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.