Grand Rapids
Air -- "Bright Alfaretta"
Wild roved the Indians once
On the banks of Grand River,
And they built their little huts
Down by that flowing river.
In a pleasant valley fair,
Where flows the river rapid,
An Indian village once was there,
Where now stands Grand Rapids.
Indian girls and boys were seen,
With their bow and quiver,
Riding in their light canoes
Up and down the river.
Their hearts were full of joy,
Happy voices singing
Made music with forest birds,
They kept the valley ringing.
Indians have left and gone
Beyond the Mississippi.
They called the river Owashtenong
Where stands this pleasant city.
Louis Campau the first white man
Bought land in Grand Rapids.
He lived and died, an honored man
By people of Grand Rapids.
When Campau came to the valley
No bridge was across the river;
Indians in their light canoes
Rowed them o'er the water.
Railroads now from every way
Run through the city, Grand Rapids;
The largest town in west Michigan
Is the city of Grand Rapids.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Early Days of Rockford
Air -- "Lucy Long"
My friends, I pray you listen,
I'll sing a little song,
About the village of Rockford,
It will not take me long;
And how it was first settled
By enterprising men,
And all the news about it,
I'll tell you if I can.
Situated in a wilderness,
With forests all around,
Thirteen miles from Grand Rapids,
Is this florishing town.
On the banks of Rogue river,
Where runs the water still,
And in the early settled days,
Was called Laphamville.
First settled by Smith Lapham,
In eighteen and forty-three,
Then came the Hunter brothers
To keep him company.
Lapham and Hunter Brothers
Built each a shingle mill,
On the banks of Rogue river
Are the same old buildings still.
In the early days of Rockford
They had to run a stage,
They had no other conveyance
To get from place to place.
Now they go by railway,
The cars run night and day;
The early days of Rockford
Have nearly passed away.
poem by Julia A Moore
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prayer-River Voyage
My voyage is also
Sometimes, on a river.
The river is gentler.
Here I have time,
As it slowly flows,
To wonder
At the lush vegetation
On its banks.
Sometimes it turns
And my heart pounds
In expectation
Of what is waiting
Round the corner.
I love the river,
Of my prayer
It carries me on
To new vistas.
Sometimes there are
Rapids in my river and
I struggle to come past them.
Yet the river is true to me and
Soon it becomes gentle again.
I can gather strength in its
Gentle flow and peaceful scenery.
poem by Mary Mc Creath
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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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My Love For You Is A River
My love for you is like a river
You can not tell how deep it is just by looking
You have to jump in and dive down deep
Even then you will never know
My love for you is like a river
You can not tell how strong it is just by looking
You have to ride the rapids and fall with the water falls
Even then you will never know
My love for you is like a river
You can not tell how far it flows just by looking
You have to travel with it to its end
Even then you will never know
Because this river has no end
It empties into an eternal sea
that goes on till the end of time
My love for you is this river
poem by Jamey Einrem
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The Brave Page Boys
Air -- "The Fierce Discharge"
In the late rebellion war,
Grand Rapids did send out
As brave and noble volunteers
As ever went down south:
Among them were the brave Page boys --
Five brothers there were in all;
They enlisted and went down south,
To obey their country's call.
John S. Page was the eldest son --
He went down south afar,
And enlisted in the Mechanics,
And served his time in the war.
Fernando Page the second son;
Served in the Infantry;
He was wounded, lost both his feet
On duty at Yorktown siege.
Charles F. Page was a noble son --
In sixty-four did enlist,
And in the same year he was killed
In the fight of the Wilderness.
This brave boy was carrying the flag,
To cheer his comrades on.
He fought in the Eight Infantry;
Now he, brave boy, is gone.
'Tis said of this brave soldier boy --
'Twas just before he died --
Stood the flag standard in the ground,
Laid down by it and died.
The friends that loved this noble boy,
How sad were they to hear
Of his death on a battle field;
His age was twenty years.
James B. Page was a fine young man --
He went in the artillery;
He served his time with all the rest,
To keep his country free.
Enos Page the youngest brother --
Made five sons in one family,
Went from Grand Rapids, here.
His age was fourteen years --
When Enos Page went from his home,
He was only a boy, you know;
He stole away from his mother dear,
For he was bound to go.
She followed him to the barracks twice,
And took him home again;
She found it was no use -- at last
With friends let him remain.
In Eight Michigan Cavalry
This boy he did enlist;
His life was almost despaired of,
On account of numerous fits,
Caused by drinking water poisoned --
Effects cannot outgrow;
In northern Alabama, I hear,
There came this dreadful blow.
How joyful were the parents of
Those noble soldier boys,
There was one missing of the five,
When they returned from war.
The one that carried the Union flag
Lies in a Southern grave,
The other brothers came back home
To Grand Rapids, their native place.
poem by Julia A Moore
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In Fancy The Song Of The Dipper
In fancy the song of the dipper I hear
The river he sings in to my thoughts are near
With snow white breast and mostly dark brown
As he sing on a rock midst the rapids he bobs up and down
A beautiful to look at bird with a plain enough song
Once seen and once heard him you never get wrong
As birds go one might say a stranger to renown
He lives and breeds in the river that flows by the town
'Tis part of his natural duty for him to help his dipper wife
For to raise their young dippers for a river life
And in Seasons from now when the life from him long gone
The song of the dipper in the river lives on
In fancy I can hear him singing today
And the river he sings in from me doesn't seem far away
poem by Francis Duggan
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Centennial Celebration
In the year eighteen seventy-six,
A Fourth of July celebration
Was held in Grand Rapids city
In honor to our nation.
The largest city in the county of Kent,
Is this city, and it is respected,
For thousands of people was here to see
The beautiful arch erected.
The Centennial arch on Campau Place
Was the most principal feature;
It was a grand beautiful sight
To all human sensitive creatures;
To all the people that loved to read
The mottoes on it painted,
The engravings, too, and tell
What each one represented.
The paintings and mottoes on the arch
Was viewed by many people;
It was Colonel Joseph Penney's design,
And his work could not be equalled.
Mr. C. H. Gifford was architect,
He formed the noble structure,
A memento to the Centennial year,
A pride of our nation's culture.
A cabin was built, too, I believe,
That nicely represented
One that the traders built years ago,
This was the only one invented.
Ten thousand people respected it,
This token of early years, with pay;
The honor of this little hut
Was due to Mr. Godfroy.
The stars and stripes was honored, too,
For from a thousand windows waving,
That dear old flag, red, white and blue,
That's loved throughout our nation:
That same flag for one hundred years
Has waved over our nation;
May God let it forever wave
Over our Union celebration.
The people in the city, friends,
Was an honor to our nation,
For they all joined heart and hand
In our Union celebration.
Some gave money, other labor,
To maintain what was intended.
It was a success, some people said,
Who here that day attended.
That day will never be forgot
By the people of Kent county,
God bless the people who joined that day
In the honor of our country.
The people in the city, friends,
Dearly loved this nation,
For they saved no time or expense
In our Centennial celebration.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Grand Rapids Cricket Club
In Grand Rapids is a handsome club,
Of men that cricket play,
As fine a set of skillful men
That can their skill display.
They are the champions of the West,
They think they are quite fine,
They've won a hundred honors well;
It is their most cunning design.
Brave Kelso, he's considered great,
Chief of the club he is found;
Great crowds he draws to see him bowl
The ball upon the ground.
And Mr. Follet is very brave,
A lighter player than the rest,
He got struck severe at the fair ground
For which he took a rest.
When Mr. Dennis does well play,
His courage is full great,
And accidents to him occur,
But not much, though, of late.
This ball play is a dangerous game,
Brave knights to play it though;
Those boys would be the nation's pride,
If they to war would go.
From Milwaukee their club did come,
With thoughts of skill at play,
But beat they was, and then went home --
Had nothing more to say.
Grand Rapids club that cricket play,
Will soon be known afar,
Much prouder do the members stand,
Like many a noble star.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Wave-won
To-night I hunger so,
Beloved one, to know
If you recall and crave again the dream
That haunted our canoe,
And wove its witchcraft through
Our hearts as 'neath the northern night we sailed the northern stream.
Ah! dear, if only we
As yesternight could be
Afloat within that light and lonely shell,
To drift in silence till
Heart-hushed, and lulled and still
The moonlight through the melting air flung forth its fatal spell.
The dusky summer night,
The path of gold and white
The moon had cast across the river's breast,
The shores in shadows clad,
The far-away, half-sad
Sweet singing of the whip-poor-will, all soothed our souls to rest.
You trusted I could feel
My arm as strong as steel,
So still your upturned face, so calm your breath,
While circling eddies curled,
While laughing rapids whirled
From boulder unto boulder, till they dashed themselves to death.
Your splendid eyes aflame
Put heaven's stars to shame,
Your god-like head so near my lap was laid--
My hand is burning where
It touched your wind-blown hair,
As sweeping to the rapids verge, I changed my paddle blade.
The boat obeyed my hand,
Till wearied with its grand
Wild anger, all the river lay aswoon,
And as my paddle dipped,
Thro' pools of pearl it slipped
And swept beneath a shore of shade, beneath a velvet moon.
To-night, again dream you
Our spirit-winged canoe
Is listening to the rapids purling past?
Where, in delirium reeled
Our maddened hearts that kneeled
To idolize the perfect world, to taste of love at last.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Where The River Flows
Music : rudolf schenker
Lyrics: klaus meine
Under suburban skies
Where life is bleeding
Where concrete skies are grey
Theres plenty of room for dreaming
I still keep coming here
Follow those traces
I travel back in time
Remember all those places
Feels like I never left
The houses still standing
Down by the river where
The dreams are never ending
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
Under the silent moon
This industrial city
Is heartland even though
Lifes been not that pretty
I still keep coming here
To that old river
To find my roots just where
The future lives forever
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me, you can find me
By the river where dreams will never die
By the river under suburban skies
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
By the river where dreams have never died
By the river I look through childrens eyes
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
You find me
You find me
You find me by the river
You find me
You find me
You find me where the river flows
Where the river flows
Where the river flows
Where the river flows
song performed by by Scorpions
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beautiful River
And he showed me a pure River of Water of Life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the Throne of God and of the Lamb." -- Rev. xxii. 1
Shall we gather at the river
Where bright angel feet have trod;
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God?
CHORUS.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
On the margin of the river,
Washing up its silver spray,
We will walk and worship ever,
All the happy, golden day.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
On the bosom of the river,
Where the Saviour-king we own,
We shall meet, and sorrow never
'Neath the glory of the throne. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
Ere we reach the shining river,
Lay we every burden down;
Grace our spirits will deliver,
And provide a robe and crown. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
At the smiling of the river,
Rippling with the Saviour's face,
Saints, whom death will never sever,
Lift their songs of saving grace. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
Soon we'll reach the shining river,
Soon our pilgrimage will cease,
Soon our happy hearts will quiver
With the melody of peace. Cho.
Yes, we'll gather at the river,
The beautiful, the beautiful river --
Gather with the saints at the river
That flows by the throne of God.
poem by Robert Wadsworth Lowry
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It's Grand
It's grand to be a squatter
And sit upon a post,
And watch your little ewes and lambs
A-giving up the ghost.
It's grand to be a "cockie"
With wife and kids to keep,
And find an all-wise Providence
Has mustered all your sheep.
It's grand to be a Western man,
With shovel in your hand,
To dig your little homestead out
From underneath the sand.
It's grand to be a shearer
Along the Darling-side,
And pluck the wool from stinking sheep
That some days since have died.
It's grand to be a rabbit
And breed till all is blue,
And then to die in heaps because
There's nothing left to chew.
It's grand to be a Minister
And travel like a swell,
And tell the Central District folk
To go to -- Inverell.
It's grand to be a socialist
And lead the bold array
That marches to prosperity
At seven bob a day.
It's grand to be unemployed
And lie in the Domain,
And wake up every second day --
And go to sleep again.
It's grand to borrow English tin
To pay for wharves and docks
And then to find it isn't in
The little money-box.
It's grand to be a democrat
And toady to the mob,
For fear that if you told the truth
They'd hunt you from your job.
It's grand to be a lot of things
In this fair Southern land,
But if the Lord would send us rain,
That would, indeed, be grand!
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Ode To The Peshtigo
It starts as just a trickle, a spring which comes up from the ground, fed by many tributaries, to become one of the biggest rivers around.
Always there, constant flow.
Before it had its name, Native Americans used it as a highway, for even today people still travel it the same way.
This river has seen many a traveler, explorers, settlers, trappers, loggers, fishermen, hunters and boaters.
Spring, summer, fall and in winter, even though covered with a blanket of ice and snow, the river steadfast in its flow.
Stretches of water, blissful and serene.
Its rapids, waterfalls, noisy when one is near, yet tranquil to the ear.
This river is home to many animals, fish and birds.
For whoever visits this river, many places seem yet undisturbed, but one thing is certain, the river will always be there, constant flow, the mighty Peshtigo.
poem by Alvin Schaut
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Perhaps, This is How Life is!
The water-falls are perilous although,
And fall as rapids on boulders below,
What cascading beauty and frothy air,
And splashing noise that rends the forests near!
It must be raining heavily above;
The sky here looks all blue without black-clouds?
A bridge of Hope connects the two forests;
The rapids cease into a gentle flow
To form a river that gives life to all!
The turbulence of earthly life is great,
With chaos and many dangers admixed;
Yet, Mother Nature waves her magic wand
And ushers halcyon days to all mankind.
poem by John Celes
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Pieces Of Pieces (Ed 2)
i hope all and every piece of pieces
of life comes a journey
to start yet another journey
of life
as we do live a life
in grace and blessings of the most high
to live as people of peoples and nations
from yard and abroad
as we inter-act with those we never ever imagined
we could know nor share a word of business with
but through the nature of the almighty and creation
we met to gather and share
a tradition of culture and flair
a unity of people connecting
and linked by culture
a spiritual necessity of the community
of kasane and plateau
and the villages of the enclave
to a cultural spectrum of culture
as we do live a life
a journey from within each of us as people
to gather and gain to share
and give an emotional strength
to a thought, of some sort...
at that time, on a sunny sunday
blessed is this sunday my dear
well, my thoughts are well to a river
as i carry me a river
there by sevuva river of the rapids
and stay put to meditate and relate
with nature and existence in its form
whence me come a river
and listen to the birds
so mellow
and the river peoples of the impalila island
a stone throw
across the chobe-zambezi river
this sand
on my feet i could feel
the hotness
of an adventure and breeze
let me take you by the rapids....
and go sevuva rapids....
***extract from 'pieces of pieces of life' march 2012 ebook
a people with focus, patience and determination is a people. a lady with self respect, intelligence, stillness, love and affection is a one good and blessed lady. a man with energy, go-getting, attentive, self respect, love and affection is a real godly man.
this means we all need some love to get and give and likewise.
poem by Onalethuso Petruss Ntema
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The River and the Dam
The river flows down the hill,
Till it finds it is slowing
The dam stands as tall as a mill,
To stop the river from its flowing
The water accepts its fate,
Yet it rises as it waits
The dam stands it's ground
The river never finding a way around.
The river flows once more my friend
The dam did break and shall not mend
poem by Drew Fisher
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My grand dad
I remember you grand dad
Back since I was only three
I remember you granddad
How much you adored me
I remember you grand dad
How you made me smile
I remember you grand dad
You made my toddler years worthwhile
I remember you grand dad
Your lovely smell of tobacco
I remember you grand dad
The love for others you would show
I remember you grand dad
When I came to see you, you would give me a jellybean
I remember you grand dad
You always made me feel like a queen
I remember you grand dad
And I miss you everyday
Big Chief Woolley Bosher
In the land they call the west
On the praries virgin crest
Lived a great man and his braves
And he led them to their graves
Big chief plays with baby son
The work of the indian today is done
Life is easy, life is grand
til there is white man, gun in hand
Started out when settlers came
And built their homes on the indian range
Big chief woolly bosher liked it none
Traded with a bad man for a gun
Big chief looks out at his great land
Locomotive on the prairie stands
Life that leak from the city in the east
Let us destroy that iron beast
Big chief rides on the trail tonight
Tread the land for which he must fight
In their fight for love and glory
Some indians were saved
They lived to tell the story
And woolly bosher prays
Big chief rides on the trail tonight
Soldier boys marching in the morning light
Bring the guns, bring the bows
Lets blow them into heaven lets see if God knows
One hundred men must have to die
When a thousand soldiers look you in the eye
Big chief sees his men fall round
The soldiers kill and the bugle sounds
In their fight for love and glory
No indians were saved
And big chief woolly bosher
Had written on his grave
He has done no wrong
Except being bold
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Paroo
It was a week from Christmas-time,
As near as I remember,
And half a year since, in the rear,
We'd left the Darling timber.
The track was hot and more than drear;
The day dragged out for ever;
But now we knew that we were near
Our camp - the Paroo River.
With blighted eyes and blistered feet,
With stomachs out of order,
Half-mad with flies and dust and heat
We'd crossed the Queensland border.
I longed to hear a stream go by
And see the circles quiver;
I longed to lay me down and die
That night on Paroo River.
The "nose-bags" heavy on each chest
(God bless one kindly squatter!),
With grateful weight our hearts they pressed -
We only wanted water.
The sun was setting in a spray
Of colour like a liver -
We'd fondly hoped to camp and stay
That night by Paroo River.
A cloud was on my mate's broad brow,
And once I heard him mutter:
'What price the good old Darling now? -
God bless that grand old gutter!"
And then he stopped and slowly said
In tones that made me shiver:
"It cannot well be on ahead -
I think we've crossed the river."
But soon we saw a strip of ground
Beside the track we followed,
No damper than the surface round,
But just a little hollowed.
His brow assumed a thoughtful frown -
This speech did he deliver:
"I wonder if we'd best go down
Or up the blessed river?"
"But where," said I, " 's the blooming stream?'
And he replied, 'we're at it!"
I stood awhile, as in a dream,
"Great Scott!" I cried, "is that it?
Why, that is some old bridle-track!"
He chuckled, "Well, I never!
It's plain you've never been Out Back -
This is the Paroo River!"
poem by Henry Lawson
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River Feeling
River feeling is
As simple as
Closing your eyes
For a moment.
Everything flows like river
River feeling is
As smooth as
Everything after
The first step.
Everything flows like river
River feeling is
easy as forgetting
Walking boots.
Everything flows like river
River feeling is
nice as
iron ties
Coming off.
Everything flows like river
Everything flows like river
Everything flows like river
Everything is good and flows
like river
poem by Julian Mann
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