St. Andrew and Halloween
Our ancient customs to renew,
We meet to honour 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
Unto the shrine of St. Andrew;
For miracles it gained renown,
And thence sprang up St.Andrew's town.
And here to night we meet together,
Rose, shamrock and blooming heather,
For no more the Scottish thistle .
With warlike thorns it doth bristle.
But 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.
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 faries danced upon the green
So merrily on Hallowe'en,
And witches did play many a trick,
Assisted by their auld friend nick ;
And lovers met wound 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 the lover's 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.
Princess Beatrice lights bonfire
'Neath the mock witches funeral pyre.
But Highland landlords now do clear
Land of men to make room for deer
And where brave race did once abound
'Tis wilderness of hunting ground.
But Scotia must not be forgot,
For sake of Chalmers, Burns or 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.
poem by James McIntyre
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Related quotes
The Banner of Union
Bring the Harp of the West, and the Pipes of the North,
When our Trumpet note calls to the field;
Let the men of old Scotia and Erin come forth,
And our foemen shall see who must yield.
Side by side in the battle, like granite we'll stand,
With a will and a might none shall sever;
For Glory or Death, we will twine in one wreath
Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle for ever.
Our Banner of Union shall float in the wind
Over hearts that have never yet quailed;
The sword shall be drawn and the banner be borne,
By hands that have never yet failed.
Sons of heather! your fame in the fight
Is as old as your glens and your valleys,
Men of Hibernia! let Right ask for Might;
And where is the spirit but rallies.
Side by side in the battle, like granite we'll stand,
With a will and a might none shall sever;
For Glory or Death, we will twine in one wreath
Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle for ever.
poem by Eliza Cook
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Canadian Sports and Games and Plays
Burns sang of joys of Hallowe'en,
But in Canada is oft seen
By far more jolly times than these,
At logging raising, paring bees,
For here the youth is not afraid
To dance long side of pretty maid,
For this, at night, is his reward
For working at the bee so hard.
And oft times till the break of day
At forfeits they will merry play,
For he doth win, e'en though he miss,
If from sweet lass he gets a kiss,
But in its place loth justly prize
His tea and cakes, and pumpkin pies.
When winter comes it brings no gloom,
But makes fresh pleasures spring and bloom;
For when the youth longs for a bride
He gives his girl a grand sleigh ride,
Which to them both doth pleasures bring,
While merry sleigh bells cheery ring;
And, with the fair maid of his choice,
He graceful skates with her on ice-
Charming mode of locomotion,
Gliding o'er a polished ocean.
Such joys they soon do love evolve,
And they on union do resolve.
He is happy with his chosen,
For warm love gets never frozen.
And young folks oft they do take pride
How swift they down the hill can glide,
And they bravely dare the forest king
So they may enjoy the coasting,
Each striving for to lead the van
In the swift-shooting toboggan.
And on the ice men love to hurl
The polished blocks, to skilful curl,
And curlers all do proudly claim
Their's is a manly, healthy game ;
And in Canadians you trace
A generous, hardy and brave race.
And brilliant as a fairy hall
Is scenes on ice at carnival
Before the gale in an ice boat,
It swiftly o'er the ice doth float,
The sensation is, you fly
Like lightning shooting through the sky.
In summer time, the youth do toss
The ball at the keen game, lacrosse,
And tradition doth for it claim
That it is ancient Indian game ;
And if a foe invade; we can
Drive them back with clubs Canadian.
poem by James McIntyre
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St. Andrews Anniversary
The following is a clipping from an old Ingersoll paper
on St. Andrew's Anniversary, 30th November, 1868 :
The Anniversary of Scotia's tetular [sic] saint was celebrated on Monday with great eclat
by a dinner at Mr. Douglass' Hotel. The spread on the occasion was excellent ; not
only Scotia's sons, but many who came from merry England and the Green Isle were
present. After the cloth had been removed Mr. McIntyre took the chair, and Mr. Sorley
the vice chair. Songs, speeches and toasts became the order of the evening The
following original piece was rendered by Mr. McIntyre in good style :-
Scotia's sons to-night we meet thee
With kindly feelings we do greet thee
In honour 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 sky lark
Which soars triumphant to the skies
Above the gaze of human eyes.
Land of bleak hills and of 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 good brose,
Of blue bonnets, and of Tartan hose,
The land where all good wives do bake
The thirfty, wholesome oaten cake.
We hope some day to tread the strand
Of our own dear native land,
And see the lasses shear the corn *
Near the banks of the Findhorn.
Where the Jeans and the Maggies
Excel is making glorious haggies,
And o'er the sea we'll some day sail
To get a bowl of good green kail.
poem by James McIntyre
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Sir Raymond of the Castle
[The following little Poems are written after the Model of the Old English Ballads, and are inscribed to those who admire the simplicity of that kind of versification.]
NEAR GLARIS, on a mountain's side,
Beneath a shad'wy wood,
With walls of ivy compass'd round,
An ancient Castle stood.
By all rever'd, by all ador'd,
There dwelt a wealthy dame;
One peerless daughter bless'd her age,
A maid of spotless fame !
While one fair son, a gallant boy,
Whose VIRTUE was his shield,
Led on the dauntless sons of war,
Amidst the crimson'd field:
For o'er the land dissension reign'd
Full many a direful year,
And many a heart's best blood had stain'd
The proud oppressor's spear.
Young ELLA'S charms had spread her fame
O'er all the country wide;
And youths of high descent and brave,
Had sought her for their bride !
Amongst the rest SIR RAYMOND came,
Sprung from a princely race;
Right valiant in each warlike art,
And blest with ev'ry grace !
In tournaments renown'd afar,
For manly feats admir'd;
His brilliant fame, his bold exploits,
The damsel's bosom fir'd.
Her blushing cheek, her down-cast eye
Her secret flame confess'd;
The gallant RAYMOND'S circling arm,
The beauteous ELLA press'd.
From her fond mother's doating eyes
The radiant gem he bore;
The weeping maids and village swains
Beheld her charms no more.
Where the swift billows of the RHINE
Their shining curls disclose;
With many a gilded turret crown'd
His splendid Palace rose.
The festive scene had scarce began,
When near the Castle wall,
A messenger of warlike mein,
On RAYMOND'S name did call;
"Come forth thou valiant Knight," he said,
"Thy prowess quickly show,
With speed prepare thy lance and shield
To meet the dauntless foe:
"The blood of many a noble Swiss
Doth stain the country round,
And many a brave aspiring youth
Lies vanquish'd on the ground.
"The daring Chief, whose shining spear
With purple gore is dy'd;
Oh ! direful news, prepare to meet
THE BROTHER OF THY BRIDE."
Enrag'd, the haughty RAYMOND cried,
"Base wretch receive thy doom,
For thy bold errand thou shalt die
Within a dungeon's gloom."
Speechless the mournful ELLA stood,
Despair her heart did wound;
When from the echoing tow'r she heard,
Th' larum-bell's dreadful sound!
Her cold wan cheek, her quiv'ring lip,
Bespoke her soul's deep woe,
From her blue eye the crystal drop
In silent grief did flow,
"For shame, shake off those woman's tears,"
The frowning bridegroom cried,
"And know, SIR RAYMOND'S warlike breast
Disdains a timid bride.
"In vain you weep, ignoble dame,
Behold yon neighing steed;
My soldiers wait, my bosom burns
TO CONQUER or to BLEED."
Forth went the Knight;the frantic bride
To the high rampart flew;
With trembling knee she climb'd the wall,
Th' embattled plain to view.
On either side, by turns she thought
Proud vict'ry grac'd the field;
'Till vanquish'd by her BROTHER'S sword,
She saw her HUSBAND yield.
For refuge to his Castle gate,
The bleeding warrior flew;
And from the battlements on high,
His daring gauntlet threw !
Three days from dawn to setting sun,
The hardy soldiers stood,
'Till faint with toil, by famine press'd,
They saw their chief subdu'd.
"Oh! haste my page," SIR RAYMOND said,
"The captive youth set free,
And bid him to the conqu'rer's feet
This message bear from me.
"Treasures immense of massy gold,
Rich gems, and jewels rare,
As ransom will I freely give,
If he our lives will spare;
"If he consents, let garlands green
His peaceful brows adorn;
If hostile yet, beneath our walls,
Thrice sound his bugle horn."
Gaily he pass'd the outward gate;
But sadly he return'd;
His bugle horn he sounded thrice,
—No wreath his brows adorn'd.
"Thy gold" he cried " the conqu'ror scorns,
He claims thy forfeit LIFE,
Thy precious gems, and jewels rare,
He gives thy beauteous wife."
"Your lands are free, your soldiers too,
And for young ELLA'S sake
To prove his truth, the gen'rous chief
This solemn vow did make:"
"That whatsoe'er she holds most dear,
At morrow's dawn of day:
Her pages, to some distant place,
May safely bear away;"
At dawn of light fair ELLA came,
Fresh as the rose of May;
SIR RAYMOND in a chest of gold,
Her pages bore away !
She pass'd the gate with throbbing heart,
She pass'd the ranks among;
The praises of her peerless charms,
Fell fast from ev'ry tongue !
"Halt, halt," they cried, "right noble dame,
'Tis fit we should behold
Whether thy coffer ought contains
But gems and messy gold;"
"O stay me not ye gallant youths,
For soon it shall appear;
This burnish'd coffer doth contain
ALL THAT I HOLD MOST DEAR !"
"Take heed, my Brother, ah, take heed,
Nor break thy sacred word;
Nor let thy kinsman's blood degrade
The glories of thy sword !"
The Hero smil'dfair ELLA'S cheek
Glow'd with vermilion dye;
Fear chill'd her heart, the starting tear
Stood trembling in her eye.
Subdu'd, abash'd, her brother flew
And clasp'd her to his breast,
Then with an angel's pitying voice,
The vanquish'd chief address'd:
"Come forth SIR RAYMOND, valiant knight,
Behold thy peerless wife;
Receive thy sword, and from HER hand
Accept thy forfeit life.
"Here shall the bloody contest end,
Let peace o'erspread the land;
More homage than the conqueror's sword
CAN BEAUTY'S TEARS COMMAND!"
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
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The Witches' Glen - An Auld Tale
Gather aroon the ingle nuek
For ae eerie tale I'll tell -
'Boot a glen whar a witchy spook
Cast folk in her terrible spell.
Her hair sae black, her eyes sae green
Black Meg she was the devil's queen.
Warlocks an witches dance at night
When the full-moon turns its ken!
Thunder rides on a bolt of light
The deil's in the witches' glen!
Her hair sae black, her eyes sae green
Black Meg she was the devil's queen.
Auld trees hang o'er the twisted wynd
An' blot oot the licht o' day;
An there, there's staring eyes tae find
A stranger wha's lost their way.
Her hair sae black, her eyes sae green
Black Meg she was the devil's queen.
Frae Grennan wood she hailed an flew
A flash thru the black night wind
Come witchin hour everyin knew
She'd get a' the folks wha sinned.
Her hair sae black, her eyes sae green
Black Meg she was the devil's queen.
They burned her on Kirkmaiden hill
An' they bound her on a stake:
She chanted spells that made 'em ill
An' they pray'd for Jesus' sake.
Her hair sae black, her eyes sae green
Black Meg she was the devil's queen.
When ere ye walk the witches' glen,
Whar branches stretch oot like hands
Tak' Bible, cross an' say, Amen!
An' heed the guid Lord's commands.
Her hair sae black, her eyes sae green
Black Meg she's still there tae be seen.
poem by Patrick Scott Hogg
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Andrew Jackson
On the life of Andrew Jackson,
Now dear people I will write,
And in sketches, I will tell you
His career with great delight.
His career on earth is ended;
But his name is ever bright,
And his memory is cherished
As a great glorious knight.
The early life of Andrew Jackson,
Its marked in high renown,
As a lover of his country
He proved steadfastly profound,
Through kind teaching of his mother,
That patriot lady brave;
His mind strengthened by her wisdom,
Ere she sank into her grave.
Ah, in manhood, Andrew Jackson,
Was a daring fearless man;
With a strong iron will commanding,
He was loved throughout our land.
He was kind and generous hearted
In his military acts,
Yet was stubborn, while commanding,
And no courage did he lack.
At middle age, Andrew Jackson
Was a noble warlike man,
And was capable of handling
The army at his command.
You can see it by the battles
Of his Indian campaign,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where so many men were slain.
The dauntless energy of Jackson,
Oh, should never be forgot,
Or the battle of New Orleans,
Where he diligently fought.
Where he fought to save his country,
From the British fleets of fame;
Through coolness and courage
The victory he did gain.
As commander, Andrew Jackson
Was a soldier of great skill,
And he nobly done his duty
To his country, with good will.
Yet in life his acts were censured,
Ah, by men both great and small.
One the acts that made him trouble
Was the arresting of Judge Hall.
Oh, that act cost Andrew Jackson
Many heart pang in after life,
For he thought it was his duty
In that hard cruel strife
That his soldiers should obey him
And fulfill every command,
As he knew no other method,
He could save his native land.
The people loved Andrew Jackson,
"Old Hickory" was their friend.
As a President o'er our country
He proved faithful to the end.
His career on earth was ended
Eighteen Forty Five; is seen
As a star his name is shining
The "hero" of "New Orleans."
poem by Julia A Moore
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English Names on Canadian Thames
England hath given us the names
To adorn Canadian Thames,
And charms to them she hath lent,
In Oxford, Middlesex and Kent.
She Essex kisseth in her mouth,
And Scottish names, one north, one south ;
And London now she justly claims
She's capital of vale of Thames,
And her strong castellated tower .
Doth on the river frowning lower ;
And Chatham is the river's port,
There slaves for freedom did resort,
And they did industrious toil
And now many own the soil.
Stratford, now, shall be our theme,
On Avon, tributary stream,
And its clear waters it doth launch
Into the Thames, northern branch.
Near that substantial stone town,
St. Mary's, with mills of renown.
Some imagine the Thames is too insignificant a stream
to be sung in verse.' Distance lends enchantment to
the view. and they fancy the old Scottish rivers are
more worthy of song ; but many of them are polluted of
late years with vile odors from factories ; and, as the
county of Oxford is agreeably diversified with hills
and dales, the clear, sparkling stream, flowing over a
pebbly bottom, is indeed 'a thing of beauty and a joy forever.'
poem by James McIntyre
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The Death of the Queen
Alas! our noble and generous Queen Victoria is dead,
And I hope her soul to Heaven has fled,
To sing and rejoice with saints above,
Where ah is joy, peace, and love.
'Twas on January 22, 1901, in the evening she died at 6.30 o'clock,
Which to the civilised world has been a great shock;
She was surrounded by her children and grandchildren dear,
And for the motherly, pious Queen they shed many a tear.
She has been a model and faithful Queen,
Very few like her have been;
She has acted virtuously during her long reign,
And I'm afraid the world will never see her like again.
And during her reign she was beloved by the high and the low,
And through her decease the people's hearts are full of woe,
Because she was kind to her subjects at home and abroad,
And now she's receiving her reward from the Eternal God.
And during her reign in this world of trouble and strife
Several attempts were made to take her life;
Maclean he tried to shoot her, but he did fail,
But he was arrested and sent to an aaylum, which made him bewail.
Victoria was a,noble Queen, the people must confess,
She was most charitable to them while in distress;
And in her disposition she wasn't proud nor vain,
And tears for her loss will fall as plentiful as rain.
The people around Balmoral will shed many tears
Owing to her visits amongst them for many years;
She was very kind to the old, infirm women there,
By giving them provisions and occasionally a prayer.
And while at Balmoral she found work for men unemployed,
Which made the hearts of the poor men feel overjoyed;
And for Her Majesty they would have laid down their lives,
Because sometimes she saved them from starving, and their wives.
Many happy days she spent at Balmoral,
Viewing the blooming heather and the bonnie Highland floral,
Along with Prince Albert, her husband dear,
But alas! when he died she shed many a tear.
She was very charitable, as everybody knows,
But the loss of her husband caused her many woes,
Because he cheered her at Balmoral as they the heather trod,
But I hope she has met him now at the Throne of God.
They ascended the Hill of Morven when she was in her fortieth year,
And Her Majesty was delighted as she viewed the Highland deer;
Also dark Lochnagar, which is most beautiful to see,
Not far from Balmoral and the dark River Dee.
I hope they are walking in Heaven together as they did in life
In the beautiful celestial regions, free from all strife,
Where God's family together continually meet,
Where the streets are paved with gold, and everything complete.
Alas! for the loss of Queen Victoria the people will mourn,
But she unto them can never return;
Therefore to mourn for her is all in vain,
Knowing that she can never return again.
Therefore, good people, one and all,
Let us be prepared for death when God does on us call,
Like the good and noble Queen Victoria of renown,
The greatest and most virtuous Queen that ever wore a crown.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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A Romance of Canada
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 labourer 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 the 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 Rueben 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 with his strong arms
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 two 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 span the wool from off their sheep,
And from the yarn she wove the cloth,
All they required, they had for both,
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 'ere 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 brouse.
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, beach 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 up 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 bridal 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,
Cars 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, too, hath passed away
With all its chincks 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 north-west.
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,
poem by James McIntyre
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Robert Burns
The following ode was delivered by the author at the Centennial Anniversary
of Burns, Ingersoll, in presence of a large assembly in the year 1859:
This night shall never be forgot,
For humble life none now despise,
Since Barns was born in lowly cot,
Whose muse's wing soared 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 Hornbrook, 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 Robbin 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 extoll,
Though oft we've differed,
Let us stand united now in Ingersoll.
Burns sang so sweet behind the plow,
Daisies well 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
We'll shed it for exile of Erin,
And Tannahil, while at his loom,
Wove flowers of song will ever bloom.
Hogg, Ettrick shepherd, did gain fame
By singing when the Kie comes hame,
With good time coming Bard McKay
Still merrily doth cheer the way.
poem by James McIntyre
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Arouse Ye Brave Canadians: Lines Suggested by General Brock's Stirring Appeal to the People of Upper
Canadian's arms are stout and strong,
Canadian hearts are true ;
Your homes were in the forest made,
Where pine and maple grew.
A haughty foe is marching
Your country to enthrall ;
Arouse ye, brave Canadians,
And answer to my call !
Let every man who swings an axe,
Or follows at the plough,
Abandon farm and homestead,
And grasp a rifle now !
We'll trust the God of Battles,
Although our force be small ;
Arouse ye, brave Canadians,
And answer to my call !
Let mothers, though with breaking hearts,
Give up their gallant sons ;
Let maidens bid their lovers go,
And wives their dearer ones !
Then rally to the frontier,
And form a living wall ;
Arouse ye, brave Canadians,
And answer to my call !
poem by J.D. Edgar (1893)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Voice From The West
What is the voice I hear
On the wind of the Western Sea?
Sentinel, listen from out Cape Clear
And say what the voice may be.
``'Tis a proud, free people calling loud to a people proud and free.
``And it says to them, `Kinsmen, hail!
We severed have been too long.
Now let us have done with a worn-out tale-
The tale of an ancient Wrong;
And our friendship last long as Love doth last,
and be stronger than Death is strong!'''
Answer them, ``Sons of the self-same race,
And blood of the self-same clan,
Let us speak with each other face to face,
And answer man to man;
And loyally love and trust each other as none but free men can.
``So fling them out to the breeze,
Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose!
And the Star-Spangled Banner unfurl with these,
A message to friends and foes,
Wherever the sails of peace are seen and wherever the war-wind blows.
``A message to bond and thrall to wake:
For wherever we come, we twain,
The throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake,
And his menace be void and vain;
For you are lords of a strong, young land, and we are lords of the main.''
Yes, this is the voice on the bluff March gale:
``We severed have been too long.
But now we have done with a worn-out tale,
The tale of an ancient Wrong;
And our friendship shall last long as Love doth last, and be stronger than Death is strong!''
poem by Alfred Austin
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O how lovely is true love's kiss
O how lovely is true love's kiss
Whose rosy wine cup lips implore
Men's hearts into an eternal abyss…
Sacrificing their souls for-ever-more
Till all but nothing else exists
But O" a lover's fairy folk-lore
A tale of knights of yore!
A tale of true love'
poem by Mark Heathcote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Donald Ross
A Scottish - Canadian tale.
By the side of 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
All that night, Donald Ross,
And sad seemed the morrow
For his wife and sma' Flora.
Oh ! 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 fed on hills so steep.
Oh, it was a sad story
For bonnie little Flora.
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.
poem by James McIntyre
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Troy Town
HEAVENBORN Helen, Sparta's queen,
(O Troy Town!)
Had two breasts of heavenly sheen,
The sun and moon of the heart's desire:
All Love's lordship lay between.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Helen knelt at Venus' shrine,
(O Troy Town!)
Saying, “A little gift is mine,
A little gift for a heart's desire.
Hear me speak and make me a sign!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Look, I bring thee a carven cup;
(O Troy Town!)
See it here as I hold it up,—
Shaped it is to the heart's desire,
Fit to fill when the gods would sup.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“It was moulded like my breast;
(O Troy Town!)
He that sees it may not rest,
Rest at all for his heart's desire.
O give ear to my heart's behest!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“See my breast, how like it is;
(O Troy Town!)
See it bare for the air to kiss!
Is the cup to thy heart's desire?
O for the breast, O make it his!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Yea, for my bosom here I sue;
(O Troy Town!)
Thou must give it where 'tis due,
Give it there to the heart's desire.
Whom do I give my bosom to?
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Each twin breast is an apple sweet.
(O Troy Town!)
Once an apple stirred the beat
Of thy heart with the heart's desire:—
Say, who brought it then to thy feet?
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“They that claimed it then were three:
(O Troy Town!)
For thy sake two hearts did he
Make forlorn of the heart's desire.
Do for him as he did for thee!
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
“Mine are apples grown to the south,
(O Troy Town!)
Grown to taste in the days of drouth,
Taste and waste to the heart's desire:
Mine are apples meet for his mouth.”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Venus looked on Helen's gift,
(O Troy Town!)
Looked and smiled with subtle drift,
Saw the work of her heart's desire:—
“There thou kneel'st for Love to lift!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Venus looked in Helen's face,
(O Troy Town!)
Knew far off an hour and place,
And fire lit from the heart's desire;
Laughed and said, “Thy gift hath grace!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Cupid looked on Helen's breast,
(O Troy Town!)
Saw the heart within its nest,
Saw the flame of the heart's desire,—
Marked his arrow's burning crest.
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Cupid took another dart,
(O Troy Town!)
Fledged it for another heart,
Winged the shaft with the heart's desire,
Drew the string and said, “Depart!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
Paris turned upon his bed,
(O Troy Town!)
Turned upon his bed and said,
Dead at heart with the heart's desire—
“Oh to clasp her golden head!”
(O Troy's down,
Tall Troy's on fire!)
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Battle Of Otterburn
It feel about the Lammas tide,
When the muir-men win their hay,
The doughty Douglas bound him to ride
Into England, to drive a prey.
He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
With them the Lindesays, light and gay;
But the Jardines wald not with him ride,
And they rue it to this day.
And he has burned the dales of Tyne,
And part of Bambrough shire,
And three good towers on Reidswire fells,
He left them all on fire.
And he marched up to Newcastle,
And rode it round about:
'O wha's the lord of this castle?
Or wha's the lady o't?'
But up spake proud Lord Percy then,
And O but he spake hie!
I am the lord of this castle,
My wife's the lady gay.
'If thou'rt the lord of this castle,
Sae weel it pleases me,
For, ere I cross the Border fells,
The tane of us shall die.'
He took a lang spear in his hand,
Shod with the metal free,
And for to meet the Douglas there
He rode right furiouslie.
But O how pale his lady looked,
Frae aff the castle-wa,
When down before the Scottish spear
She saw proud Percy fa.
'Had we twa been upon the green,
And never an eye to see,
I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;
But your sword sall gae wi me.'
'The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn;
'Tis pleasant there to be;
But there is nought at Otterbourne
To feed my men and me.
'The deer rins wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild frae tree to tree;
But there is neither bread nor kale
To fend my men and me.
'Yet I will stay at Otterbourne,
Where you shall welcome be;
And, if ye come not at three dayis end,
A fause lord I'll ca thee.
'Thither will I come,' proud Percy said,
'By the might of Our Ladye';
'There will I bide thee' said the Douglas,
'My troth I plight to thee.'
They lighted high on Otterbourne,
Upon the bent sae brown;
They lighted high on Otterbourne,
And threw their pallions down.
And he that had a bonnie boy
Sent out his horse to grass;
And he that had not a bonnie boy
His ain servant he was.
But up then spake a little page,
Before the peep of dawn:
'O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,
For Percy's hard at hand.'
'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!
Sae loud I hear ye lie:
For Percy had not men yestreen
To dight my men and me.
'But I have dreamed a dreary dream,
Beyond the Isle of Skye;
I saw a dead man win a fight,
And I think that man was I.'
He belted on his guid braid sword,
And to the field he ran,
But he forgot the helmet good,
That should have kept his brain.
When Percy with the Douglas met,
I wat he was fu fain;
They swakked their swords, till sair they swat,
And the blood ran down like rain.
But Percy with his good broad sword,
That could so sharply wound,
has wounded Douglas on the brow,
Till he fel to the ground.
Then he call'd on his little foot-page,
And said, Run speedilie,
And fetch my ain dear sister's son,
Sir Hugh Montgomery.
'My nephew's good,' the Douglas said,
'What recks the death of ane!
Last night I dreamed a dreary dream,
And I ken the day's thy ain.
'My wound is deep; I fain would sleep;
Take thou the vanguard of the three,
And hide me by the braken-bush,
That grows on yonder lilye lee.
'O bury me by the braken-bush,
Beneath the blooming brier,
Let never a living mortal ken
That ere a kindly Scot lies here.'
He lifted up that noble lord,
Wi the saut tear in his ee;
He hid him in the braken-bush,
That his merrie men might not see.
The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The spears in flinders flew,
But mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons good, in English blood
They steepd their hose and shoon;
The Lindsays flew like fire about,
Till all the fray was done.
The Percy and Montgomery met,
That either of other were fain;
They swapped swords, and they twa swat,
And aye the blood ran down between.
'Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy,' he said,
'Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!'
'To whom must I yield,' quoth Earl Percy,
'Now that I see it must be so?'
'Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,
Nor shalt thou yield to me;
But yeild to the braken-bush,
That grows upon yon lilye lee.'
'I will not yield to a braken-bush,
Nor yet will I yield to a brier;
But I would yield to Earl Douglas,
Or Sir Hugh Montgomery, if he were here.'
As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,
He struck his sword's point in the gronde;
The Montgomery was a courteous knight,
And quickly took him by the honde.
This deed was done at the Otterbourne,
About the breaking of the day;
Earl Douglas was buried at the braken-bush,
And the Percy led captive away.
poem by Anonymous Olde English
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Beautiful Balmoral
Ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see
Beautiful Balmoral, near by the River Dee;
There ye will see the deer browsing on the heathery hills,
While adown their sides run clear sparkling rills.
Which the traveller can drink of when he feels dry,
And admire the dark River Dee near by,
Rolling smoothly and silently on its way,
Which is most lovely to see on a summer day.
There the trout do sport and play
During the live-long summer day;
Also plenty of salmon are there to be seen,
Glittering like silver in the sun's sheen.
And the mountains are rugged and wild to be seen,
But the woodlands are beautiful when Nature's face is green;
There numerous rabbits do gambol all day
Amongst the green scrubbery all lively and gay.
There's one charming spot most magnificent to be seen,
'Tis Balmoral Castle, the Highland Home of our Queen;
The surrounding scenery is enchanting to see,
While near by rolls past the lovely River Dee.
Therefore, ye lovers of the picturesque, away and see
Beautiful Balmoral Castle and its grand scenery,
And the sight will fill your hearts with glee,
As ye walk along the bonnie banks o' the River Dee.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Andrew M’Crie
from the unpublished remains of Edgar Allan Poe
It was many and many a year ago,
In a city by the sea,
That a man there lived whom I happened to know
By the name of Andrew M'Crie;
And this man he slept in another room,
But ground and had meals with me.
I was an ass and he was an ass,
In this city by the sea;
But we ground in a way which was more than a grind,
I and Andrew M'Crie;
In a way that the idle semis next door
Declared was shameful to see.
And this was the reason that, one dark night,
In this city by the sea,
A stone flew in at the window, hitting
The milk-jug and Andrew M'Crie.
And once some low-bred tertians came,
And bore him away from me,
And shoved him into a private house
Where the people were having tea.
Professors, not half so well up in their work,
Went envying him and me—
Yes!—that was the reason, I always thought
(And Andrew agreed with me),
Why they ploughed us both at the end of the year,
Chilling and killing poor Andrew M'Crie.
But his ghost is more terrible far than the ghosts
Of many more famous than he—
Of many more gory than he—
And neither visits to foreign coasts,
Nor tonics, can ever set free
Two well-known Profs from the haunting wraith
Of the injured Andrew M'Crie.
For at night, as they dream, they frequently scream,
'Have mercy, Mr. M'Crie!'
And at morn they will rise with bloodshot eyes,
And the very first thing they will see,
When they dare to descend to their coffee and rolls,
Sitting down by the scuttle, the scuttle of coals,
With a volume of notes on its knee,
Is the spectre of Andrew M'Crie.
poem by Robert Fuller Murray
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Oddfellowship in Woodstock
Well tell a tale, it shall be brief
It is of rise of Maple Leaf,
From noble Olive Branch it sprung,
And its good deeds shall yet be sung ;
This Encampment, though in its youth,
Glories in friendship, love, and truth
Of all our lodges yet the chief
May be this youthful Maple Leaf ;
Built of good timber, it doth launch
Well worthy of the Olive Branch,
And though it only is a shoot
We hope that it will take deep root,
And soon be vigorous Maple tree
In Canada so broad and free.
And may its usefulness ne'er cease
Sprung from the Olive Branch of peace,
But comfort brothers in distress,
Widows and orphans it will bless,
And console them in their grief,
Protected by the Maple Leaf.
Poor travellers in the wilderness
They oft do suffer great distress,
But may no pilgrim get rude shock
Sojourning here in Woodstock.
poem by James McIntyre
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Lord Ullin's Daughter
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."
"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"
Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief--I'm ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:
"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,--
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they row'd amid the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismay'd through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:--
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.
"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water:
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!--oh my daughter!"
'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;--
The waters wild went o'er his child,--
And he was left lamenting.
poem by Thomas Campbell
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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