Part 7

Others seek for music in the twitter Of the sweet, charming notes of Whittier.

SAXE.

The mind that's sad it doth relax The humor of the witty Saxe, He puts us in a cheerful mood, Mirthful as our own Tom Hood.

WILL CARLETON.

In homely apparel one Clothes farming songs Will Carleton, But they have a manly ring And we his praises hearty sing.

MILLAR.

And Millar poet of Sierras, For bold deeds he doth prepare us, And now he lives by the golden gate, Honored in California's state, To poet 'tis position grand, Commissioner of Forest land.

HOLMES.

O'er flowery fields full oft he roams, The learned and pleasing genial Holmes.

WALT WHITMAN.

For erratic style he leads van, Wildly wayward Walt Whitman, He done grand work in civil war, For he did dress many a scar, And kindly wet the hot parched mouth Of Northern soldiers wounded South.

LOFTY ACTORS WITHDRAW.

As one by one the lofty actors of the age Withdraw from changing play on history's page, The act of war and peace of old and new contending For it is long 'ere there's harmonious blending.

And many a noble actor brave and bold Hath perished in the fight between the new and old, The victor and the vanquished Lincoln and Lee, The former he four million slaves set free.

The latter General fought with bravery and science, The first he on the Lord placed strong reliance, And in the justice of his cause he bade the North As grand emancipators they should issue forth.

And o'er great North the conquering name of Grant His mighty deeds of valour they 'ere more will chant, And now doth pass from stage this last named actor, In crushing Southern slavery potent factor.

UNITED STATES.

The United States is wondrous land, Within its mighty borders grand, They are a world unto themselves, In South the Negro plows and delves.

Raising tobacco, sugar, cotton, Grapes and rice too may be gotten, The west for corn, cattle and swine, On which millions o'er the world dine.

The silver hills of Colorado, Equaled only by Nevada, And o'er the world you can't behold Aught like California's mines of gold.

To vast extent her exports reaches, Of grapes and oranges and peaches, And Florida the land of flowers Is famous for its orange bowers.

Pennsylvania's hills environ Wondrous mines of coal and iron, Great marvel of these modern days, All you require yourselves could raise.

But still Canadians are content With their own half of continent, Though Uncle Sam is most wealthy, Canada's content and healthy.

Sam and her are blood relation, Sprung alike from British nation, May peaceful odes alone be sung 'Tween people of one race and tongue.

When Canada's ten million strong, Then none will dare to do her wrong, Either as a youthful nation Or in Imperial Federation.

CALEDONIA SPRINGS, NEW YORK.

The water spouts up from the ground And there doth form a pond around, 'Tis fed from no apparent rills, And it near by drives several mills.

And here the little ponds are seen Where fish are propogate by Green, Fish hatcheries here had their birth, And now they're spread o'er all the earth.

Here in each pond thousands of trout Rush around their circular route, Of various breeds, age and size, Speckled o'er with various dyes.

Geologists do gaze with pride On specimens all petrified, Here church is built of those rare stone, Fish, reptiles, birds, in days bygone.

Strange thoughts in mind it doth awake, As it is far from sea and lake, Even the hill tops do abound With proofs here flowed the sea profound.

With reverence we gaze around On an ancient burial ground, Those who once did tread the heather Now rest quietly here together.

LOCAL SKETCHES.

On grassy amphitheatre, Spectators sit to view the war, 'Mong bold contestants on the plain Where each doth strive the prize to gain.

Come witness the great tug of war, And see great hammer thrown afar, See running, jumping, highland fling, At concert hear the skylark 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 highland 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.

GREAT FIRE IN INGERSOLL, MAY, 1872.

'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 our town is all enterprise.

MASONIC LINES READ AT A BANQUET, 1884.

The prominent names in Masonry are Kings Solomon and Hiram and St. John.

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.

ODDFELLOWSHIP LINES READ AT CONCERT, 1883.

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.

ADVICE TO A LITTLE GIRL.

The following lines were written at the request of a little girl, who said she would recite them at a Sunday School entertainment. Prof. J. S. Blackie of Edinburgh, in a letter acknowledging the receipt of my book, said he considered this piece worthy of being committed to memory in the public schools. Sir Daniel Wilson of Toronto University also approves of them as containing good sentiments and should be impressed on the minds of the young.

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.

IN MEMORIAM.

Lines on the death of my only son, who died on the 5th of July, 1876, on the anniversary of his mother's death.

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.

PROVIDENTIAL ESCAPE.

Providential escape of Ruby and Neil McLeod, children of Angus McLeod of this town. Little Neil McKay McLeod, a child of three years of age, was carried under a covered raceway, upwards of one hundred yards, the whole distance being either covered o'er with roadway, buildings or ice.

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 befel, 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 mother[H] she adored Her sweet dear child to her restored, And her boundless gratitude Unto the author of all good.

[H] Mrs. Mary McKay McLeod, the author of some fine poems on Scottish and Canadian subjects.

Moral and Reflective.

BRAIN ENGRAVINGS.

Great wonder is the human brain, How it impressions doth retain, Inscribed on it are autographs, And there is also photographs.

And every hill and plain and nook, It is deep graven in this book, A great variety here belongs, Snatches of sermons and of songs.

Here you'll find are numerous themes, Both mighty thoughts and foolish dreams, Here love and hope so bright and fair, There hate and doubt and dark despair.

And here is too the bower of bliss, Where youthful lovers first did kiss, Here are memories of childhood And of old ages thoughtful mood.

View well the whole, 'tis a strange sight, Both of suffering and delight, You see the parting with old friend, And where new hearts with yours do blend.

Greatest blessing, hope of heaven, For our comfort it is given, Indented deep in mind of wise Are glories of the heavenly prize.

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.

Now let the hero of our song, Be he who gentle treats the throng, And would not cruel treat another, But to each be as to a brother.

And he must have both sense and wit, And be possessed of strength and grit, Then strong as proof of holy writ, For to survive he is most fit.

And according to our test, The fittest only is the best, These have a right for to survive, And well they do deserve to thrive.

And this kind of evolution It will bring no revolution, But revolve in Christian sphere, Where scripture truths are prized and dear.

Give us the man doth persevere, And presses on in his career, Undaunted struggling for the right, Though all mankind 'gainst him unite.

Though now on top of highest mount, Where he has found true honour's fount, Yet those below he don't despise, But strives to aid them for to rise.

MOTTO.

Politeness, perseverance and pluck, To their possessor will bring good luck.

THINGS SHOULD BE JUDGED BY MERIT.

A picture hung in a public hall, And it was much admired by all, Painted by a true artist's hand, The subject it was truly grand.

Its fame o'er the whole world resounds, Valued at ten thousand pounds, Beauteous lady none 'ere passed her, She was the work of an old master.

At last a critic keen did gaze And saw 'twas work of modern days, Then quick it was pronounced a daub, And artist but a money grab.

The true, the noble and the grand, Will lend to struggling helping hand, Then let no man of dues be shorn, If he a subject doth adorn.

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.

THE GATES AJAR.

A good kind man who knew no malice, Happy with wife and daughter Alice, More precious far to him than gold, His little darling six years old.

True nobleman with many friends, His career too soon it ends, The casket friends enshrined with flowers, While soul had fled to heavenly bowers.

The wreaths were lovely, but the star, Admired by all was gates ajar, The widow led her little girl To where death his dart did hurl.

And stricken her poor father down, But child exclaimed he's won the crown, And he will watch for me afar, And keep for me the gates ajar.

And when we cross the crystal fount, He will point out the heavenly mount, Here neither sun nor moon doth shine, Lighted with radiance all divine.

For I know well for me he'll wait Anxious at the pearly gate, For I would fear to view alone The glories of the heavenly throne.

Pa will admit his little Alice Safe into the heavenly palace, And glories to me will unfold As we tread the streets of gold.

CHILD MADE HAPPY.

In a great city hospital There lay poor Mary Crosby small, She had no friends her heart to cheer, So time with her passed sad and drear.

She sought for ease but all in vain, Month after month she passed in pain, She had no relative nor friend Who aid or comfort could her lend.

A surgeon saw her cheerless state, And deplored the poor child's fate, She tried to make doll of her finger, And sang to it poor little singer.

Her's indeed was an awful lot, The weary days she spent in cot, For the poor child she could not walk, And it soon exhausted her to talk.

But surgeon bought her ribbon gay, And with it she all day did play, The giver often she did bless, And thought sometimes she was princess.

For in it she did take such pride, She fancied she was beauteous bride, And was possessed of great riches, Or thought herself a wealthy Duchess.

And she would bind it round her hair, Imagining that she was fair. But poor child feels that she must die, She asks the surgeon to come nigh.

And kindly o'er her he doth stand, She asked him for to take her hand, Thanked him for ribbon green and blue, Then evermore bade him adieu.

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.

POWER OF LOVE.

Love it is the precious loom, Whose shuttle weaves each tangled thread, And works flowers of exquisite bloom, Shedding their perfume where we tread.

HER LOVER'S STEP.

Step, step, step, 'tis her lover's walk, She knows his step as well's his talk; He is the favorite of her choice, So his step's familiar as his voice.

Step, step, step, she now is wed, And it is now her husband's tread; His homeward step it cheers her life, For she is a kind faithful wife.

But he the husband and yet lover, His steps at last do cease forever; And she doth soon hear the tread Of men who do bear out the dead.

Her heart it now doth throb with pain, Though she knows sorrow is but vain; For him she never can recall, And no more hear his footsteps fall.

But still she hopes he yet will come And visit her in their old home; But time approaches, she must die, Her husband's footsteps she hears nigh.

Step, step, step, we ne'er shall part, I hear the echo in my heart; Now happiness dispels the gloom, Radiant with joy my face doth bloom.

Pain and suffering all are past, She joyous cried he's come at last; And soon she breathes out her last breath, He guides her through the vale of death.

THE USEFUL WEED.

Do not despise the humble weed, For the Lord He first sowed the seed, Perhaps it bears most precious fruit, And useful leaves and potent root.

Though it seems now a useless weed, Countless millions it yet may feed, Or future ages it may prize, Finding in it beauteous dyes.

Or a valued healing balm, Will make the heated pulse beat calm, And the future men of science, May place on it strong reliance.

And it may play important part, In advancing skill and art, And no person now doth know How useful are the weeds that grow.

Weeds we now look on with loathing, They may yet be used for clothing, Producing silken glossy coat, Or paper fine for the bank note.

But you at present must take heed, And do not grow the cumbrous weed, Either in garden or in field, Where plants with profit now do yield.

GOLDEN EGG.

In ancient times we have been told A goose did lay an egg of gold, She did produce one every day, So regular this goose did lay.

But her stupid foolish master Wanted her to lay them faster, And he at last the goose did kill, Gold grist no more came to his mill.

But a strange tale we now unfold, In California's mines of gold, There they keep both hens and chickens, 'Mong the gravel scratching pickings.

But hens do find the golden shiner, Is too heavy for their dinner, For it they cannot well digest, As it lies solid in their breast.

Then they are slain and you behold In their craw the shining gold, Made up of particles so fine, The purest gold in all the mine.

Then how happy is the miner, When he has sweet fowl for dinner, And he doth find within its craw, A little golden bonanza.

And in Ontario the hen Is worthy of the poet's pen, For she doth well deserve the praise Bestowed on her for her fine lays.

LITTLE DORA.

I tell you what my little Dora, You do cause my heart to sorrow, Tell me now you little misses What you do with all your kisses.

I see you get them by the dozen From each aunt and little cousin, Said she I do intend dear pa To give them all to you and ma.

And not a single one I'll miss, But I will give you back each kiss, And both of you will feel you're blest When I pay you interest.

You'll better in my bank invest And put my principle to test, And you can dividend partake, For my bank will never break.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF A FARMER'S WIFE.

This good woman when in this life, She was kind mother and good wife, And managed her household with care, She and her husband happy pair.

And her name it will long be praised By the large family she has raised, She laid up treasures in the skies, And now enjoys the Heavenly prize.

She rose each morn with happy smile, And ardent all the day did toil, For work it to her had a charm, And busy was each hand and arm.

FIGHTING FOR HOME.

A hawk while soaring on the wing, O'er a tiny sparkling spring, Beheld a sleek and beauteous mink, Was enjoying a bath and drink.

And though the hawk was bent on slaughter The mink was more at home on water, And it is strange this curious quarrel All occurred in a sunk barrel.

In the Township of Nissouri, There the hawk it came to sorrow, But it strove often for to sink, In vain it strove to drown the mink,

But mink it did successful balk, All the attacks were made by hawk, The bird was drenched, it could not fly, And ne'er again it soared on high.

LINES WRITTEN IN A MENTAL ALBUM.

Where each one expressed some sentiment.

In this album you may trace, If not the lineaments of face, There 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 here some fine pages, Written by maturer ages, Where they show that time is brief, That soon comes sere and yellow leaf.

EVERY ROSE HATH ITS THORN.

There was a maiden all forlorn, She loved a youth, his name was Thorn, But he was shy for to disclose How he loved dear the sweet May Rose.

Lustre sweet it would give to Thorn, If this fair flower would it adorn, Said he all other names above Your charming name alone I love.

Said she of beauty 'tis soon shorn, Unless that it is joined to Thorn, It very soon doth droop and die, And she heaved a gentle sigh.

Said he we'll wed to-morrow morn, No more from me you shall be torn, For you will banish all my woes, And near my heart I'll wear the rose.

Now little rose buds they are born, All clinging to the parent Thorn, In grace and beauty each one grows, Full worthy of the sweet May Rose.

Some flowers they only shed their bloom In the sweet month of leafy June, But May doth bloom each month in year A fragrant Rose forever dear.

DANGER OF FIRE ARMS.

For to save life one great solver Would be to prohibit the revolver, Weapon of coward and of bully, Who slaughter friends in their folly.