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Mrs. Moody

When this country it was woody,
Its great champion, Mrs. Moody,
She showed she had both pluck and push,
In her work, roughing in the bush.

For there all alone she will 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,
Though eighty-six, she doth not fail;
She now is writing of wild flowers
Grown in Canada's woody bowers.

poem by James McIntyre
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Of The Rose Bush

This homely bush doth to mine eyes expose
A very fair, yea, comely ruddy rose.
This rose doth also bow its head to me,
Saying, Come, pluck me, I thy rose will be;
Yet offer I to gather rose or bud,
Ten to one but the bush will have my blood.
This looks like a trapan,[34] or a decoy,
To offer, and yet snap, who would enjoy;
Yea, the more eager on't, the more in danger,
Be he the master of it, or a stranger.
Bush, why dost bear a rose if none must have it.
Who dost expose it, yet claw those that crave it?
Art become freakish? dost the wanton play,
Or doth thy testy humour tend its way?

Comparison.

This rose God's Son is, with his ruddy looks.
But what's the bush, whose pricks, like tenter-hooks,
Do scratch and claw the finest lady's hands,
Or rend her clothes, if she too near it stands?
This bush an emblem is of Adam's race,
Of which Christ came, when he his Father's grace
Commended to us in his crimson blood,
While he in sinners' stead and nature stood.
Thus Adam's race did bear this dainty rose,
And doth the same to Adam's race expose;
But those of Adam's race which at it catch,
Adam's race will them prick, and claw, and scratch.

poem by John Bunyan
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Sonnet LIII

THe Panther knowing that his spotted hyde,
Doth please all beasts but that his looks the[m] fray:
within a bush his dreadfull head doth hide,
to let them gaze whylest he on them may pray.
Right so my cruell fayre with me doth play,
for with the goodly semblant of her hew:
she doth allure me to mine owne decay,
and then no mercy will vnto me shew.
Great shame it is, thing so diuine in view,
made for to be the worlds most ornament:
to make the bayte her gazers to embrew,
good shames to be so ill an instrument.
But mercy doth with beautie best agree,
as in theyr maker ye them best may see.

poem by Edmund Spenser
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Rose Bush's Life

have you ever seen a rose bush
grow over a period of time
well it gets bigger and
a lot more complected,
as it grows and expands

it starts as a seed
and with the right care and time
it develops into a bush
but with the wrong amount the bush is not heathy
and may die

that’s the same with a baby
we start as a egg in our mothers tummy
with the right amount of care and 9mounts
we sprout into the world
young, healthy and a able body baby
but if we are not taken care of properly then
we may not live

a rose bush sprouts many different roses
during it’s life time
as if they are sections of there life
generations
of there life time

our lives look and act
like a rose bush
also it starts with one seed
you
then we sprout up and
make our own lives
with a family and
that spouts other things off of us
husband, wife, kids, and grand kids

our lives are like a
rose bushes life
for a rose bushes
are our lives

poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Brantford

In these sketches of towns in Western Ontario, we are not vain enough
to suppose that because we have produced some rhymes thereon
that said rhymes are poetry. If we furnish an occasional poetic gleam,
like a dewdropp sparkling in the sun, it is all we dare hope for.

Brantford as thriving city's famed,
And after Indian chief is named ;
And here the sparkling Grand river,
It doth flow a joy forever.

Campbell, he sang a dismal tale
Of horrors of Wyonming's vale;
The tale one's mind doth ever haunt,
The cruelties of monster Brant.

But the chief's son to England went
And Campbell to him did lament,
And all the tale he did recant
About cruel butcheries of Brant.

Now pleasant thoughts it doth awake,
When Brantford thinks of her namesake ;
She evermore with pride will chant
The bold, heroic name of Brant.

We sing of two great Indian names,
Tecumseh on the banks of Thames,
And the Grand River it doth vaunt
Of the historic name of Brant.

The city's pride it doth find vent
In building him a monument,
And Indians will proudly stalk
Past memorial of great Mohawk.

poem by James McIntyre
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