For days we could not catch a breeze,
But were held fast as if in vice
Surrounded by the bergs of ice,
We could not move the ship or boat
But on low, flat iceberg we did float;
Of provisions we took good store
With big oars we rowed the berg to shore,
And pride and joy each one feels
When we had caught ten thousand seals,
And our brave boys each one they dare
To boldly capture great white bear;
On floating berg we built with boards
A storehouse for to hold our hordes,
We had a stove and stock of coal,
So we enjoyed this voyage droll,
In centre of berg we dug a hole
And erected a strong pole,
The frost and ice soon held it fast
And well it served us for a mast,
On which we stretched out our sails
And scud along before the gales,
Until we came to an island
And on its sides it seemed highland,
And Britain being queen of seas,
For her this island we did seize,
To give her new coaling station
For to benefit the nation,
So when we had sailed landward
We erected British standard
On the highest mountain top,
Which graceful down to sea did slope,
We cast our anchor in its side
So to explore it far and wide,
But what was our astonishment
Without the least admonishment,
Our island soon away did float
As if it was a mighty boat.
Can you believe this wondrous tale?
It proved to be a monster whale,
And o'er the ocean quick it flew
With our great iceberg and our crew,
Until it came to Newfoundland,
Where all did safe on the ground land;
Poor whale was stranded on the beach
And his sea home no more could reach,
Our crew in great wealth each on shares,
By selling whale and seals and bears,
We hired steam tug to reach our ship,
Now free from ice we had quick trip,
And she being loaded down with seal,
And we all shared in common weal,
For joy each of us had reason,
Making two trips in one season.
HUNTERS AND TRAPPERS.
Two hunters near to Hudson Bay,
Their names John Grant and Tom McKay,
Their skill and courage naught could daunt,
The boldest one perhaps was Grant.
The winter was their busy time,
When all was snow and frost and rime,
It paid best then to pull trigger,
For then furs were better thicker.
While setting trap Grant cut through boot
And quick the blood gushed from his foot,
The horrid scene, now who can paint,
For loss of blood soon makes him faint.
But his kind partner Tom McKay
The rush of blood he tried to stay,
And when its flow did somewhat slack
He carried him upon his back.
As homeward he doth slowly go,
A track of blood is o'er the snow,
But long and weary is the way
And soon exhausted is McKay.
He feels assistance he doth want,
For to rescue his dear friend Grant,
He stood him up against a tree
While the blood yet flowed quite free.
Now wolves had visited the trap
And blood from snow they eager lap,
Then tracked poor Grant, for on the snow
The blood in heavy drops did flow.
He soon got help, then John McKay
Doth hurry back without delay,
And what a sight then met their gaze
Filled them with horror and amaze.
The sight their minds will ever haunt,
Mangled by wolves was their friend Grant,
But round him several wolves were slain
With bullet holes right through their brain.
For he had fought hard for his life,
And some he slew with hunting knife,
And he is still quite surrounded,
While fierce brutes are badly wounded.
Now clubs doth soon dash out their brains
And then they gather Grant's remains,
They cut two saplings both same size,
With twigs they lace them acrosswise.
So it then made for the poor dead
A good soft and pliable bed,
Now to his home remains they bear,
Where his poor wife is in despair.
WILD GOOSE SHOT AT MIDNIGHT, NOV., 1888.
From the regions of the north
Where the waters now are frozen,
Towards the south they issue forth
A flock of wild geese of four dozen.
But when they flew o'er the river Thames
They swooped down to take a dive,
But sport with shot gun at them aims
And one at least did not survive.
And he now says it tasted fine,
And that it was both fat and big,
A hungry man did on it dine,
Satisfied with just one leg.
He was sorry fowl to kill,
But they awoke him from his slumber,
The air with cackle they did fill,
And thus they lost one of their number.
ADVENTURES WITH BEARS.
I bought of land two miles square,
I knew not it contained a bear,
I never thought there would be any,
But alas, I found many;
The bush was thick and mat and tangle,
It made it a perfect jungle,
But one mile square of good dry land
Was enough for me to take in hand;
Swamp I could reach but when frozen,
Then I saw bears by the dozen,
Thick as monkies in Africa,
And many a strange trick I saw,
Gamboling with the greatest ease,
High up the trunks of the big trees,
While some were swinging from branches
And hanging on them with their haunches;
But quietly I then tilled my farm,
The bears at first done me no harm,
Till one night I was roused by dogs,
And found a bear was at my hogs,
He threw a pig across each shoulder
And there I was a sad beholder,
But to the house I quickly run
For to procure my loaded gun,
And as he could not run but slow,
So heavy laden through the snow,
I him full soon did overtake,
And his courage quick I did shake,
For by the leg my good bold dog
He bravely caught the thievish rogue,
And this move made him soon fork o'er
To me at once the largest porker,
For moment squeeze it did pig stun,
But up he rose and quick he run,
The bear now scared his only hope,
To let at once the other pig drop,
I shot the bear right through the eyes
And secured a valued prize,
There's nothing I love so to eat
In winter time as the bear's meat,
So a victory I soon won
And sold for high price grease and skin;
The bears on honey love to thrive,
One morn was wrecked my best beehive,
That day I was to sell the honey
For to raise some ready money,
But bear my views he did despise
And proudly carried off the prize;
That night I set a good spring gun,
With rails I built for him a run,
Open all way to hive of bees,
He tried again a hive to seize,
But all his efforts were in vain,
He sprung the gun and he was slain,
O'er the fact I felt quite funny
It well repaid me for my honey;
One bear was playing on me joke,
Carrying off all my young stock,
I set my trap, built round it fence,
Resolved he ne'er would get from thence,
But at the first he did me hoax,
For he was cunning as a fox,
He dug under and stole my bait,
But I next sunk trap and sealed his fate,
My good iron trap again it caught
A great bear but it came to naught,
Breakfast he had at my expense
And he then showed wondrous sense,
Trap he picked up with greatest ease
And dashed it to pieces on the trees,
But blacksmith soon did it repair
For I was bound to have that bear,
I attached to trap a heavy clog,
It was like lifting a small log,
I drove in it some sharp iron spikes
Which would cut deep each time he strikes,
He tried again to steal my bait
And break my trap at the old rate,
But he soon dashed out his own brains,
His carcass it brought me great gains;
A neighbour man who would not work
I thought that he did steal my pork,
But at last I found long black hairs,
Then I knew it was the bears,
I put through barrels rods of iron
So they a bear neck would environ,
And rods together they would snap,
I found him choked quite dead in trap,
Since then my strife with bears did cease,
Now many years I've lived in peace.
QUEEN'S JUBILEE ODE, 1887.
Canada proves her devotion
To her who rules o'er land and sea,
For loyal thoughts do hearts inspire,
To make more glorious empire.
'Tis fifty years since Queen was crowned,
Her brow with golden circlet bound,
She was a girl, graceful, fair,
And has felt joy and anxious care.
Happy years of married life
She enjoyed as Albert's wife,
But Albert died, the wise and good,
And she was left in widowhood.
In her reign the power of steam
On land and sea became supreme,
And all now have strong reliance
In fresh victories of science.
For man doth lightning now employ
And uses it for message boy,
And when he wants a brilliant light,
Electric orbs do shine most bright.
Britain's empire is extending,
Truth and justice ever blending,
May strife and discord ever cease,
And jubilee inaugurate peace.
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.
CRIMEAN WAR.
At the announcement that Britain was to declare war Kossuth the
Hungarian Patriot declared in an address in England that the British
Lion was a sea dog but helpless on land.
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.
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 Hindoo,
Now they respect the Christian laws
For fear of British Lion's paws.
BEAR AND WHALE.
A fable of the British and Russian dispute of 1885.
Russians suffer sad distress
For lack of freedom of the press,
But oft' times they are full able
To enlighten with a fable.
And they enjoy a humorous tale
Of a bear and monster whale,
The bear he went to the sea shore
The mighty ocean to explore.
And this it quick enraged the whale
Who beat the ocean with his tail,
With foaming words he told the bear
That he would strip his hide and hair.
If he ever found him more
Encroaching on his sea shore,
The bear replied I will not quail
At frothing words of any whale.
For you are a lump of blubber,
Whale rejoined you are land lubber,
Thus bandying epithets so vile,
Of bear grease and of whale oil.
Sharks and fishes of the ocean
Were thrown into great commotion,
The hawks and eagles of the air,
Lions and tigers gathered there.
Bear he wished the whale to slaughter,
But he was afraid of water,
The great whale feared that he might strand
If he ventured on the dry land.
So at last great Russia Bear
Went back again to his own lair,
And British whale content to be
Greatest monarch of the sea.
GORDON AND BURNABY, 1885.
When the Chinese did rebel,
Gordon alone he could them quell,
With justice they his name revere,
The man who bullets did not fear.
It seemed as if his life had charm
That spear or lance could never harm,
He went alone this wondrous man
To fight false prophet of Soudan.
Assistance it arrives too late,
And traitors they have oped the gate,
To meet the foe he doth advance,
But fatal wound receives from lance.
And Britons all they do take pride
In Burnaby's Asiatic ride,
Russian mysteries to discover,
He crossed many a plain and river.
And his brave spirit led the van
To relieve Gordon in Soudan,
With his strong arm every blow
Laid at his feet some Arab foe.
But strong brave man who knew no fear,
He was transfixed by Arab spear,
And thus brave men their lives have lost,
Of war let nations never boast.
Unless it is in self defence,
Then they have glorious recompense,
But arts of peace they should be prized
By nations truly Christianized.
ENGLISH POETS.
Tercentenary ode on Shakespeare read by the author at the anniversary
concert, 1864.
Three centuries have passed away
Since that most famous April day,
When the sweet, gentle Will was born,
Whose name the age will e're adorn.
That great Elizabethan age
Does not leave on history's page,
A name so bright he stands like Saul,
A head and shoulders over all.
Delineator of mankind,
Who shows the workings of the mind,
And in review in nature's glass,
Portrays the thoughts of every class.
That man is dull who will not laugh
At the drolleries of Falstaff,
And few that could not shed a tear
At sorrows of poor old King Lear.
Or lament o'er King Duncan's death
Stabbed by the dagger of McBeth,
Or gentle Desdemona pure,
Slain by the misled jealous Moor.
Or great Caesar mighty Roman
Who o'ercame his country's foemen,
His high deeds are all in vain,
For by his countrymen he's slain.
The greatest of heroic tales
Is that of Harry, Prince of Wales,
Who in combat fought so fiercely
With the brave and gallant Percy.
Imagination's grandest theme
The tempest or midsummer's dream,
And Hamlet's philosophic blaze
Of shattered reason's flickering rays.
And now in every land on earth
They commemorate Shakespeare's birth,
And there is met on Avon's banks
Men of all nations and all ranks.
And here upon Canadian Thames
The gentle maids and comely dames
Do meet and each does bring her scroll
Of laurel leaves from Ingersoll.
MILTON.
Like mightiest organ in full tone,
Melodious, grand, is great Milton,
He did in lofty measures tell
How Satan, great archangel, fell,
When from heaven downward hurled;
And how he ruined this our world,
So full of guile he did deceive
Our simple hearted parent Eve.
He shows how pardon is obtained
And paradise may be regained.
COLERIDGE, SOUTHEY AND WORDSWORTH.
England had triplets at a birth,
Coleridge, Southey and Wordsworth,
And these three are widely famed,
And the "Lake Poets" they were named.
With joy they did pursue their themes,
'Mong England's lakes and hills and streams,
From there with gladness they could view
The distant Scottish mountains blue.
SHELLY.
We have scarcely time to tell thee
Of the strange and gifted Shelly,
Kind hearted man but ill-fated,
So youthful, drowned and cremated.
BYRON.
Poets they do pursue each theme,
Under a gentle head of steam,
Save one who needed fierce fire on,
The brilliant, pasionate Byron.
His child Harold's pilgrimage,
Forever will the world engage;
He fought with glory to release
From Turkish yoke the isles of Greece,
Its glories oft by him were sung,
This wondrous bard, alas, died young.
TENNYSON.
Of our Laureate we now do sing,
His youthful muse had daring wing,
He then despised Baronhood,
And sang 'twas noble to be good.
None sang like him of knights of old,
He England's glory did uphold;
In wondrous song he hath arrayed
Glorious charge of light brigade,
And he hath the people's benison,
Greatest of living poets Tennyson.
DRYDEN AND POPE.
Genius of Dryden and of Pope,
Both did take a mighty scope,
The first he virgil did translate,
The second showed us Troys fate.
On English themes they oft did sing
And high their muses flight did wing.
POETS AND PHILOSOPHERS.
Bacon, Hogg, Lamb and Shakespeare.
Bacon, philosopher profound,
With mighty thoughts his works abound,
Reflections did his mind engage
Were in advance of his own age.
And Hogg the Ettrick shepherd bard,
High honors all do him award,
Great fame and glory he did reap
While tending to his flock of sheep.
And Lamb, the gentle and the good,
His works all show a happy mood;
About these names there is no waste,
Pleasing to fancy and to taste.
Some critics think they do make clear
The fact that Bacon wrote Shakespeare,
But a gent lives in New York
Asks what effect will it have on pork.
Of course it would quick awaken
A higher estimate of Bacon,
But it is folly for to rear
His fame on ruins of Shakespeare.
Though Will was not college bred,
With Greek they did not cram his head,
But he well knew by translations
The history of the ancient nations.
And mingled daily in the strife
With people in all walks of life,
His plays they are to nature true
Because he wrote of what he knew.
"Alas that I have wandered here and there"
He does cry out in his despair,
While he did lead a wandering life
And left alone his loving wife.
IRISH POETS.
Moore found the ballads of Green Isle
Were oft obscured beneath the soil,
As miner digging in a mine
Finds rubbish 'mong the gold so fine,
So Moore placed dross in the waste basket
And enshrined jewels in casket,
Where all may view each charming gem
In Ireland's grand old diadem.
In eastern lands his fame prevails
In wondrous oriental tales,
So full of gems his Lala Rookh,
Hindoos and Brahmins read his book,
And dark eyed Persian girls admire
The beauty of his magic lyre,
Glowing like pearls of great price
Those distant gleams of paradise.
He sang of Bryan Borohm's glory,
Renowned in ancient Irish story,
And shows the wide expanded walls
Which once encircled Tara's Halls,
When joyous harp did there resound
And Ireland's greatest king was crowned,
All wars and tumults then did cease,
Ireland did prosper great in peace.
He sung of meeting of the waters
And of Ireland's charming daughters,
Great minstrel from his harp both flows,
Ireland's triumphs and her woes,
Canada doth his fame prolong
While she doth sing his great boat song,
And his own countrymen adore
The genial, witty, bright Tom Moore.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Goldsmith wrote of deserted village,
Now again reduced to tillage,
Once happiest village of the plain,
The place you look for it in vain,
There but one man he doth make rich,
While hundreds struggle in the ditch,
His honest vicar of Wakefield,
Forever he will pleasure yield.
SCOTTISH POETS.
The following ode was read by the author at the Centennial Anniversary
of Burns in the year 1859.
This night shall never be forgot
For humble life none now despise,
Since Burns was born in lowly cot
Whose muses wing soars to the skies.
'Round Scotia's brow he wove a wreath
And raised her name in classic story
A deathless fame he did bequeath,
His country's pride, his country's glory.
He sang her hills, he sang her dales,
Of Bonnie Doon and Banks of Ayr,
Of death and Hornbook and such tales
As Tam O'Shanter and his mare.
He bravely taught that manly worth
More precious is than finest gold,
He reckoned not on noble birth,
But noble deeds alone extolled.
Where will we find behind the plow
Or in the harvest field at toil
Another youth, sweet bard, like thou,
Could draw the tear or raise the smile.
We do not think 'twas Burns' fault,
For there were no teetotalers then,
That Willie brewed a peck of malt
And Robin preed like other men.
'Tis true he loved the lasses dear,
But who for this would loudly blame,
For Scotia's maids his heart did cheer
And love is a true heavenly flame.
So here we've met in distant land
Poor honest Robin to extol,
Though oft we differ let us stand
United now in Ingersoll.
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.
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.
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 kye comes hame,
With good time coming Bard McKay
Still merrily doth cheer the way.
JAMES HOGG.
The wondrous shepherd James Hogg
Was happy with his good sheep dog,
Meditating o'er his sweet lays
While his fleecy flocks did graze.
His education it came late
After he reached to man's estate,
While his flocks were busy feeding
His favourite authors he was reading.
Wondrous tales he did rehearse
Of witches both in prose and verse,
And he in fairy tales did glory
Traditions of each shepherd's story.
The shepherd he sang late and early
Of the deeds of bold Prince Charley,
And how the charming bonnie Flora
Soothed the Prince when in his sorrow.
Few songs possess so much vigor
As his gathering of McGregor,
The lover's heart is all aflame
To meet lassie when the kye comes hame.
But one who loved the shepherd's songs
And sang them unto countless throngs,
Great Kennedy has passed away
Now mournful is our Scottish lay.
HIGHLAND SKETCHES.
The Romans, Saxons and the Danes
Did oft o'er run the Scottish plains.
So daring were those mauraders
And skilful too were invaders.
The lowland man enjoyed his farm,
But oft he was in great alarm,
When Highlanders o'er plain would sweep
And drive to hills his steers and sheep.
For highlandmen were taught in song
The lowlands to them did belong,
Each highland chief he ruled like king
And Bards they did his praises sing,
In war the chief he led the van,
Marching to battle with his clan,
And when the foe attacked their chief
The clansmen rushed to his relief.
When they King William's forces mass
In Killicrankie's famous pass,
The highlanders with joy and glee
Rushed on them led by bold Dundee.
Lowland troops they would not tarry
But they strove to ford the Garry,
Soon many on the field lay dead,
In river floated many a head.
For clansmen with the good broad sword
Of battlefield they soon were Lord,
And historians will rank the
Chief highland victory of Killicrankie.
Again there sweeps the highland clans,
Victorious at Preston Pans,
Under Prince Charlie full of hope,
They drove the troops were led by Cope.
But from Culloden Charlie flies
While Highland blood the heather dyes,
For months he wandered 'mong the hills
Young Flora strove to soothe his ills.
While he was hunted by blood hounds,
For sake of thirty thousand pounds,
But Highlanders the gold despise,
And honor only each doth prize.
At last to Charlie's great delight,
From France a vessel hove in sight,
And safely bore the gallant Prince
To the sunny shores of France.
And may once more each hill and glen
Be filled with hardy Highland men,
Who love bagpipes and bonnets blue
And give to Britain soldiers true.
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 Sweno'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.
LINES READ AT A SCOTTISH ANNIVERSARY AT EMBRO.