Part 2

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.

NIAGARA'S CHARMS AND DEATH OF 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. Lawrance motion, It soon is blended with the ocean.

DEPARTED STATESMEN.

With a glance at Sir John A. Macdonald and Blake, the two living leaders, 1884.

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 Sandfield 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.

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 Required 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.

LINES READ AT A MAPLE SUGAR SOCIAL, APRIL, 1888.

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 ROMANCE.

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.

We have been congratulated by many on the truthfulness of the Romance of Canada. They declare it is not a romance but a true picture of rise and progress of worthy people in Canada.

LAMENT OF THE MAPLE TREE.

A VISION.

"We had a dream which was not all a dream."--Byron.

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, 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.

The nurls and birds' eyes and curls were highly prized in furniture thirty years ago, when we used the smooth plain.

LIFE IN THE WOODS.

(Life of the early settlers.)

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.

THE JOYS OF PRAIRIE FARMERS 1884.

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.

CANADA OUR HOME, 1883.

The following response to Canada our home was given at a banquet of the Caledonian Society, Ingersoll:

In responding to the sentiment Canada our home perhaps it would be appropriate to point out the prominent and distinguishing characteristics between the land of our nativity and the land of our adoption. In this Canada of ours we have no bonny blooming heath, no banks and braes covered o'er with daisies and gowans, no fragrant hedges showering down white spray in the May time, no whin and broom prodigal in their gaiety of yellow flowers, no hills nor glens where fairies gambol in pleasant and harmless sport, no grand ruins of ancient cathedrals and castles, no feathered songsters like the mavis and blackbird.

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

But Canada is a young giant in its infancy with the noblest chain of lakes in the world on its frontier, and the most magnificent river the St. Lawrence. This land also possesses the largest fertile wilderness on the globe, but it is one which will ere many years have passed away, blossom like a garden, and where naught but grass and flowers now grow in wild luxuriance. Soon the husbandman will plow and sow and reap a rich reward in yellow golden grain. Domestic cattle quiet will graze where now the Buffalos roam and in spots now covered o'er with Indian wigwams, where white men never trod cities will occupy their sites with busy trade and millions flock from eastern lands to take possession of the great Northwest. Then Winnipeg perchance may be the capital of the Dominion. In the day foretold when this indeed shall be the "Greater Britain" with Ontario's towns for workshops for this vast prairie land.

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.

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.

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.

DONALD ROSS.

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.

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.

CANADIAN AUTHORS.

MRS. MOODY.

In giving a glance at various Canadian authors perhaps it would be well to commence with that early writer Mrs. Moody. She was a sister of the celebrated Agnes Strickland, author of "The Queens of England."

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. Traill[C] Though eighty-seven she doth not fail, She now is writing of wild flowers Grown in Canada's woody bowers.

[C] Mrs. Traill lives near Peterboro. Mrs. Moody died in Toronto. I sent her a copy of my poems in 1885, and she thanked me for the same through a friend as she was in feeble health at the time.

T. D. MCGEE.