued forth.
The factor of the Hudson Bay
Granted them a few hours’ play,
And it was in cold winter time,
When thick on lake was glassy rime;
But beneath, o’er all their route,
They saw below big speckled trout.
With hatchet, ice they did clear
And the beauteous trout did spear,

For they were longing for a dish
Of this sweet and savory fish,
And they caught many, too, with bait,
For in the day it was not late,
But it was cloudy with snow storm;
Yet they saw the noble form,
While the hurricane did blow,
Of a fine, noble buffalo,
So they resolved to have a treat
Of the delicious buffalo meat;
But he did on his haunches rear⁠—
To their surprise it was a bear.

The lake being smooth, the youths did skate,
Resolved for to seal his fate;
A pistol shot made bruin roar,
And from him trickled drops of gore.
They round him skate, and fresh blood drew
When they at him the hatchet threw;
He chased one and then the other,
For men on skates did him bother.
But the bold Scottish lad, McBeath,
Alas! he nearly met his death,
When he so boldly did press near
To probe him with the sharp fish spear,

For with fell swoop the paws of bruin
To him they almost did bring ruin;
But he so dexterously did skate
That he escaped such horrid fate.
And now they skated back to fort
For aid for to renew the sport,
They knew their game was no trifle
So they secured a trusty rifle.
Returning he had fled to wood,
But they tracked him with his blood,
For they did not yet despair
But that they would capture bear.

They saw the elder bushes sway
While he did force through them his way,
And heard the brushwood loudly snap,
Where he went through he left a gap.
They skated swiftly o’er the ice
And were near brushwood in a trice;
Full soon the savage beast is slain,
With rifle bullet in his brain.
And now these hunters do take pride
In skin as large as buffalo hide,
For Indian stripped the skin of bear
And left the carcass in his lair.

Canadian Sports and Games and Plays

Burns sang of joys of Halloween
But in Canada is often seen
By far more jolly times than these
At logging raising, paring bees,
For here the youth is not afraid
To trip it with a pretty maid,
For this at night is his reward
For working at the bee so hard,
And oft times till the break of day
At forfeits they will merry play,
For he doth win e’en though he miss,
If from sweet lass he gets a kiss,
But in its place doth justly prize
His tea and cakes and pumpkin pies.

When winter comes it brings no gloom
But makes fresh pleasures spring and bloom,
For when the youth longs for a bride
He gives his girl a grand sleigh ride,
Which to them both doth pleasures bring
While merry sleigh bells cheery ring,
And with the fair maid of his choice
He graceful skates with her on ice,
Charming mode of locomotion
Gliding o’er a polished ocean,
Such joys they soon do love evolve,
And they on union do resolve,
He is happy with his chosen,
For warm love gets never frozen.

And young folks oft they do take pride,
How swift they down the hill can glide,
And they bravely dare the frost king
So they may enjoy the coasting,
Each striving for to lead the van
In the swift shooting toboggan.

And on the ice men love to hurl
The polished blocks to skilful curl,
And curlers all do proudly claim
Their’s is a manly healthy game,
And in Canadians you trace
A generous, hardy and brave race.

And brilliant as a fairy hall
Is scenes on ice at carnival,
Before the gale in an ice boat
It swiftly o’er the ice doth float,
The sensation is you fly
Like lightning shooting through the sky.

In summer time the youth do toss
The baseball and do play lacrosse,
And tradition doth for it claim
That ’tis an ancient Indian game,
And if a foe invade we can,
Drive them back with clubs Canadian.

A pleasing sight to-day we see,
Four churches joined in harmony,
There difference was but trivial,
But strove each other to outrival.

In friendship now they do unite,
And Satan only they do fight,
And they’ll plant churches in North West,
Where they can serve the Lord the best.

Niagara’s Charms and Death of Capt. Webb

Gazing on rapids mighty sea,
Struggling fiercely to be free,
But drawn downwards in its course
By gravitation’s wondrous force,
O’er those perpendicular walls,
Hurled ’mong mighty rocks it falls,
Causing the earth to throb and shake
Like to the tremor of earthquake.

Thus the world’s greatest wonder
Reverberates like peals of thunder,
Enshrined with mist and beauteous glow
Of varied tints of the rainbow,
Most glorious sight the human eye
Hath ever seen beneath the sky,
Along these banks none ever trod
But did feel grateful to his God,
For lavishing with bounteous hand
Glories majestic and so grand.

The foaming billows soon are seen
Transformed into a beauteous green,
Plunged by whirlpools dread commotion
It becomes a seething ocean,
Where furies join in surging dance
From centre to circumference,
This is the favorite abode
Of Neptune, mightiest sea God,
He hath decreed none shall survive
Who will into this vortex dive.

Webb swam the English channel brave,
Like seabird he did love to lave
His breast upon the mightiest wave,
Alas, found here a watery grave;
Torrent onward rushes frantic
On its course to the Atlantic,
But on its way doth gently flow
Through blue lake Ontario,
Rejoicing on its way it smiles,
Kissing the shores of Thousand Isles,
Mingling with St. Lawrence motion,
It soon is blended with the ocean.

St. Catharines famed for mineral waters
And for the beauty of her daughters,
For some do worship at the shrines
Of the fair St. Catharines.

St. Catharines your greatness you inherit
From the genius of a Merritt,
You still would be a village dreary
But for this canal from lake Erie.

For on its bosom there doth float
Full many a ship and steamboat,
Brings world’s commerce to your doors
And many gifts on you it pours.

Among its many great rewards
It gives you dry docks and ship yards,
To drive your mills great water power
It doth give you as a dower.

Since we above lines did compose,
Through new canal vast stream it flows,
The lock gates at the hill at Thorold
Can not be equaled in the world.

Whene’er we take a tour abroad
We love to travel o’er new road,
Where scenery to us is new
And landscape pleasing to the view,
When invited for to rally
And take a trip on Credit Valley,
We resolved for to afford
A day with Council and School Board,
For to view the rural charms
Of hills and dales and fertile farms,
With joy we saw the sunbeams gleam
On Grand River beauteous stream,
And those perpendicular walls
Of rock, like old baronial halls,
We saw the great lake ebb and flow,
And queen city of Ontario,
While some enjoyed the genial smile
Of Hanlon on his lake girt isle,
Returning home each one exclaims
“Happiest spot is banks of Thames.”

Lines on Canadian Hunter

Of Kentucky’s great hunter bold
Old Daniel Boone oft tales are told,
Of wild beasts he had no fear,
But dangers loved that pioneer.

Canada has hunters many,
Yet perhaps there is not any
For skill and boldness can compare
With our own Daniel Hebner.

In youth he was both tall and strong,
And supple as a willow thong,
He never fled from savage bear,
Though bruin on hind legs would rear.

In hunting mink, or fox or coon,
He was a second Daniel Boone,
His rifle oft brought down the deer,
Which to his table brought good cheer.

But through his life his highest aim
Was to kill the savage game,
To track the wild cat to its lair
And see its eyes so fiercely glare.

But he oft longs for a cut ham,
Sweet as from bear near to Putnam,
For he waged his fiercest war
In big swamp of Dorchester.

Now in the winter Dan he rides
Warm ’mong his bear and coon skin hides,
He lets the younger men now snare
The beaver, muskrat and otter.

Hope for Ingersoll

Of Ingersoll we’re justly proud,
Though o’er it hath hung a cloud;
It was heavy, dark, profound,
Weighing o’er ten thousand pound.
But now the clouds do disappear,
And the sun is shining clear⁠—
Now, with pleasure, we do behold,
Our railroad bonds are good as gold.
The people now need not despair,
But thank our Council and our Mayor.4

Canadian Rivers and Lakes

We have here a sight as fair
As bonnie Doon or banks of Ayr,
Like modest worth meandering slow
The quiet waters gently flow,
Rose, thistle, shamrock, all combine,
Around the maple leaf to twine,
Whose outstretched arms so gigantic
Clasp Pacific and Atlantic,
Embracing lakes like burnished gold,
With joy a Shakespeare might behold,
For either Poet Burns or Moore5
Such scenery they would adore.

Canada hath wealthy yeomen
Whose fathers overcome the foemen,
The enemy they boldly slew
Was mighty forests they did hew,
And where they burned heaps of slain
Their sons now reap the golden grain,
But in the region of Northwest
With prairie farms they are blest.
Though this to them it may seem good
Yet many blessings come from wood,
It shelters you from the fierce storm
And in the winter keeps you warm,
For one who hath his forest trees
He builds his house and barn with ease,
And how quick he gets from thence
Timber for bridge and for his fence.

We let Ontario farmers sing
About the joys the woods do bring,
But we in regions of Northwest
Do think prairie farms the best,
For those poor men who swing the axe
On their strength ’tis a heavy tax,
For several years they naught can grow
While from the first we plow and sow,
And while we plow we don’t get thumps
By running it against the stumps,
And where wild Buffalo now doth feed
There very soon they’ll sow the seed,
Where Indian wigwams now do stand
Will be the site of cities grand,
And where the deer and wolf doth roam
Millions will build each happy home,
So quick as if by magic wand
They will arise o’er the whole land,
But this one fact we won’t deny
Ontario she can supply,
For so skilfully she doth invent
Each agricultural implement.

If you are sulky, Nova Scotia,
We’ll gladly let you float away
From out our Confederation;
You sicken us with sly agitation.
If any more our patience you do tax
We’ll let you go to Halifax.

In winter time ’tis sad and dreary
For to gaze on stormy Erie,
But here in summer time this port
It is a fashionable resort,
For then it is always cheery
For to gaze upon Lake Erie.

Or on the steamer you can sail
All independent of the gale,
Or here the youth can ply the oar
And view the fast receding shore,
And be happy with his dearie
On the bosom of Lake Erie.

No one here need ever weary
On the borders of Lake Erie,
With quadrille parties at Stanley
And games and sports all so manly,
Or bathe in waves with friends near thee,
You fear no storms of Lake Erie.

By the side of a moss
Lived young Donald Ross,
Among the heathery hills
And the mountain rills,
In a snug little cot
Content with his lot
He never knew sorrow
With his wife and wee Flora.

But an order went forth
O’er the land of the north,
To burn many a home
So the wild deer might roam,
With grief he then did toss
Every night Donald Ross,
And sad seemed the morrow
For his wife and sma’ Flora.

O it was a cruel deed
But nobles do not heed
The sorrows of the poor
Drove on a barren moor,
Where he wove a wreath
Of the blooming heath,
For to crown with glory
The brow of little Flory.

He then bade farewell
To his mountain dell,
Where his fathers appears
Had lived a thousand years,
With their few goats and sheep
Which feed on hills so steep,
O it was a sad story
For bonnie little Flory.

He sought a distant strand,
In Canada bought land,
To him a glorious charm
To view his own broad farm,
His horses and his cows,
Cultivators and plows,
And now his daughter Flora
She is the flower of Zorra.

In winter time who here resort,
To pay a visit to your busy port,
They must be clad in fur well,
For it blows cold at Burwell;
But when you wish to trot your horse
You make Lake Erie your race course,
And we believe at every heat
All other horses you do beat.

DeArcy McGee,
All compliment thee,
The hope of the land
On your lecture so grand.

Though that is your forte,
Oh give us the sport
Of an hour of your chat,
Then we’ll laugh and grow fat.

For none but the vile
Could ’ere cease to smile,
When near to thee
So brilliant and free.

Plant of green Erin’s isle,
Long in Canadian soil,
May you take deep root
And bear much noble fruit.

Our hopes were in vain,
Alas he is slain,
By a crankish hand
The flower of the land.

From the long continuous rains
O’erflowing were the swamps and drains,
For each day had its heavy shower,
Torrents fell for many an hour;
At London where two branches join
It seem’d two furies did combine,
For to spread far both death and woe,
With their wild, raging overflow;
E’en houses did on waters float,
As though each had been built for boat,
And where was wealth and joy and bloom,
Soon naught but inmates of the tomb;
Flood o’erflowed both vale and ridges,
And swept railroads, dams and bridges,
A mother climbed in tree to save
Her infant from a watery grave,
But on the house you saw its blood
Where it was crushed ’gainst tree by flood;
Where cottages ’mong gardens stood
’Tis covered o’er with vile drift wood,
O’er flowers and bushes you may travel
For they are buried under gravel,
Or you may walk o’er barren sand,
The crops washed out and fertile land;
Two funerals we at once did see
Of one family who lost three;
No longer river’s deep and wide
But gently flows to distant tide.

The citizens of London West
Their patience oft is put to test
When they behold the various dams
Do cause the floods and the ice jams.
’Tis true that fiercer rages floods
Since country it was stript of woods,
Acid river it doth broader spread
With numerous tile drains quicker fed.
If they did raise embankment high
They might the raging floods defy.
Shall they with sadness gaze ever,
Or with gladness on the river?
River with dams it will not wed,
It wants no strangers in its bed,
And ’gainst them it will rage and fret
For ’tis no gentle rivulet.

Lines on Stratford6

Our Canadian county Perth,
Commemorates great bard of earth,
Stratford and Avon both are here,
And they enshrine the name Shakespeare.

For here in Stratford every ward
Is named from dramas of great bard,
Here you may roam o’er Romeo,
Or glance on Juliet bestow.

And it is a railway centre,
Many a train doth here enter,
And railroad shops do men employ,
And gives them work and wealth and joy.

English Names on Canadian Thames7

England has given us the names
To adorn Canadian Thames,
And charms to them she has lent
In Oxford, Middlesex and Kent,
She Essex kisseth in her mouth,
And Scottish names, one north, one south,
And London now it justly claims
’Tis capital of vale of Thames,
And her strong castellated tower
Doth on the river frowning lower,
And Chatham is the river’s port,
There slaves for freedom did resort,
And they did industrious toil,
And now many own the soil,
Stratford now shall be our theme,
On Avon tributary stream,
And its clear waters it doth launch
Into the Thames northern branch,
Near that substantial stone town
St. Mary’s with mills of renown,
Westward it winds past each town,
Growing broader as it flows down,
Onward it glides never weary,
Meandering so soft and cheery.
The sunbeam on the waters glance,
Skipping about in silvery dance,
From morn till eve the cattle feed
’Neath lofty elms along the mead.
And on its banks in warrior pride
The brave Tecumseh fought and died,
And it has now historic claims
The famous battle of the Thames.
Now soon the waters meet and pair
With the wavelets of St. Clair,
As maids when wed do lose their names,
No longer it is called the Thames.
Rejoicing on its way it smiles,
Kissing the shores of Thousand Isles,
Mingling with St. Lawrence motion,
It soon is blended with the ocean.

Lines on Beachville

Of Beachville, village of the plain,
We now will sing a short refrain,
For here the Thames doth pleasant flow,
And charm to landscape doth bestow;
Though river here it is not deep,
Yet banks slope graceful up the steep,
And from the summit of the hills
You look down on the famed lime kilns,
And ’tis full worthy poet’s rhyme
The whiteness of your pure white lime,
Your glory never shall be gone
While you have quarries of this stone,
In influence you yet will wax
With mills for flour and also flax.

The Thames and tributary rills,
Here they do drive numerous mills,
Enabling millers to compete
To pay high price for oats and wheat.
Here streams do drive many a wheel
For to grind both flour and oatmeal,
And town will extend its boundaries
With its enterprising foundries.
For fine pianos town is famed
And highest rank for them is claimed,
And brighter days for it yet dawns
With its grand mansions and fine lawns,
And it has now the title grand
The capital of dairyland.

English Woodstock had a palace
Where the Queen in jealous malice
Slew romance’s fairest flower,
Fair Rosamond in secret bower;
Our Woodstock pleasing county town,
This brings it both wealth and renown,
To your strong castle some are sent
To give them leisure to repent.
A charming vista you do view
Gazing on each street and avenue,
Mansions and lawn embowered ’mong trees
Where wealthy owners live at ease,
And through the air there sweetly floats
Harmonious Woodstock organ notes,
And men employment secure
In factory for furniture;
Old Oxford is a seat of knowledge,
Woodstock has a fine new college,
And farm implement work shops,
So farmers easy reap their crops;
The old court house is a disgrace,
Grand structure soon will take its place.

Lines on Embro and Zorra

O’er various counties of the north,
When cruel order did go forth,
For to destroy many a home,
So that the wild deer free might roam;
The men of Sutherland and Ross,
The broad Atlantic they did cross,
Each seeking for a fertile farm,
These rolling lands for them had charm;
They ne’er desired again to roam,
Each happy in his woodland home,
Where middle branch of Thames doth flow
They built the village of Embro,
And it the hill tops now doth crown
Like its grand namesake Edina Town,
And good flour mills you here do find
And oats also they here do grind.

Some do boast of their pedigrees,
But Salford’s parent of the cheese,
Ranney, industrious and wise,
Here started this great enterprise.

He did work on the dairy plan,
While Farrington was factoryman,
Both of these men it well did please
To hear of progress making cheese.

The farmers are in cheerful mood,
For harvest all it has been good,
And all the grain was sown this spring
An abundant yield will bring.

And you can scarcely stow away
The yield of barley, oats and hay,
Such pasture it is seldom seen,
E’en now it is so fresh and green.

This beauteous colour nature decks,
While it insures you large milk cheques,
And certes you’ve much cause to praise,
For hogs and cattle that you raise.

The middle branch of Thames doth flow
O’er pebble bed and it doth glow
And sparkle like silver in the sun,
As it through pasture lands doth run.

In dam is ample water stored,
To drive flour mills in Thamesford,
Besides the power of the stream,
Saw mills and flax are drove by steam.

Our mind it doth with pleasure fill,
To see fine brick church on each hill,
And that substantial one of stone
Owned by congregation of St. John.

Farrington, 1866, Factory System8

The farmers they now all make rich
Since Farrington went to Norwich,
And the system first there began
Of making cheese on factory plan;
He came from Herkimer county,
To Canada he was a bounty;
Norwich village moved but slow,
Till railways made it quickly grow,
And industries here now take root,
The township’s famous for its fruit.

Lines on Tilsonburg

After him who did the mills own,
This place was called in honor Tilson;
Bright gleaming like to a beaming star,
Is clear waters of the Otter.

And it doth form here a vast pond,
Which extends for miles beyond,
A fortune on town it will shower,
This prodigious water power.

No other spots to youth appear,
Like lovely little lakes round here,
And few small towns have fine roadway
Lined with brick blocks like your broadway.

Elsewhere, the firemen slave like Turks,
But you have got good water works;
And some do many a mile go
For to see your famous silo.

Dereham now hath wealthy yoemen
Whose fathers overcame the foemen;
The enemy they boldly slew
Was mighty forests they did hew,
And where they burned heaps of slain
Their sons now reap the golden grain.

All will rejoice they took a trip
Onboard the craft Odd: Fellowship;
Your candidates now, in their youth,
Will soon learn friendship, love and truth.
We hope your influence will be good,
A blessing to the neighborhood.

In this quiet spot this day of June,
Which will not be forgotten soon,
For when your little church on hill
You overflowingly did fill,
You then resolved there should arise
Church worthy of your enterprise,
You’ve laid foundation broad and deep,
And showers of blessings may you reap.

Craft of King Hiram and Saint John
Have come to lay the corner stone,
At the call of our Grand Master9
Who was invited by your pastor,
With silver trowel all so fair
He laid foundation on the square,
May you be blessed with Christian love,
And we all meet in Lodge above.

From Ingersoll, on Canadian Thames,
We come to greet mine host of the St. James,
This being our town’s civic holiday;
Yet we remember twenty-fourth of May,
For then at our Caledonian games
He did loud proclaim the victors’ names.
We came in part to contribute
To our town’s mechanics’ institute,
Who got up this grand excursion
Where each one has his own diversion.
Some did remain at Burlington Bay,
While we to Toronto did wend our way,
And came to see this presentation
To stalwart son of Scottish nation.

There came to Oxford Robert Gourley,
In his old age his health was poorly;
He was a relic of the past,
In his dotage sinking fast;
Yet he was erect and tall
Like noble ruined castle wall.
In early times they did him impeach
For demanding right of speech,
Now Oxford he wished to represent
In Canadian parliament,
But him the riding did not honor,
But elected Doctor Connor.

Well tell a tale, it shall be brief
It is of rise of Maple Leaf,
From noble Olive Branch it sprung,
And its good deeds shall yet be sung;
This Encampment, though in its youth,
Glories in friendship, love, and truth
Of all our lodges yet the chief
May be this youthful Maple Leaf;
Built of good timber, it doth launch
Well worthy of the Olive Branch,
And though it only is a shoot
We hope that it will take deep root,
And soon be vigorous Maple tree
In Canada so broad and free.
And may its usefulness ne’er cease
Sprung from the Olive Branch of peace,
But comfort brothers in distress,
Widows and orphans it will bless,
And console them in their grief,
Protected by the Maple Leaf.
Poor travellers in the wilderness
They oft do suffer great distress,
But may no pilgrim get rude shock
Sojourning here in Woodstock.

We look in vain for our Past Grands,
Now scattered over many lands,
Now some o’er the wide world do rove,
And some have joined Grand Lodge above,
But ever since Father Adams’ fall
We are dependent creatures all,
Though man is weak yet he may join
With others strength for to combine.

The illustration it is grand,
Five Oddfellows in one hand,
And yet they all united stand,
Each finger hath a different length,
Each finger varies in its strength,
Each one is weak, but a firm fist,
You can scarcely break or twist,
’Tis same with members of a lodge,
United them you cannot budge.

Then let us linked with pleasant chain,
Friendship, love and truth maintain,
And aid our brothers in distress,
The widows and the orphans bless,
Then let each lodge strive all it can,
Both Oxford and Samaritan
To aid distressed brother man,
Extending influence for good,
And universal brotherhood.

Do you unto this world belong,
To cheer us merrily with song?
Are you mortal like ourselves,
Or are you, charming little elves,
Sent from some higher sphere
To bliss and comfort us while here?
May you be spared from earthly woes
And each blossom like the rose.

On grassy amphitheater
Spectators sit, to view the war
’Mong bold contestants on the plain,
Where each doth strive the prize to gain;
And when the little boys and girls
In highland dress and waving curls,
From London, danced the Highland fling;
The whole mass did their praises sing;
And at the concert did applaud
The little charmers Blanch and Maud.

Come one, come all, to Scottish games
On the banks of Canadian Thames;
You’ll find that ’tis most pleasant way
You can enjoy the Queen’s Birthday.

In future years it will be famed
The day whereon the park was named,
With its boundry great extended
And nature’s charms sweetly blended.

Full worthy of the poet’s theme
Is hill and dale, and wood and stream,
And glittering spires, and busy town.
Where mansions’ do each mount top crown.

Come, witness the great tug-of-war,
And the great hammer thrown afar,
See running, jumping, highland fling,
At concert hear the sky lark sing.

And the bagpipes will send thrills
Like echoes from the distant hills,
And the bold sound of the pibroch
Which does resound o’er Scottish loch.

Young men and maids, and fine old dames
Will gather on the banks of Thames,
And though we have a tug-of-war
’Twill leave no wound or deadly scar.

’Twas on a pleasant eve in May.
Just as the sun shed its last ray,
The bell it rang, citizens to warn,
For lo! a fire appears in barn.

An ancient barn near hotel stood,
The joining buildings all were wood;
This barn a relic of the past,
There farmers’ horses were made fast.

Our once fair town is now in woe,
And we have had our Chicago;
But soon a nobler town will rise,
For Ingersoll’s all enterprise.

For water far town need not seek,
As there is river and the creek
Just find the means it to apply
And then all fires must quickly die.

Our youth and beauty here arranged,
In honor of the Fire Brigade;
And now every man is ready
To obey the bugle of Brady.

And always willing for to ralley
At the trumpet sound of Walley,
To the fire they rush at once,
Led on by gallant Captain Vance.

The firemen, now, their only strife,
It seems to be a race for life,
Which engine first shall reach the fire
And cause the wild flames to expire.

Oddfellows once they had to trudge
O’er rough stage road to the Grand Lodge,
But now they town of metal seek
And find it on the Kettle Creek.

For industry it here prevails
As it was built by the steel rails,
And here the wide expanded bridges
Do connect the distant ridges.

No more need to stay at home as
There’s lots of railroads to St. Thomas,
You pluckily did boldly venture,
Now you are great railroad centre.

Your city now it hath high hopes
From its great railway workshops,
And higher yet it still will rise,
This seat of so much enterprise.

When young man wants a wedded mate
He seeks Alma girl graduate,
And he loves her Alma mater
For the sake of her charming daughter.

Craft of King Hiram and St. John,
They figurative work on stone,
King Hiram he is the old sire
And he was famous King of Tyre.

But great as King upon a throne
Is the good, kind, true St. John,
Cathedrals did craftsmen raise,
Fills all our minds now with amaze.

No modern chisel has the power
To trace such leaf, and bud, and flower,
But though our structures now are rude
Let us all make the mortar good.

And this injunction never spare,
To have the work both plumb and square,
And it must have no crack nor flaw,
So masters will lay down the law.

Of all our work this is the chief,
To give the needy ones relief,
And with truth and brotherly love
We sublime structure raise above.

The greatest honor has been won
By that great builder Solomon,
And craftsmen o’er the world do sing
The praises of that mighty King.

The ancient poets ne’er did dream
That Canada was land of cream,
They ne’er imagined it could flow
In this cold land of ice and snow,
Where everything did solid freeze,
They ne’er hoped or looked for cheese.

A few years since our Oxford farms
Were nearly robbed of all their charms,
O’er cropped the weary land grew poor
And nearly barren as a moor,
But now their owners live at ease
Rejoicing in their crop of cheese.

And since they justly treat the soil,
Are well rewarded for their toil,
The land enriched by goodly cows
Yields plenty now to fill their mows,
Both wheat and barley, oats and peas,
But still their greatest boast is cheese.

Cow, you must treat her as a Queen,
When grass is dry cut her feed green;
8he will repay you for your toiling
For there’s profit in the soiling,
Its benefits one daily sees
Who takes an interest in the cheese.

And you must careful fill your mows
With good provender for your cows,
And in the winter keep them warm,
Protect them safe all time from harm,
For cows do dearly love their ease,
Which doth insure best grade of cheese.

To us it is a glorious theme
To sing of milk and curds and cream,
Were it collected it could float
On its bosom, small steam boat,
Cows numerous as swarm of bees
Are milked in Oxford to make cheese.

To prove the wealth that here abounds,
One cheese weighed eight thousand pounds,
Had it been hung in air at noon
Folks would have thought it was the moon,
It sailed with triumph o’er the seas,
’Twas hailed with welcome, queen of cheese.

Lines on a Fountain

We love cold water as it flows from the fountain,
Which nature hath brewed alone in the mountain;
In the wild woods and in the rocky dell,
Where man hath not been but the deer loves to dwell;
And away across the sea in far distant lands,
In Asia’s gloomy jungles and Africa’s drifting sands;
Where to the thirsty traveller a charming spot of green
Is by far the rarest gem his eyes have ever seen;
And when he has quenched his thirst at the cooling spring,
With many grateful songs he makes the air to ring;
For many nights he dreams of this scene of bliss,
And when he thinks of Heaven it is of such as this.

If pleasant night you wish to spend,
Go and invite your lady friend;
Oddfellow’s concert is the place
Where happiness beams in each face.
When you resolve to call her wife,
And to enjoy the rest of life,
All furniture you may require
You can get cheap from McIntyre.

Thomas Campbell

Poetry

Poetry to us is given,
As stars beautify the Heaven,
Or, as the sunbeams when they gleam,
Sparkling so bright upon the stream,
And the poetry of motion
Is ship sailing o’er the ocean;
Or, when the bird doth graceful fly,
Seeming to float upon the sky,
For poetry is the pure cream,
And essence of the common theme.

Poetic thoughts the mind doth fill,
When on broad plain to view a hill,
On barren heath how it doth cheer,
To see in distance herd of deer,
And poetry breathes in each flower,
Nourished by the gentle shower,
In song of birds upon the trees,
And humming of busy bees,
’Tis solace for the ills of life,
A soothing of the jars and strife,
For poets feel ’tis a duty
To sing of both worth and beauty.

When Wonham got orders
To advance to the borders,
His boys they were ready
And fell in quite steady.

They first marched to Woodstock,
To prepare for war’s shock,
And soon camped at Windsor,
Facing American shore.

A horrid goat we have to ride,
With long horns and shaggy hide,
And that the beast we have to stride well
Without saddle or a bridle.

Friends, with pleasure we do meet you,
And with hearty welcome greet you;
With many we have met before,
So pleasantly in days of yore.

But some new faces we do find,
And hope they’ll criticise us kind;
Abroad for talent we don’t roam,
But friends and neighbors here at home

Will give us now a splendid treat,
With speeches good and songs so sweet;
And instruments whose soothing charms
Will banish cares and our alarms.

In friendly deeds they lead the van,
Both Oxford and Samaritan,
To relieve brothers in distress,
And bounteously the widows bless.

A man rafting down the river,
Time he will remember ever,
He shouted, “Pole, the raft to land,
Or we’ll be wrecked upon the strand.”
But captain gave him a reply
That all danger he would defy;
But, in another moment more
Part was wrecked upon the shore
Of a Nova Scotian bay;
The other half was borne away.
Enough to make a person shiver,
Man was drifted out of river,
All alone on the broken raft,
Driven where e’er the wind did waft;
Right out on the open sea,
Where the storm did blow so free.
No shelter from the wind or wave,
He thought the gulf would be his grave.

He had no food, life to sustain,
He laid him down, there to remain.
What happened he did know no more,
But old man on Prince Edwards shore,
While gazing through his good spy glass,
“What do I see?” he cried, “Alas!
Some poor man, and I fear he’s dead,
Drifting to my humble shed.”
The body acted like a sail,
And wafted raft before the gale;
He called on men to man a boat,
And quickly crew had it afloat,
And in haste full soon they bore
His lifeless body to the shore.
But old man did them then desire
To place body near the fire,
And wrap it up in blankets warm⁠—
Which did act like to a charm⁠—
And soon the breath it did return.
With gratitude his heart did burn,
To think he was again restored
Unto his friends, whom he adored;
But worse misfortunes him befell,
Yet he bears up ’neath troubles well.

Full oft we did enraptured hark
To heavenly song of the skylark.

When this country it was woody,
Its great champion Mrs. Moody,
Showed she had both pluck and push
In her work roughing in the bush.

For there alone she did dwell
At time McKenzie did rebel,
Outbreak her husband strove to quell,
Her own grand struggles she doth tell.

Round bush life she threw a glory,
Pioneer renowned in story,
But her tale it is more cheering
When she wrote about the clearing.

Her other sister Mrs. Traill10
Though eighty-seven she doth not fail,
She now is writing of wild flowers
Grown in Canada’s woody bowers.

In summer time we roam o’er dingle,
But winter draws us round the ingle,
Why do you remain thus single,
When love would make two hearts tingle,
Pray, tell me why my dearest wingle,
With the fair you do not mingle,
Better with love ’neath cot of shingle,
Than all your yellow gold to jingle.

For married life you would enjoy,
And soon a little girl and boy,
They would your leisure hours employ,
At Christmas you could buy each toy,
And fill their little hearts with joy,
For their amusements never cloy,
Business cares do men annoy,
Child’s happiness knows no alloy.

Brantford as thriving city’s famed,
And after Indian Chief is named,
And here the sparkling Grand River
It doth flow a joy forever.

Campbell he sang a dismal tale
Of horrors of Wyoming’s vale,
The tale one’s mind doth ever haunt,
The cruelties of monster Brant.

But the Chief’s son to England went
And Campbell to him did lament,
And all the tale he did recant
About cruel butcheries of Brant.

Now pleasant thoughts it doth awake
When Brantford thinks of her namesake,
She evermore with pride will chant
The bold heroic name of Brant.

We sing of two great Indian names,
Tecumseh on the banks of Thames,
And the Grand River it doth vaunt
O’er the historic name of Brant.

The city’s pride it doth find vent
In building him a monument,
And Indians will proudly stalk
Past memorial of great Mohawk.

The Power of Steam

We now do sing a new theme,
It is prodigious power of steam;
And our little fast steam horse,
How he works with mighty force.

Instead of hay and oats, we thrust
In his mouth chips and saw dust;
Which heats the blood in his veins,
Then how he saws and bores and plains.

He’s never troubled with the botts,
But all the time he gaily trotts,
And every day he is full able
To make many a chair and table.

Work for him is only sport,
He feels so good he oft does snort,
As he trotts along his course,
Our little frolicksome steam horse.

Thorold is famous for its mills,
And the grand view from off its hills,
A view so charming and extended,
Nature’s beauties sweetly blended.

Poetic thoughts it doth awake
To view Ontario’s broad lake,
And husbandmen have their reward in
Fruits of this Provincial garden.

For from the hill you see below
Gardens where choice fruits do grow,
The landscape all within your reach
Doth both produce the grape and peach.

McCready said in the New World
The finest view was from Thorold,
You see St. Catharines thriving town
And steamers sailing up and down.

And you can see on a clear day
All along Toronto Bay,
And you clearly see the haze
Where Niagara doth amaze.

And glance where Grimsby’s gardens yield
Or view Beamsville’s fruitful field,
Then this thought you can advance,
This is Canada’s sunny France.

You see Niagara’s ancient town11
Though it has lost us old renown,
And you have a splendid view
Of boats on old canal and new.

“Then poets will arise and high their lays will soar,
Worthy of the muse of a Burns or a Moore,”
A Shakespeare and a Milton, the great and the wise,
Will sing of the glories of our northern skies,
Of its lakes and rivers and its mountains grand,
Of its fertile plains and great prairie land,
A fit theme for song this empire gigantic,
Whose arms stretch from Pacific to Atlantic.

When the British Lion offered aid to the Turk,
Round many lips a sneer of serious doubt did lurk,
They said he was at home on sea, but when on land
He would be as a ship wrecked upon the strand,
Or like some huge ungainly crocodile
Upon the marshy banks of sluggish Nile,
Who could move gaily on the deep
But on dry land could scarcely creep,
But up the Alma heights he rushed like greyhound after hare,
And in a moment by the throat he seized the Russian bear,
Which begged so hard for mercy his life he did it spare,
And closely now it is confined within its native lair,
For its strong fortress of Sebastpol
Was forced to submit to Great Britain’s rule.

A Christmas Tree

To night the children meet with glee
To view the fruits on Christmas Tree,
And when its beauties we behold
We’re very sorry we are old.
The children all they have good cause
To feel grateful to old Santa Claus,
And to each teacher, and each friend,
Who did these handsome presents send.
To us it is a pleasant treat,
With so many friends here to meet,
You’ve well conducted public school
Where master doth judicious rule;
The union it doth give its strength,
Gives section breadth, as well as length.
Nissouri here should build a Hall,
For exhibitions in the Fall;
Its claims they cannot be ignored,
For first in township stands Thamesford.
This village keeps up with the age,
For it hath a good daily stage
And in its efforts never fails
To carry passengers and mails.

Though we know we are no singer,
Yet we will chaunt farewell to Springer,
One of our oldest past grands,
About to visit distant lands.

And we all sincerely hope
You may enjoy Pacific slope,
And when you gaze on this ring
May it pleasant memories bring.

Of good old Lodge, Samaritan,
Where friendship makes us all as one;
’Tis hard to strike your name from roll
With us so long in Ingersoll.

Though we regret to say farewell,
May blessings rest where ’ere you dwell,
And on the partner of your joy
Happiness without alloy.

When we went down to London in midst of the champaign
A brother looked at me as though I had been Cain,
And in a voice of thunder, as I sat at the table,
He fiercely asked of me “where is your Brother Abel?”
To which I did reply “I’m not my brother’s keeper,
But at home you’ll find him, in his bed asleep, sir.”

Burns and Scott in Edinburgh

When Burns did make triumphant entry
’Mong Edina’s famous gentry,
A discussion did there arise
Among those solons learned and wise,
About some lines by a new poet.
The author’s name none did know it,
Poem was of Canadian snow
And how o’er it the blood did flow,
For it had then been swept by war
Where armies met in deadly jar.

But ’mong philosophers was boy
Of tender years now Scotland’s joy,
He there did quickly quote each line
And author’s name he did define,
Burns glanced at him with loving eyes,
Youth ever more that look did prize,
The happiest moment in his lot
Ever revered by Walter Scott.
Thus Scotlands greatest poets met,
And they did part with sad regret.

John Galt and Doctor Dunlop witty
They located and planned the city
Of Guelph, and they cut the first tree down,
The stump was the centre of the town.

From thence the streets radiate like fan,
And they projected on this same plan
The towns of Stratford and Goderich,
The last it stands near broad Huron’s beach,

Conspicuous on a bluff so grand,
’Neath which doth flow the clear Maitland,
Of glorious view you may partake,
Gazing on Huron’s mighty lake.

Agricultural Implements and Machinery

Poor laborers they did sad bewail,
When the machine displaced the flail,
There’s little work now with the hoes.
Since cultivators weed the rows.

Labor it became more fickle,
When the scythe took place of sickle,
Labor still it did sink lower,
By introduction of mower.

And the work was done much cheaper
When they added on the reaper,
Another machine to it they join,
Mower, reaper, binder, all combine.

Machines now load and stow away,
Both the barley and the hay,
And the farmers do get richer
With the loader and the pitcher.

There’s very few men now hand sows,
No more broad cast the grain it grows,
They sow and rake by the machine,
Hand labor is ’mong the things have been.

Armed with scythes the old war chariot,
Cut men down in the fierce war riot,
Round farmers’ chariot fall the slain,
But ’tis the sheaves of golden grain.

Some poets they abroad do roam,
But we find themes are near to home;
As we do seldom travel far,
This is a song of a glass jar.

Snake of species of the copper,
And on its head there was live hopper,
For we saw that funny sight
In a store, it was last night.

There in water was a snake,
And a bug so wide awake;
He was afraid that he would drown
So he clomb up on the snake’s crown.

This snake it is near a foot long,
Which doth suffer this great wrong,
It thinks the bug wants it to throttle
This makes it wriggle in the bottle.

But fondly the kind hearted bug,
It doth its preserver hug,
For the bug when on the water
It is only but a squatter.

And hath taken up homestead
On the top of the snake’s head,
And on the waters it doth float
Safe and happy on this boat.

Our friend, Mr. Romley,
He told the tale homley,
And yet full of fun,
How the Rabbits did run,
In numbers a score,
All around his door.
They were red, black and white,
Their play folks did delight;
But they got small by degrees,
For the cats did them seise⁠—
All but one big black Rabbit,
He got into the habit
Under ground he would dive⁠—
He long time did survive,
’Till owner, wanting fat pot,
He this great beast then shot.
When police heard the gun,
Full quickly he did run,
In a furious rage;
But his wrath did as‑uage
When he got a quarter
Of the last martyr.

Let Her Go

Will you please to let me go, Ma,
To McIntyre’s, to buy a Sofa.

In this Album you may trace⁠—
If not the lineaments of face⁠—
Here, at least, you will find
Photographs of the mind.

Some in earnest, some in fun,
Some do lecture, some do pun;
Here the maiden and the youth,
Each proclaim some precious truth.

And there is some fine pages⁠—
Written by maturer ages⁠—
They show that time is brief,
That soon comes sere and yellow leaf.

But we must cease, ’ere your ire
Be aroused ’gainst McIntyre,
Who doth reside in Ingersoll⁠—
Perhaps you’ll think that he is droll.

You glory in your typewriter,
And its virtues you rehearse,
But we prefer the old inditer,
For to write either prose or verse.

And let each man work his will,
But never never do abuse
The ancient and glorious quill
From the wing of a fine old goose.12

In its own place ’tis very good
Always to have plenty of wood;
But, striking fair maid, that is rude,
And puts me in an angry mood.

Pleasant memories it awakes,
When musing on our northern lakes;
For there I saw a charming Reed,
A friend to me in hour of need.
I wished to cross to other shore,
And deftly she did ply the oar,
And o’er the Lake me swiftly bore.
I was plunged in deep despair,
Before I met this charming fair;
I could not go around by land,
And I felt like shipwrecked on the strand;
Until fair vision hove in sight
Graceful as a fairy sprite.
May she be blest, is the desire
Of her true friend James McIntyre.

Dressing in fashion will be called vain,
And they’ll call you a dowdy if you are plain,
But do what is right, let that be the test,
Then proudly hold up your head with the best.
For people will talk.

You will never be wrong if you do what is right,
And this course pursue with all of your might,
And if you’re a child going to school,
Or full grown up take this for your rule.
For people will talk.

The best way to do is to let them rave
And they’ll think more of you if you are brave,
For no one will ever think you are rude
If you are determined for to be good.
For people will talk.

Little girl on her way to Sunday School class,
Rude boys sometimes will not let her pass,
But if they see she is not afraid
They soon will respect the brave little maid.
For people will talk.

Little girls should learn to knit and to sew,
Then if to womanhood they ever grow,
Their hose they can knit and make their own dress,
And pathway of life for others they bless.
For people will talk.

And their homes they should make tidy and neat,
Everything should be so clean and so sweet,
This line for ourselves out we will chalk
And we are determined in it to walk.
For people will talk.

A maiden cried, “Alas!
With horror I’ll expire,
Unless you bring me
That true glass
I bought of McIntyre.”

A wondrous tale we now do trace
Of little children fell in race,
The youngest of these little dears,
The boy’s age is but three years.

While coasting o’er the treacherous ice,
These precious pearls of great price,
The elder Ruby, the daughter,
Was rescued from the ice cold water.

But horrid death each one did feel,
Had sure befallen little Neil,
Consternation all did fill,
And they cried shut down the mill.

But still no person they could tell
What had the poor child befell,
The covered race, so long and dark,
Of hopes there scarcely seemed a spark.

Was he held fast as if in vice,
Wedged ’mong the timbers and the ice,
Or was there for him ample room
For to float down the narrow flume.

Had he found there a watery grave,
Or borne along on crest of wave,
Think of the mother’s agony wild,
Gazing through dark tunnel for her child.

But soon as Partlo’ started mill,
Through crowd there ran a joyous thrill,
When he was quickly borne along,
The little hero of our song.

Alas! of life there is no trace,
And he is black all over face,
Though he then seemed as if in death,
Yet quickly they restored his breath.

Think now how mother13 she adored
Her sweet dear child to her restored,
And her boundless gratitude
Unto the author of all good.

Swept through dark passage ’neath the road,
Saved only by the hand of God,
No wonder Father now feels proud
Of little Niel McKay McLeod.

Rannie began with just two cows,
Which he in winter fed on brouse,
And now he hath got mighty herds,
Numerous as flock of birds;
May he long live, our hearts to cheer,
This great and useful Pioneer.

A Bird’s Nest

An old man who had charge of field,
With pride he saw two birds did build,
A broad capacious warm nest,
So full of young with speckled breast,

And when the old man there did pass,
They soon ran merry ’mong the grass,
But of the youth they were so shy,
They made strong efforts for to fly.

Youths tried with old man to prevail,
To let them blaze away at quail,
But though they longed for a fat pot,
At them they never got a shot.

No more the old man doth them shield,
For they have flown to broader field,
Long may they spread their wings and tail,
And may no foe them ’ere assail.

Lines on Removal

Come, listen, while we sound the lyre,
To announce the fact, that McIntyre
Is back again to his old block,
And he has got a splendid stock.

He also hath a strong desire
To see old friends, and new acquire;
His Furniture is cheap and good,
In every style and kind of wood.

But none in health need ’ere despair,
If they buy from him an easy chair.
When you his Warehouse then do seek,
’Tis where the brick bridge spans the creek.

Joseph Howe, none higher stood than thou,
Thou wert a man with lofty brow;
D’Arcy McGee, so brilliant and free,
From green isle you came o’er the sea.

George Cartier to the French ever dear,
So high you stood without a peer;
John Sandfield14 for long you did build
Power under economy’s shield.

George Brown, thou man of renown,
Confederation you did crown;
You now are all free from the strife
The wrangle and jangle of political life.

But if a glance at this world you take
You will there see John A. and Blake,
But Sir John the greatest power doth wield,
Our Canadian Beaconsfield.15

His mother from celestial bower,
In the self-same day and hour
Of her death or heavenly birth,
Gazed again upon the earth,
And saw her gentle, loving boy,
Once source of fond maternal joy,
In anguish on a couch of pain.
She knew that earthly hopes were vain,
And beckoned him to realms above
To share with her the heavenly love.

Scotland has produced three great shepherds
Talford, the inventor of Suspension Bridges,
Ferguson, the Astronomer, and Hogg the
Ettrick shepherd, the great song writer.

Brodie Castle, ever dear to my heart,
For there I first played my humble part.
When only thirteen, I there had employ.
In the position of a shepherd boy;

For I was born on that fine estate,
Famed for its trees, so lofty and great,
And its magnificent avenue grand,
Which hath been famed over the land.

And, though I did leave to learn my trade,
And in Western world a home I have made,
Yet, when I look back, my heart it still cheers,
Though it is now more than threescore years.

Since first I went there as a shepherd boy,
Thoughts of the time fill my heart yet with joy,
Though, that I ne’er shall see Castle more,
Fond memory reverts to the days of yore.

One day while passing ’long the road
On a small book we almost trod,
Its leaves were scattered o’er the ground,
We picked them up and when we found

The author’s name, it did inspire
Us with a very strong desire
To read the little volume through,
For most of it to us was new.

He doth sing of land of heather
And Canadian scenes together,
He did adore Niagara’s roar
Where mighty flood o’er fall doth pour.

But poets lives are often brief
And he had his full share of grief,
Which to his life did gloom impart,
But he bore up with his brave heart.

I heard Bill say to-day, Mary,
That you are a charming fairy,
And that to town he’d give you drive,
But just as sure as you’re alive,
He does intend to have the bliss,
Of stealing from your lips a kiss.

I’ll let him drive me now, Jane,
His efforts they will all be vain,
I hate him, and I him defy,
And anger flashed from her eye,
The monster’s wiles I will defeat,
Peck of strong onions I will eat.

A Canadian Romance16

An English youth to Canada came,
A labourer, John Roe by name,
His little wealth had made him bold,
Twenty sovereigns in gold;
He was industrious and wise
And e’en small sums did not despise,
He added to his wealth each year
For independence he loved dear,
He knew a laborer he would be
Forever in the old country,
His forefathers had tilled the ground
And never one had saved a pound.
On beds of down they did not lie
And frugally their goods did buy,
Their one luxury around their door
A few choice flowers their garden bore,
But never hoped to own the soil
But serve as hinds to sweat and toil,
To work and toil for him had charm
He hoped some day to own a farm,
So he hired with Reuben Tripp
The wealthiest man in the township.
Tripp’s only child, his daughter Jane,
He sought her love and not in vain,
As Jacob served for Rachel dear
So John he served year after year,
Till rich enough to buy bush farm
For to chop down with his strong arm.
The truest nobleman of all
He lives not in ancestral hall,
But sheltereth family from harm
By logs rolled up by his strong arm,
In this young glorious land so free
Where each may rear his own roof tree,
And the chief glory of old days
Broad fire place where big logs did blaze,
As much as four strong men could handle,
They served alike for heat and candle;
He his young oxen did adorn
With fine gay ribbons on each horn,
And to his home with joy and pride
He did bring sweet blooming bride,
Such happiness is seldom seen,
Happier far than king or queen;
She helped him in the fields to reap,
And spun the wool from off the sheep,
All they required they had for both,
Of her own weaving of good cloth,
And she was a good tailoress,
Did make his coat and her own dress;
The golden butter that she made
Was of the very finest grade,
Each grace and virtue she possess’d,
Where’er she was, that spot was blessed,
And though they did not have stove then,
Neither did they own an oven;
She filled large pot with well knead dough
And baked fine bread ’mong embers glow;
He each winter the forest trees
Did quickly hew them down with ease,
For he to work had a desire
And the skill did soon acquire,
But round great giants hewed a ring
Then storms would soon them prostrate bring,
For many a time the furious breeze
Would quick o’erthrow the girdled trees,
And sometimes they would kill the cows
When they did feed on grass or browse,
But after reckoning damage all
A benefit was each windfall;
Though good fortune now he sees
Might have been got from Walnut trees;
But trees were foes in his hurry,
All were slain, both oak and cherry,
And to this day he doth incline
To mourn o’er slaughter of the pine,
And reflects how he did o’erwhelm
Many a maple, beech and elm;
And each summer day did toil
With his steers drawing logs in pile;
These giants of the forest dead,
Fire did reduce to an ash bed,
And soon potatoes, wheat and corn,
They did the rugged stumps adorn,
And Jane did help him with the hoe,
And well she did keep her row:
No organs then they had to play,
But she could work and sing all day;
In spring he did live maples tap
To draw from them the luscious sap,
He gathered it in big log trough,
Then boiled it down and sugared off,
Enough the household for to cheer,
With all its sweets for the whole year,
And no such thing those times were seen
As the swift raising stump machine,
And where main road was low and damp
With logs he built a road through swamp,
But a smooth ride could not enjoy
While it was naught but corduroy,
Each year added earth and gravel,
Now smoothly o’er they can travel,
For it doth make an excellent road
For John and Jane to go abroad,
And it is now a great highway
Where hundreds travel every day.
There were no roads in early days
But bridle path, their guide the blaze,
And mills and marts so far away,
They never could return same day;
Log school house served as church for all,
Of various creeds, and for town hall.
These scenes to youth do now seem strange
So wondrous quick hath been the change,
O’er paths where oxen only trod,
Cows quickly speed o’er the railroad,
And every way both up and down
There has sprung up a thriving town.
No more he fights with forest trees,
But both enjoy their wealth and ease,
Long since the old folks both are gone
And left the whole to Jane and John;
The log house now has passed away
With all its chinks filled in with clay,
And in its place fine house of stone
With lawn where choice shrubs are grown.
With sons and daughters they are blest,
The young men say they’ll move Northwest;
This gives their mother some alarm,
She wants them still on the home farm,
But father will not have them tarry
They can plow so quick on prairie,
And they find coal makes a good fire,
And build their fences of barbed wire
They would not be forever gone
As they could talk by telephone.

O for a Lodge

“O for a lodge in some vast wilderness”
A man cried out in his distress,
For he was tired and sick of life,
And weary of this worldly strife,
And longed for to be far away
From the continuous daily fray.

But the fond partner of his life,
His own dearest, loving wife,
Those sentiments did not admire,
For fiercely they did rouse her ire,
Said she, I’ll never let you budge
To go and join another lodge,
Your lodges take six nights each week,
And still another lodge you seek,
For your whole time they soon will steal,
You won’t get home even to a meal,
Continuous abroad you’ll roam,
And never enter your own home.

When we do trace out nature’s laws,
And view effects, and muse on cause,
For the future there’s great hope
If we our eyes do only ope.
With joy they will often glisten,
If to truth one doth but listen;
But people often turn deaf ear
And what is useful will not hear.

Now for a minute, lend your luggs,
Our theme, it is potato bugs.
Just buy a pair of young peafowl,
Their voice may be like to screech owl,
But soon as the potato shows
You there will find the peafowl goes,
Up one row and down the other
Like loving sister with brother.

And you will find that down their muggs
Have disappeared potato bugs,
There’s no more need of Paris green
For they will keep potatoes clean.
And faithful they will work all day,
For to them ’tis gay sport and play;
No more you need their voice bewail,
But admire beauties of the tail.

We fear to say, and yet we must,
Dried apples once were full of dust,
And you all know it is no joke.
Saturate with tobacco smoke,
And the hole where string did go through
Was nest for animalcule,
And collected the kitchen steam.
But process now is sweet and clean,
Viewed with pleasure by spectator,
Work of the evaporator.

Wars in Queen Victoria’s Reign

We will now sing in thoughtful strain
Of wars in Queen Victoria’s reign.
The Russian bear did ages lurk,
All ready for to spring on Turk,
For Russian statesmen did divine
That they should conquer Constantine,
But like a greyhound after hare
The Lion did drive back the Bear,
And made it feel the British rule
At gates of strong Sebastopol.
Then insolent was Persia,
Till Lion had to dictate law,
And while engaged in scenes like these
He was attacked by the Chinese,
And for this outrage all so wanton
He then resolved to seize on Canton.
But soon there came a dismal cry
Of slaughter’d Britons from Delhi,
The Bengal Tiger sick with gore
Did tremble at the Lion’s roar,
But Britain got a serious shock
By losing of brave Havelock,
But Campbell ’mid a numerous foe
Full quick these armed hosts did o’erthrow,
In Abyssinian dungeons vile
Lay captives of Great Britain’s isle,
But soon the tyrant Theodore
Lay sadly weltering in his gore.
The savage tribes of Ashantee
From British troops did quickly flee,
In Afghan and Zulu wars
Many did find their deadly scars;
In the land of the Pharaohs
The Christians suffered cruel woes,
Till in Alexandria Bay
The British iron clads did display,
The mighty power they did wield,
While their steel sides from harm did shield,
And British army on the land
Marched bravely o’er the burning sand,
And Arabi found ’twas useless labor,
His strong trench of Tel-el-Kebir,
Egyptians did not wish to feel
In their breasts cold British steel,
Their great power was soon laid low
And Wolseley entered Grand Cairo.
Egyptians now no more revile
The Christians on the banks of Nile.
We have sung three heroes’ names.
Havelock from the land of Thames,
And Campbell from the banks of Clyde,
And Wolseley from Liffy’s side,
When rose, thistle, shamrock unite
They do prove victors in the fight,
Now Britain once more does command
Respect alike on sea and land,
But now may wars forever cease
And mankind ever live in peace.

Irish Poets

American Poets

Scottish Poets

Reply to the Toast of Scottish Poets

Burns sang so sweet behind the plow,
Daisies we’ll wreath around his brow,
Musing on thee what visions throng,
Of floods you poured of Scottish song.
Scott he did write romancing rhymes
Of chivalry of ancient times;
For tender feeling none can cope
With Campbell the sweet Bard of hope.
Eye with sympathetic tear in
Will shed it for Exile of Erin,
And Tannahill while at his loom
Wove flowers of song will ever bloom.
Hogg, Ettrick Shepherd, did gain fame
By singing when the Kie comes hame,
With good time coming Bard McKay
Still merrily doth cheer the way.

Lines on South of Scotland

The South of Scotland did produce
Heroic Wallace and the Bruce,
And even time will never blot
The record of her Burns and Scott,
And Tanahill renowned bard,
And that sweet songster Ettrick Shepherd.

The Shires on the Moray Frith

Worthy of either song or story
Are the shires round Frith of Moray,
Here lies the valley of Strathspey,
Famed for its music, lively, gay,
Elgin cathedral’s ’prentice aisle
Is glory of that ruined pile.
What modern chisel now could trace
Fine sculpture of that ancient place,
And Forres famed for Sweyn’s stane
In honor of that kingly Dane,
’Graved with warriors runes and rhymes,
Long prior to historic times,
For a thousand years its been forgot
Who was victor Dane or Scot,
It is the country of McBeth
Where good King Duncan met his death,
And barren heath that place of fear
Stood witches cauldron of Shakespeare,
Nairn’s Cawdor castle strong remains
Full worthy of the ancient Thanes,
And nestled ’neath the hills and bens
Queen of the moors, the lochs and glens,
Full proudly stands in vale of bliss
Chief Highland town of Inverness,
Near here the famous falls of Foyers
Where Burns and others tuned their lyres,
And the fatal field of dark Culloden
Where doughty clans were once down trodden,
Here men yet wear the tartan plaid
Ready to join the Highland Brigade,
And when the Frith you look across
The eye beholds Sutherland and Ross,
Where Duke has harnessed mighty team,
Plows hills and rocks and moors by steam,
Perhaps it may in part atone
For cruel clearings days bygone,
And Cromarty, whose wondrous mason,
First learned his geologic lesson,
Friends may rear a stately pillar,
The old red sand stone of Hugh Miller,
Ben Wyvis towers like monarch crowned,
Conspicuous o’er the hills around,
With crest ’ere white with driven snow,
Strathpeffer’s water cure below.

Scotia’s sons to-night we meet thee,
With kindly feelings we do greet thee,
In honor of the land of heather,
Around this board to-night we gather.

Land where the fields for border edges,
Have garlands of blooming hedges,
Land of the whin and of the broom
And where the bonnie blue bells bloom.

Land where you may enraptured hark
To heavenly song of the skylark,
Which soars triumphant in the skies
Above the gaze of human eyes.

Land of bleak hills and fertile dales,
Where they tell oft their fairy tales,
Land where the folks do love the kirk
And on the Sabbath cease from work.

Land of porridge and of brose,
Of blue bonnets and of tartan hose,
The land where all good wives do bake
The thrifty, wholesome, oaten cake.

We hope some day to tread the strand
Of our own dear native land,
And see the lasses shear the corn18
Near the banks of the Findhorn.

Where the Jeans and the Maggies
Excel in making glorious baggies,
And o’er the sea we’ll some day sail
To get a bowl of good green kail.

Scotsmen have wandered far and wide,
From Moray Frith to Frith of Clyde;
McDonald, from his sea girt isle,
And Campbell from his broad Argyle⁠–⁠

But chiefly here you have come forth
From those countries of the north;
Some oft have trod Dunrobins’s Halls,
And gazed upon its stately walls.

Here to-night in this array
Is Murray, McKenzie and McKay;
And there doth around us stand
The Munroe, Ross and Sutherland.

Your young men have high honour earned;
In all of the professions learned;
Your Bonnie Lasses sung in song,
And youths are famed for muscle strong.

Long ’ere Her Majesty the Queen
Had visited of Aberdeen,
’Ere she in castle did abide
’Mong glorious hills on the Dee side,
Or visited each Highland glen,
Or won the hearts of Highland men,
Here oft’ was seen in celtic dress
Two Stewarts brave in Inverness,
Well worthy of the poet’s lyre.
They claimed Prince Charlie as grandsire,
And that they also did combine
Stuart with Royal Polish line,
Their names Sobieskie, Stuart,
They won many a Highland heart,
But Royal order did go forth
To build Balmoral Castle North,
Then wondrous change was quickly seen,
All hearts were captured by the Queen.

Scottish Names in Oxford County

We have the Murray and McKay
From the country of Lord Rae;20
McKenzie too from many a loch,
From Dingwall, Fain, and old Dornoch.

Price soon will rise, though now ’tis low,
And brooks of milk will onward flow;
Were it collected in one stream
There would be floods of milk and cream.21

Where’er you find the Fisher folk
There, under superstitions yoke,
For a strong faith ’mong them prevails.
Of truth of witch and fairy tales.
They think that witch could hurl a shaft
Which would o’erwhelm their fishing craft,
For witches do with Satan truck,
They can give good or bring bad luck;
Fish women do their children teach
To bait the lines down on the beach;
Themselves do wade in sea for net
So husband’s feet will not get wet,
For the women are barefooted,
And the men are heavy booted.

In Fisher, Town of Cromarty,
There once did meet a noisy party,
Confusion worse than Babel’s Tower,
It did prevail for a whole hour;
When from sea shore wives did return
Each one did find good cause to mourn,
For each babe was left in cradle,
Had been changed, ’tis no fable;
They said ’twas fairies did them change,
And left with them but weaklings strange.
Old wife, to end confusion wild,
Said each must bring to her the child;
Soon mothers they did find their dears,
And did wipe then from eyes all tears,
While few young men across the way
They glorious did enjoy the fray,
For while the mothers were at beach
They changed all babes within their reach.

Our ancient custom to renew,
We meet to honor St. Andrew,
He was of the Jewish nation,
A fisherman by occupation;
No warlike knight with lance and sword
But humbly following his Lord;
And Scotia she justly claims
Her soil contains his last remains,
In early times the Pilgrims drew
Into the shrine of St. Andrew,
For miracles it gained renown,
And thence sprang up St. Andrew’s town;
Now clansmen twine round maple leaf,22
When rallying at the call of chief,
And time will come when we’ll be one,
And proud of name Canadian,
But Scotia must not be forgot
For sake of Chalmers, Burns and Scott,
But here upon Canadian soil
A man may own where he doth toil,
For here each may enjoy the charm
Of owning fine prairie farm.

Halloween

A tale we’ll tell of what hath been
When maids and youths kept Halloween,
It is a tale of old world lore
What happened in the days of yore,
When fairies danced upon the green
So merrily on Halloween,
And witches did play many a trick
Assisted by their auld friend Nick,
And lovers meet around the fire
Near to the one their hearts desire,
For to burn nuts for to discover
The truthfulness of their lover.
They first did give each nut a name,
This was Sandy, that was Jane.
If they did blaze side by side,
She knew her husband, he his bride,
But if one up the chimney flew,
One knew the other was not true.
And one sure test did never fail,
Blindfold to find good stock of kale,
To pull the first comes to the hand
With heavy roots of earth and sand,
For the very weight of mould
Does denote weight of lovers gold.
In tubs children love to splatter,
Ducking for apples in the water,
For such were the delights of yore,
Which soon will cease for evermore;
At Balmoral Castle Britain’s Queen
Oft’ celebrated Halloween,
But Highland landlords now do clear
Land of men to make room for deer,
But here upon Canadian soil
A man may own where he doth toil.

The tidings now all hearts do please,
That she has landed safe, Louise,
Victoria’s beloved daughter,
Who boldly has crossed the water,
For royal Princess doth adorn
The title of the Lord of Lorne,
For this union it doth join
Campbell with Royal Stewart line;
Lorne will be Duke of broad Argyle,
And the Lord of many an Isle.
When he inherits broad domain
May he strive tenants hearts to gain.
To us it seems a brighter morn
Hath dawned on us with Governor Lorne,
And when they visited this place
True happiness beamed on each face,
The first white child who here was born
Presented was to Governor Lorne,
From Forest ’ere it was reclaimed,
Our fine town after him was named.

A lad brought up in Highland vale
Who did believe each fairy tale,
Which his grannie oft’ to him told,
And of witches and of warlocks bold,
And he himself would often pour
For hours reading wizard lore.
One night his mother to the town
In a hurry sent him down,
So o’er his pony he did stride,
And to the town did fearful ride,
He thought that demons they would rush
On him from every rock and bush,
And as he rode through the quarry
It did great increase his flurry,
He felt that fiends with fiercest hate
Would surely there seal fast his fate.

But town he reached and ’neath his vest
He parcel pressed close to his breast,
The pony now he mounts once more
For to pass quarry as before,
But, alas, at that fatal spot
He heard a gun, he was elf shot,
He felt that from his breast a flood
Was pouring down of his heart’s blood,
But he clung fast to pony’s back,
Though loss of blood his frame did rack,
But in spite of his alarms
He resolved to die in mother’s arms,
And when he reached his own door
He said that he was drenched in gore,
From bullet hole all in his breast.
His father opened up his vest,
And he did sadly fear the worst
But found yeast bottle had but burst.

Now the youth in fertile Moray
Do in Gordon Cumming glory,
Bold lion hunter-first who made
With Africa tribes successful trade;
First in those wilds to fire a gun,
While he the mighty trophies won.

There is a man, his name is Brown,
He lives in a suburban town
And has an office in the city,
His misfortunes you will pity.
His mind it was on stocks and change,
He cared not for things new or strange;
But agent managed him to hook
And sold to him a costly book.
Brown cared not for those glorious names⁠—
Died for religion in the flames;
Now he felt agent was a Tartar
For selling him a book of martyr.

The agent knew it would make strife,
But sold another to his wife;
She did not know that Brown had bought,
And agent on her easy wrought.
Approaching her with winning smile
He poor woman did beguile.
He made her believe without a doubt
No Christian could do without
This book, which would all inspire
With spark of celestial fire,
With feelings like the first martyr
Who had died for Christian charter.

When Brown did home return at night
His wife, to add to his delight,
Resolved that she would, after tea,
Get chatting with her husband free
And tell him of fine book she bought;
Of trouble fresh she never thought,
But she noticed a gloomy frown
On the brow of her husband Brown,
But thought when I my purchase tell
Those dark clouds they will dispel;
She said, my dear, I bought martyr,
He looked as if he her could quarter.

And said the scoundrel sold me book;
Out of the window then he did look
And saw the agent haste to train;
He tried to stop him, but in vain;
Smith then was passing in spring wagon,
And he had his trotting nag on;
He told him to stop book agent;
His escape for to prevent,
Smith told him Brown wanted him;
But agent-nothing daunted him;
Said he: He only wants to barter
With me for my book of Martyr.

If thats all, said Smith, with quick dash,
Give me his book, and here’s your cash;
Book agent jumped aboard the car,
For he knew there would be war;
Smith met Brown with triumphant look,
Said he: I have got you the book;
Brown’s feelings now no one could paint,
He there did show he was no saint;
But to big own home he now returned,
And fierce rage in his bosom burned;
He was not fit for Knight of Garter
When he brought in the third martyr.

From roots of prose of various climes,
Each tale thus grows all clad in rhymes.

In summer time it doth seem good
To seek the shade of the green wood,
For it doth banish all our care
When we gaze on scene so fair.

And birds do here in branches sing
So merrily in early spring,
And lovingly they here do pair
Their mutual joys together share.

Here nature’s charming, never rude,
Inspiring all with happy mood,
Tables had choice fruits of season,
And we too had feast of reason.

When Father Ranney left the States,
In Canada to try the fates,
He settled down in Dereham,
Then no dairyman lived near him;
He was the first there to squeeze
His cows’ milk into good cheese,
And at each Provincial show
His famed cheese was all the go.

He always took the first prize
Both for quality and size,
But many of his neighbors
Now profit by his labors,
And the ladies dress in silk
From the proceeds of the milk,
But those who buy their butter,
How dear it is, they mutter.

The farmers can not be beat,
They have both cheese and their wheat,
Though now their greatest care is
For to watch o’er their dairies,
They carefully fill their mows
With provender for their cows,
And they thus enrich the soil
With much profit for their toil.

The motto “union is strength”
Is carried out at length,
In the most compact array
At every cheese factory,
You’ll see without going far as
There is one kept by Harris,
The factory of Ingersoll,
Just out at the first toll.

Or you may go all the way
To see one kept by Galloway,
And out in the Norwiches
Dairymen are making riches,
And honor has been won
By Harvey Farrington,
The same path is trodden
By folks about Culloden.

And of late we saw some
Very good cheese from Lawson,
All around Mt. Elgin
Dairymen have well done,
And out in East Nissouri
They make some scores a day,
From Jarvis and Elliott
Some good cheese are bought.

Now we close this glorious theme,
This song of curds and rich cream,
You can buy your hoops and screws,
And all supplies for dairy use,
Milk cans and vats, all things like these,
In Ingersoll great mart for cheese,
Here buyers all do congregate
And pay for cheese the highest rate.

Hints to Cheese Makers

All those who quality do prize
Must study color, taste and size,
And keep their dishes clean and sweet,
And all things round their factories neat,
For dairymen insist that these
Are all important points in cheese.

Grant has here a famous work
Devoted to the cure of pork,
For dairymen find it doth pay
To fatten pigs upon the whey,
For there is money raising grease
As well as in the making cheese.

We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you’ll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

Cows numerous as a swarm of bees,
Or as the leaves upon the trees,
It did require to make thee please,
And stand unrivalled, queen of cheese.

May you not receive a scar as
We have heard that Mr. Harris
Intends to send you off as far as
The great world’s show at Paris.

Of the youth beware of these,
For some of them might rudely squeeze
And bite your cheek, then songs or glees
We could not sing, oh! queen of cheese.

We’rt thou suspended from balloon,
You’d cast a shade even at noon,
Folks would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.

McIntyre Has a Few Rows

McIntyre has a few rows
Of the latest styles of Bureaus.

We love to sing of classic names⁠—
Even if we choose a borrowed plume⁠—
Our theme, the Valley of the Thames,
Where man may yet find ample room.

It is not of old England’s river,
Covered o’er with many a mast;
But where Cabot did discover
The land of lakes and forests vast.

Although we have historic claims,
Yet them we now do lay aside;
We pass the battle of the Thames,24
Where foreign foe did fiercely ride.

We do not sing the graceful dames,
No more than the fierce battle’s shock;
We merely trace old English names,
Beginning first with the Woodstock.

England’s Woodstock had a palace
None was raised up grander, stronger;
Canadian Woodstock without malice,
We may say your streets by far the longer.25

Yet you are Oxford’s County Town,
And can boast a fine new college,
Which with old age may some day frown,
Like Old England’s seat of knowledge

The next in order we enroll
Is Westminster and Middlesex,
With London for it capitol⁠—
These names a Cockney do perplex.

Each familiar name doth greet thee!
Its bridges, markets, and its halls;
All things in the Forest City
Bears English names, even to St. Pauls’.

The next in order we do trace,
Is Chatham⁠—once a famed resort⁠—
For there the bloodhound dared not chase,
Nor tear good colored men from sport.

And now our verse draws to a close,
Because beyond the County Kent
The Thames by name no longer flows,
But in the lake it finds a vent.

The People All Say and Declare It Is True

The people all say and declare it is true,
The best furniture is made of McIntyre’s glue.

My dear friend Gunn,
May you prize won,
But to us hark
When you shoot mark,

High you must aim
And at right game,
And truth employ
Wrong to destroy.

Your friend the Bard
Hopes your reward
Will be furriore
For Courier.

Indian Mutiny

British infants who were nobly born
Were from their bleeding mother’s bosom torn,
And with the bayonet dashed upon the street
There left to lie for native dogs to eat.

But the British Lion he quick o’erthrew,
Both the high and the low Hindu,
Now they respect the Christian laws
For fear of British Lion’s paws.

You may look but look in vain
For stores with such immense pane;
All other shops they do surpass
With their enormous lights of glass.

One night by chance through them we gazed
But we did quickly stand amazed;
Three moons they did beauteous glow,
And gleams so lovely they did throw.

But a still more wond’rous story:
Mid day showed three suns in glory;
At the sight we scarce could gaze,
So full of brilliancy the rays.

We had to curtain off the glory;
If you don’t believe this wond’rous story
Ask Editor of the Tribune
About this tale of sun and moon.

Which did bewilder McIntyre
Gazing on mighty orbs of fire;
Eclipsing the electric light
So brilliant in their glorious might.

Luminaries no more invade,
Excluded now by window shade;
Pray think that this is no intrusion,
This tale of optical illusion.

When the great Bulwer’s pen did trace
The history of the coming race
His hero to us he hath unfurled
The glories of his new found world.

This bold traveller be did venture
Far below our world’s centre;
He entered through an ancient mine
And to us doth new world define.

Once all was discord and fierce jars,
Continuous engaged in wars
Till they discovered great vrill power,
Then wars did cease from that same hour.

Mighty bolts from it were hurled;
Would soon have laid waste the world;
So for world’s preservation
At once they stopped desolation.

All wars by them are now despised
Unfit for nation civilized;
Their peaceful glories they do sing
And fly on artificial wing.

Great blazing artificial light
It ever burns both day and night,
For they have neither sun nor moon,
But radiant, always ’tis high noon.

When we beheld the glorious sight,
High in the air did shine so bright;
It seemed that it could banish night,
Great refulgent electric light.

But after all, ’tis children’s play,
Compared with the great orb of day,
Or when the moon it doth shine bright,
And stars do beautify the night.

Witch Stone

At Forres is a large round stone,
A relic of the days by gone;
For here there were two witches burned,
Underneath their ashes urned.

A man with veneration small
Broke stone and built it in his wall,
But the authorities of town
Made him full quickly pull them down.

Replace each piece, and it environ
With large bars of good Scottish iron;
May fine old town thrive and adorn
The beauteous banks of the Findhorn.

Dick and Edward

The Thurso baker Robert Dick26
Armed with his hammer and his pick,
Dame nature’s secrets did reveal,
Which she for ages did conceal.

In Banff has genius found regard
In the person of an Edward,27
Who now does rank among the first
In the world as naturalist.

Questions and Answers

Are you a mason? No; I prefer
To work at the trade of carpenter.
Are you then an Oddfellow?
No; I married Annabella.

Are you a Son of Temperance?
No; I am son of Joseph Vance.
Are you then a Forrester?
No; town life I prefer.

Lines Read at a Ladies’ Aid

After chatting with each friend,
We our way to the table wend,
On it we all do make a raid,
And this we call a ladies’ aid.

’Tis pleasant way of taking tea,
Improvement on the old soirée,
On such a time as this I find
Food for body and for mind.

Gladly all obey the call,
To attend this pleasant social,
And we hope none will lament
The time and money they have spent.

The matron and the comely maid
And youths attend the Ladies’ Aid;
But now we close our short refrain,
And hope to meet you all again.

Your pastor’s fame first got abroad
By his success on Culloden Road;
He filled the church so that the fold
No longer it the flock would hold.

But soon a larger church did rise,
With fine neat tower points to the skies;
When you o’erwhelmed with ruin dire
Did lose your parsonage by fire.

To his call with generous bounty
You built best parsonage in county,
But some good people in the town
At this idea they might frown.

Unless we made this correction:
The best in a rural section;
Your pastor he doth vigorous push,
He’s not afraid to enter bush.

And ’tis a fact there’s very few
With him can stick of timber hew;
Ready for to superintend,
Or a helping hand to lend.

When bold man’s wanted at the front,
You’ve but to call on Reverend Hunt;
In pulpit he conviction darts,
And points the way to troubled hearts.

But solemn thoughts we won’t employ,
As this is all a scene of joy;
Maids and matrons all charming
Do grace this pleasant housewarming.

Here people come from near and far
To purchase goods at this bazar;
And all is happiness and glee
At festival of this soirée.

As westward we of late did rove
We beheld in the maple grove
An old church now owned by Peter;
In town there is no house looks neater,
For those bay windows do look sweeter
Than anything in prose or meter.

They once in wilderness did ride
On beast with horn and shaggy hide⁠—
A savage goat or unicorn,
But now parade in uniform;
As gay as ancient Knight or Lord,
With their grand plumes, and belt and swords.

Their graceful movements at their drill
Doth all with admiration fill,
And the chief glory it was won
By the encampment of London;
For they at every tournament
For drill are the chief ornament.

So skillfully they sword do wield,
Victorious on every field;
For victory’s graven on their shield
Doth make their rivals for to yield;
Drill companies they out manoeuvre
From Newfoundland to Vancouver.

Finale

It is folly now to aim
Or to seek for distant fame,
But rest content if we can claim
Something of a local name
Oh the pleasant banks of Thame,
Because in simple strains we sung
The glories of this country young.

Canada Before the Confederation of the Provinces

Canadian provinces they lay
Divided by river and by bay,
Many a separate division,
Among them there was no cohesion.

But statesmen saw that a great nation
Could be formed by federation,
And soon they led public opinion
To favor forming this Dominion.

Northwest with its streams and fountains,
With sources in the Rocky Mountains,
It was all a great mystery,
Hunting for furs its history.

Though Northwest is filling slow
Yet soon there will be mighty flow,
Millions to Northwest will hurry
In last decade of century.

For therein is an opening grand
In great fertile prairie land,
For there the choicest wheat it grows
Near where the Saskatchewan flows.

And on many a river’s branch
There is found great grazing ranch,
Favoured districts therein abound
Where cattle graze all the year round.

Protected from the stormy blast
By the Rocky Mountains vast,
Through canon blows no storm terrific,
But balmy breezes from Pacific.

Canada’s Future

Canada is a young giant,
Has not yet acquired its strength,
On the arts of peace reliant,
Throughout its vast breadth and length.

Though ’tis not famed for orange bowers
Nor for the products of its vines,
Though other lands have fairer flowers,
Yet it to nobler gifts inclines.

It doth produce the golden grain
And few lands can with it compete,
They often try but all in vain
To produce such splendid wheat.

Our geologists divine,
That ere long we will behold
Many a rich glittering mine
Of copper, silver and of gold.

But we sing more glorious theme,
It is our verdant pasture land,
Where cows produce a flood of cream,
Doth make cheese of the finest brand.

And great thoughts oftentimes awakes
When we reflect on this wondrous land,
With vast rivers and mighty lakes,
All nature here’s on scale so grand.

Young Dominion so gigantic,
Where rail cars run at speed terrific,
Thousands of miles from the Atlantic,
Till in the West you reach Pacific.

From balmy breezes of lake Erie
To the far north frozen ocean,
Where it now seems lone and dreary,
All will yet be life and motion.

Though nation’s young its powerful fleet
Doth sail on many a distant sea,
For world’s commerce to compete
Her sails in all climes flowing free.

Canada’s Resources

Small Scotland nobly held its own
Against the might of England’s throne,
And shall this land with its vast bounds
Shrink with fear ere the trumpet sounds.

While British blood doth course each vein,
Proudly this heritage maintain,
With fertile acres by the billions,
Future homes for two hundred millions.

Each son could have a fertile farm,
Brave men who ne’er will feel alarm,
And they have both the nerve and skill
To work land with a right good will.

And she has got within her shores
Renowned mines of many ores,
While her furnaces and forges
Iron in useful shape disgorges.

Her mighty forests they do yield
Lumber, her cities for to build,
But her wealth is not in these alone,
She has great quarries too of stone.

Industry it here doth bloom,
And skilful webs come from each loom,
One of great nations under sun,
A mightier race it yet will run.

For with the Anglo-Saxon race
No other people can keep pace,
Here they have room for to expand
Into a nation mighty grand.

With great railroads and canals,
And care in legislative halls,
A mighty future she will gain,
And highest rank she will obtain.

Canada hopes it will be told,
That she hath patriots brave and bold,
To guide her helm shall be extolled,
As loving country more than gold.

Hail Canada our young fair land,
The world’s respect it doth command;
How quick her sons at war’s alarms
Sprang to her rescue with their arms.

In Canada the English rose,
The shamrock and the thistle grows,
United garland they combine
Around the maple tree to twine.

They did march a brave gallant host
From the far East Atlantic coast,
Our Canada so proud and free,
Four thousand miles from sea to sea.

Though skilful rebels did entrench,
But their deadly fires our boys did quench,
And victory it soon was won
By our General Middleton.

And Colonel Williams left a name
For Canada’s temple of fame,
A kind and a brave hearted man
In hour of danger led the van.

The ninetieth regiment it fought well,
And Winnipeg doth its glories tell,
London boasts of her volunteers,
For she prides in her Fusiliers.

Toronto troops have gained renown,
And triumph their quick march did crown,
For the relief of Battleford,
And scattering of the Indian horde.

Our volunteers took up their arms,
Each left his home and all its charms;
Though many they were tender reared,
No frost nor snow nor foe they feared.

Alas that youth so true and brave,
So many now do fill a grave,
And others they are maimed for life,
While engaged in glorious strife.

We have sprung from a good brave stock,
Rose, thistle and the shamrock,
Who all in unity agree,
’Neath the shade of the maple tree.

The Indians soon came to grief,
Under their great Poundmaker chief,
And Toronto troops gained fame
And Otter glory to his name.

We all felt proud of our gunboat
And the brave crew of the Northcote,
And of our scouts who captured Riel,
Who in vain for mercy did appeal.

And may all quickly come to grief
Who do not love the maple leaf,
For they spring from a noble tree,
Shades this land of the brave and free.

Sad memories it doth awake,
The death of those fell at Frog Lake,
And trials of captives of Fort Pit
When savages did capture it.

But soon Generals Strange and Steel
Made savage hordes their power to feel,
And they rescued women fair
From the paws of the Big Bear.

Captives for days had naught to eat
But steaks of tough and lean dog meat,
In daily danger of their lives
From bullets and from scalping knives.

When building big lodge for war dance,
The cry is heard, the troops advance,
To the white captives sounds so sweet,
But savages they quick retreat.

A thrilling tale our guest28 did tell,
That close to him fell bursting shell,
This shot it was not fired in vain,
For several savages were slain.

Our bold troops great danger braved,
So that white captives might be saved,
Who suffered hunger, cold and damp,
’Mong savage hordes in bush and swamp.

Big Bear now they have pared his claws,
He must atone for broken laws,
Far away from his native lair,
In prison strong they put Big Bear.

Province of Ontario

In the land of woods and lakes,
Pure happiness each one partakes,
Who is sound in body and in mind,
And to industry is inclined.

Here in great lakes we do take pride,
And them with Uncle Sam divide,
Other lakes seem inferior
In size to great Superior.

And Canadians do take pride,
In Huron’s wide expanded tide,
But it onward flows forever,
Through St. Clair lake and river.

But soon again it doth expand,
Into Erie’s lake so grand,
Then behold its wondrous charms,
When embraced in Niagara’s arms.

Then it more blessings doth bestow,
On pure bosom of Ontario,
Round it our towns and cities cluster,
O’er it Toronto sheds her lustre.

And Ontario doth awake,
The thought that ’tis our favorite lake;
Several states approach Lake Erie,
Each one claiming it for dearie.

But our fires of love do glow,
Alone for Lake Ontario,
Our love for it is so unbounded,
We have almost it surrounded.

And the lands around its beaches,
They are famed for grapes and peaches,
’Mong choicest fruits you ramble on
From Niagara to Hamilton.

Ontario North is land of pines,
A land of lakes and rocks and mines,
And beneath dark pine tree shade,
How happy is the youth and maid.

For here in summer you keep cool,
And fish for trout in sparkling pool,
For pike or salmon you can spear,
And in the season hunt the deer.

In great northern hunting ground,
Where both fish and game abound,
And verdant pastures here are seen,
Where cattle graze ’mong sweetest green.

In the far north a land of pines,
And in the south we have the vines,
Where each year adds into the charms,
Surrounds the homesteads on the farms.

Nature our province doth endow,
With hardy sons to guide the plow,
In south we have the fruitful soil,
Where nature’s bounties on us smile.

We have got rich plains and highlands,
Ontario hath thousand islands,
And there is a great array
Of charming isles on Georgian Bay.

And travellers all they do adore,
The lovely isles near Huron’s shore,
Superior makes a grand display,
All round her shores to Thunder Bay.

Muskoka’s famed for woods and brakes,
For rocks and meadows and clear lakes,
And sportsmen for it proudly claim
That ’tis a land for fish and game.

There doth arise a sweet aroma
From great spruce forests of Algoma,
And from the poplar, birch and pine,
There too is wealth in many a mine.

It may be that of mines the best,
Will be found in Ontario West,
Stretching towards the interior,
Three hundred miles west of Superior.

Essex is our sunny south,
At the Detroit river’s mouth,
There the sun doth cheerful smile
On the grape vineyards of Pelee Isle.

Pioneer’s axe it now doth ring,
On the shores of Nipissing,
And some do locate claims away
To distant north around James’ Bay.

Niagara Dry

It happened once in early spring,
While there did float great thick ice cakes,
That then a gale did quickly bring
Them all down from the upper lakes.

And from Buffalo to Lake Erie,
Across the entrance to river,
It was a scene of icebergs dreary,
Those who saw will remember ever.

Then gale blew up lake and river,
And left Niagara almost dry,
This a lady did discover
As above the Falls she cast her eye.

Such scene it had been witnessed never,
Since Israelites crossed the Red Sea,
When they had resolved forever
From Pharaoh’s bondage to flee.

Lady she resolved to venture,
Proudly carrying British flag,
Erecting it in river’s centre
In crevice of a rocky crag.

It seems like a romance by Bulwer,
How she captured Niagara,
But it was seen by Bishop Fuller,
Who did at sight of flag hurrah.

Ten thousand years may die away
Before another dry can tread,
In bottom of Niagara,
For she doth jealous guard her bed.

But ice her entrance did blockade,
And wind it kept the waters back,
So that a child could almost wade
Across the brink of cataract.

United by Steel Rails

When Indian tribes in the Northwest
Rebelled against the Eastern laws,
Canadian courage it did test,
All were united in the cause.

But how shall volunteers proceed
Such distance, several thousand miles,
Will they in their dark hour of need
Ask Uncle Sam with pleasant smiles

For to allow our volunteers
To pass o’er their north railroad,
Perhaps subject to doubts and fears,
Where British soldiers never trod.

But there went up a glad hurrah
When it was found that in our land,
Almost finished was railway,
And trains do wait for word command,

To bear away our volunteers
To those far North distant lands,
But dispelled were all their fears
When they rode over those steel bands,

Which bound young nation all in one,
Before detached and all apart,
Shoulder to shoulder now each one
Feels patriot feelings in his heart,

First time we truly realize
The value of this great railway,
Its benefits each now doth prize,
Highway to Japan and Australia.

The policy it has proved wise,
Which did build this great railway,
The vast Northwest to colonize,
And bear its products far away.

Canadian flags are now unfurled
In the ports of the Chinese,
Short route to Oriental world
Gives Canada her cheap fine teas.

The Old Snake Fence

In early times the pioneer
When a few acres he did clear,
He found an ample recompense
For splitting rails and making fence.

Though it was crooked as a snake,
And zigzag style did not awake,
He thought it was a thing of beauty,
Yet in its day it did its duty.

And though the old snake fence must fall,
’Twas easy made, axe, wedge and maul,
Were all the tools the pioneer
Bequired the old rail fence to rear.

And the old pioneer could boast
Of fence that did not need a post,
To build it now is waste of timber,
And fertile lands it doth cumber.

And pine stump fence with its sharp roots
Will long endure and ward off brutes,
For the crops they ample shield
And do protect each separate field.

But old style fence doth waste much land,
Where weeds do grow and bush expand,
And thistle down doth blow from thence,
So folks build wire and the board fence.

Canadian Voyageurs on the Nile

The British soldiers on the Nile
With gratitude did kindly smile,
On the Canadian voyageurs
Who skilfully did ply their oars.

And they invoked their benison
On boatsmen led by Denison,
Neither the rapids nor the falls
Along the Nile these braves appals.

For in such toils they did partake,
On each native stream and lake,
Thoughts of their homes in visions throng,
While singing Canadian boat song.

And they all hoped again to see
The glorious land of maple tree,
From their memories they never
Forgot the land of lake and river.

While up the Nile they do advance
They dream about their own St. Lawrence,
And Manitoba’s streams and lakes,
Pleasant reflections oft awakes.

And thus each day they cheerful toil,
Ascending of old Father Nile,
Whose waters fertilize the soil,
And is the home of crocodile.

Wolseley he had exhibition
In Red River expedition,
How these voyageurs could steer,
Or with the axe a roadway clear.

Those who speak the tongue of France,
From the banks of the St. Lawrence,
At call to arms quick advance,
With rifle, bayonet and lance.

Land Clearing

The first winter which I did spend
In Canada was with a friend,
And when the snow had passed away
Quite early in the month of May.

Friend started off for a barn raising,
And told me to get stumps ablazing,
Around each stump I heaped a pile
Of roots and junks of wood so vile.

For he wished the field to clear
So it a crop of wheat would rear,
And there was one high withered pine
Which was full of turpentine.

As soon as I applied the torch,
Blaze quick did start and it did scorch
The fences, and the woods were nigh,
For the old tree it blazed on high.

I was the only man or boy
Near there that day and found employ
In saving of the house and barn,
Thus early fire fiend did me warn.

Fire started and with it a breeze
Carried the sparks ’mong leaves of trees,
I did work hard but for recompense
All was saved but a few rails of fence.

Man in spring logging oft awakes
From winter slumbers nests of snakes,
And listens to the music grand
Of bull frogs, our Canadian band.

Our first Canadian job when boy,
In the big woods we did enjoy,
Large maple bush we then did tap
And to camp carried maple sap.

We stored it in great wooden trough,
Then in big kettles sugared off,
Though often it did try our mettle
To keep up fire beneath each kettle.

For it was a serious toil
To cut the wood to kettles boil,
To-night it is a pleasant joke,
No trouble from the fire and smoke.

Of old we thought our neck was broke
By having on it a neckyoke,
And on each side a heavy pail
Suspended from the yoke by bail.

We waded through the snow and slush
And stumbled o’er the logs in bush,
But no doubt the maple’s sweeter
Than any other thing in meter.

Unless it is the lips of lass,
Which maple sugar doth surpass,
And may it be each young man’s fate
For to secure a charming mate.

For birds will soon begin to sing
And seek their mates in early spring,
When found each pair do feel they’re blest,
When they have finished their warm nest.

Let none at sugar making scoff,
Webster was rocked in a sap trough;
When boiling sap it is quite handy
To pour some in snow to make candy.

Canadian Charms

Here industry is not in vain,
For we have bounteous crops of grain,
And you behold on every field
Of grass and roots abundant yield,
But after all the greatest charm
Is the snug home upon the farm,
And stone walls now keep cattle warm.

Patriot Fighting for His Home

On the shores of the northern lakes
An infant giant now awakes,
He has long time been in a dream,
But now is roused by engine’s scream.

For mighty spirits are abroad
Traversing of each great railroad,
For it is a glorious theme
The peaceful conquest made by steam.

But should the foot of invader vile
Ever desecrate his soil,
He firm will meet him bold and brave
And give him soil Canadian grave.

Fighting for Conquest

’Tis noble for to fight for home,
But some nations fight to plunder,
For conquest o’er the world to roam,
To tear peaceful lands asunder.

For to give wealth and a great name
To some aspiring commander,
Who wishes to acquire great fame
As a modern Alexander.

Statesmen and kings a war will wage,
And many thousands strew the plain,
Covered with gore in the carnage,
Where brave and noble men are slain.

Leaving their families to mourn,
Now who can soothe the ills of life,
To them they never shall return,
No one can now cheer the poor wife.

Or the sweet little orphans dear
Think of father and of mother,
Of sweetheart, sister and of brother,
Who oft will shed the fruitless tear.

Lines Sent to Thomas Conant of Oshawa, a Writer of Canadian Sketches

We do greet thee Thomas Conant,
You truthful paint Canadian charms,
And you are the great exponent
Of beauties of her woods and farms.

You give fine sketch of bird and fowl,
Of the blue jay and the plover,
And of great white Canadian owl,
All proves of nature you’re a lover.

Lines Sent to Alexander McLaughlan, Amaranth Station, with a Copy of My Poems

We send to you these rugged rhymes
In memory of the olden times,
Great chief of our poetic clan,
Admired by all, McLaughlan.

We love to sing of tiny stream,
Through the lowland meadows running,
To us it is a pleasing theme,
Tracing it from first beginning.

’Tis strange how far a brook will roam,
Moving onwards in its motion,
And not content till it reaches home,
Two thousand miles to distant ocean.

In county York springs a small brook,
A few miles north of Ontario,
But it doth take a wondrous crook,
It northward many miles doth flow.

Brook’s progress south is stopped by ridge,
Doth debar its southern course,
So a long journey it don’t grudge,
But slowly on its way doth force.

And it discharges at its mouth
Into the pure clear lake Simcoe,
It still flows north for to get south,
As onward still its course doth go.

Rejoicing along its way,
Hundreds of miles it doth flow west,
Blended in the Georgian Bay,
For a moment it doth not rest.

Mingling with Huron and St. Clair,
Erie and Niagara river,
Even at the Falls it don’t despair,
But it cheerful flows forever.

One thousand miles round an ox bow,
It hath flowed back near its first start,
To waters of Ontario,
Where ridge at first kept it apart.

From south of ridge two rivers flow,
Both the Don and the Humber,
Embracing city of Toronto,
Hath attractions without number.

The fame will spread far and wide,
First of Don and then of Humber,
Improved rivers like to the Clyde,
With wharves for coal, wood, iron and lumber.

The Vale of Thames

In vale of Thames oft’ times are seen
The cattle graze ’mong sweetest green,
Or there contented with their fate
The gentle cows do ruminate.

And enjoy a double pleasure
In re-chewing hidden treasure,
The cow is a kindly creature,
Kind and pleasant in each feature.

About her is a homely charm,
And her the dog should not alarm,
But let all safe guard her from harm,
The gentlest creature on the farm.

Ranney, 1856, Dairy System

Ranney began with just two cows,
Which he in winter fed on browse,
And now he hath got mighty herds
Numerous as flock of birds,
May he long live our hearts to cheer
This great and useful pioneer.

Lines Read at a Dairymen’s Supper

It almost now seems all in vain
For to expect high price for grain,
Wheat is grown on Egyptian soil
On the banks of mighty Nile.

And where the Ganges it doth flow,
In India fine wheat doth grow,
And price of labor is so cheap
That it they can successful reap.

Then let the farmers justly prize
The cows for land they fertilize,
And let us all with songs and glees
Invoke success into the cheese.

Ensilage

The farmers now should all adorn
A few fields with sweet southern corn,
It is luscious, thick and tall,
The beauty of the fields in fall.

For it doth make best ensilage,
For those in dairying engage,
It makes the milk in streams to flow,
Where dairymen have a good silo.

The cow is a happy rover
O’er the fields of blooming clover,
Of it she is a fond lover,
And it makes milk pails run over.

Fertile Lands and Mammoth Cheese

In barren district you may meet
Small fertile spot doth grow fine wheat,
There you may find the choicest fruits,
And great, round, smooth and solid roots.

But in conditions such as these
You cannot make a mammoth cheese,
Which will weigh eight thousand pounds,
But where large fertile farms abounds.

Big cheese is synonymous name,
With fertile district of the Thame,
Here dairy system’s understood,
And they are made both large and good.

Throughout the world they do extol
The fame of our town Ingersoll,
The capital of dairyland,
To-night it seems like fairy land,
The youth and beauty here arrayed,
So sweet and neat each dairymaid.

And worthy of a poet’s theme,
Sweet and smooth flows milk and cream,
For song or glee what is fitter
In this land of cheese and butter,
But no young man should be afraid
To court a pretty dairymaid.

And far abroad he should not roam
But find a charmer here at home,
Find some one now your heart to cheer,
Thus celebrate the jubilee year,
Remember long this ladies’ aid
And each bewitching dairymaid.

Windmills and Stone Stables

Cows suffered in the days of old
For want of water and from cold,
Now of good water they have fill
For it is pumped by the windmill.

No matter how well cows were fed
They suffered cold in their board shed,
But good stone walls now them enfold,
And they are warm and safe from cold.

Now they do enjoy their fodder,
And repay with their full udder,
If bran slops you on cow bestow
Of milk it will increase the flow.

And in your efforts do not halt
But let them daily lick the salt,
And never let the dogs them chase,
But let them walk at their quiet pace.

Dairy Ode

The sweet milkmaid of early days
Her own household she ably sways,
And her daughters now milk the cows,
And her sons they now guide the plows.

These pleasing changes on a farm
Doth give to rural life a charm,
Let occupation none upbraid,
But honor plowman and milkmaid.

For Burns with glory did endow
And wove a garland round the plow,
The source from which all wealth doth spring
And happiness to all doth bring.

Our muse it doth refuse to sing
Of cheese made early in the spring,
When cows give milk from spring fodder
You cannot make a good cheddar.

The quality is often vile
Of cheese that is made in April,
Therefore we think for that reason
You should make later in the season.

Cheese making now you should delay
Until about the first of May.
Then cows do feed on grassy field
And rich milk they abundant yield.

Ontario cannot compete
With the Northwest in raising wheat,
For cheaper there they it can grow
So price in future may be low.

Though this a hardship it may seem,
Rejoice that you have got the cream,
In this land of milk and honey,
Where dairy farmers do make money.

Utensils must be clean and sweet,
So cheese with first class can compete,
And daily polish up milk pans,
Take pains with vats and with milk cans.

And it is important matter
To allow no stagnant water,
But water from pure well or stream
The cow must drink to give pure cream.

Canadian breeds ’tis best to pair
With breeds from the shire of Ayr,
They thrive on our Canadian feed
And are for milking splendid breed.

Though ’gainst spring cheese some do mutter,
Yet spring milk also makes bad butter,
Then there doth arise the query
How utilize it in the dairy:

The milk it floats in great spring flood
Though it is not so rich and good,
Let us be thankful for this stream
Of milk and also curds and cream.

All dairymen their highest aims
Should be to make the vale of Thames,
Where milk doth so abundant flow,
Dairyland of Ontario.

Cheese buyers in hours of leisure
Combine business with pleasure,
And when they wish to go abroad
They take their gun and fishing rod.