Part 6

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.

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 counties of the north, Some oft have trod Dunrobins 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 honor earned In all of the professions learned, Your bonnie lasses sung in song, And youths are famed for muscle strong.

LINES READ AT ST. ANDREW'S ANNIVERSARY, 1868.

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 o'er the sea we'll some day sail To get a bowl of good green kail.

DICK AND EDWARD.

The Thurso baker Robert Dick[E] 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,[F] Who now does rank among the first In the world as naturalist.

[E] Dick was both a geologist and botanist and was of great service to Hugh Millar.

[F] Edward is a shoemaker by trade, remarkable for his knowledge of the lower grades of animated nature.

CASTLE GORDON.

In youth we spent a pleasant day Round Castle Gordon on the Spey, There is no Clan can gird the sword on, Can compare with the Clan Gordon, In India, China and Soudan, They manfully have led the van.

PRINCE CHARLIE'S GRANDSONS.

Oft' times these handsome gentlemen appeared in the garb of old Gaul.

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.

The Royal Stuarts are owners of large estates on the banks of the Findhorn and their great rivals were near by the Royal Comyns. The Lion Hunter Gordon Comyn was of this stock. Professor J. S. Blockie has written a fine poem on the wars of the rival houses.

"Here where the dark water'd stream rushes free, child of the mountain."

ST. ANDREW.

Read at Anniversary.

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, 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.

Entwining of the thistle around the maple tree, Scotia's sons have indented their names deep in Canadian history. The names of McDonald, McKenzie, Cameron and Mowat stand conspicuous, and Brown second to none. For wealth, enterprise and benevolence those Montreal Scotsmen stand high, Sir Donald A. Smith, Sir George Stephens and Duncan McIntyre.

RIVER CLYDE.

The Glasgow people do take pride In their river both deep and wide, In early times the youth and maid Did o'er its shallow waters wade.

But city money did not grudge, And dug it deep with the steam dredge, And now proudly on its bosom floats The mighty ships and great steamboats.

No wonder citizens take pride For they themselves have made the Clyde, Great and navigable river, Where huge fleets will float forever.

Dunbarton's lofty castle rock[G] Which oft' has stood the battle's shock, The river it doth boldly guard, So industry may reap reward.

But more protection still they deem Is yet required so down the stream Strong batteries are erected, So commerce may be safe protected.

Old ocean now he doth take pride To see upon his bosom ride The commerce of his youngest bride, The fair and lovely charming Clyde.

[G] Mr. James Sinclair of this town has written a fine piece remonstrating against the removal of the sword of Wallace from its old place of safety, Dunbarton Castle.

ELF SHOT.

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.

HALLOWE'EN.

A tale we'll tell of what hath been When maids and youths kept Hallowe'en, It is a tale of old world lore What happened in the days of yore, When fairies danced upon the green So merrily on Hallowe'en, 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 Hallowe'en, 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.

AMERICAN POETS.

Like fruit that's large and ripe and mellow, Sweet and luscious is Longfellow, Melodious songs he oft did pour And high was his Excelsior. He shows in his Psalm of Life The folly of our selfish strife, With Hiawatha we bewail His suffering in great Indian tale. Indian nation was forlorn Till great spirit planted corn; His story of Evangeline It is a tale of love divine.

POE.

A great enchanter too is Poe, His bells do so harmonious flow, Wondrous mystery of his raven On our minds is 'ere engraven, His wierd, wonderful romances Imagination oft entrances.

LOWELL.

With pleasure we would love to dwell On the charming themes of Lowell.

BRYANT.

Some in front rank will defiant, Boldly place the poet Bryant.

WHITTIER.