was born on that fine estate,
Famed for its trees, so lofty and great,
And its magnificent avenue grand,
Which hath been famed over the land.
And, though I did leave to learn my trade,
And in Western world a home I have made,
Yet, when I look back, my heart it still cheers,
Though it is now more than threescore years.
Since first I went there as a shepherd boy,
Thoughts of the time fill my heart yet with joy,
Though, that I ne’er shall see Castle more,
Fond memory reverts to the days of yore.
George Menzies’ Poems
1883.
About one-third of a century ago, there flourished in Canada three Scottish Editors, all of whom were Poets, McQueen of the “Huron Signal,” Goderich, who wrote a grand song on “Our Broad Lake,” McGeorge, of the Streetsville Review, who returned to Scotland nearly a quarter of a century ago; he became a clergymen in connection with the Episcopal Church, of Oban, Argyleshire, and was dean thereof; he enjoyed the friendship of Dr. Norman McLeod, and many of the Scottish celebrities; he died this spring highly honored by all who knew him. George Menzie, Editor of a Woodstock paper, wrote, also, some fine poems. All of the gentlemen named have gone to “the land of the Leal,” the following lines were suggested by finding a volume by George Menzie.
One day while passing ’long the road
On a small book we almost trod,
Its leaves were scattered o’er the ground,
We picked them up and when we found
The author’s name, it did inspire
Us with a very strong desire
To read the little volume through,
For most of it to us was new.
He doth sing of land of heather
And Canadian scenes together,
He did adore Niagara’s roar
Where mighty flood o’er fall doth pour.
But poets lives are often brief
And he had his full share of grief,
Which to his life did gloom impart,
But he bore up with his brave heart.
Female Revenge
“Revenge is sweet, especially to women.”
Byron
Remarkable strong vengeance on the part of a young lady who had always previously been considered of an amiable turn of mind; but, how sadly, alas! for the young man, her whole being, as it were, seemed to be transformed into vengeance dire, against the poor unfortunate youth who had vainly and rashly boasted of a glorious prize he intended to capture from the fair one’s sweet lips.
I heard Bill say to-day, Mary,
That you are a charming fairy,
And that to town he’d give you drive,
But just as sure as you’re alive,
He does intend to have the bliss,
Of stealing from your lips a kiss.
I’ll let him drive me now, Jane,
His efforts they will all be vain,
I hate him, and I him defy,
And anger flashed from her eye,
The monster’s wiles I will defeat,
Peck of strong onions I will eat.
A Canadian Romance16
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 laborer 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 their 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 Reuben 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 by his strong arm,
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 four 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 spun the wool from off the sheep,
All they required they had for both,
Of her own weaving of good cloth,
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’er 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 browse,
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, beech 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 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
