will defiant,
Boldly place the poet Bryant.
Whittier
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.
Scottish Poets
This night shall never be forgot
For humble life none now despise,
Since Burns was born in lowly cot
Whose muses wing soars 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 Hornbook 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 Robin 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 extol,
Though oft we differ let us stand
United now in Ingersoll.
Reply to the Toast of Scottish Poets
Burns sang so sweet behind the plow,
Daisies we’ll 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
Will shed it for Exile of Erin,
And Tannahill 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.
Lines on South of Scotland
The South of Scotland did produce
Heroic Wallace and the Bruce,
And even time will never blot
The record of her Burns and Scott,
And Tanahill renowned bard,
And that sweet songster Ettrick Shepherd.
The Shires on the Moray Frith
Worthy of either song or story
Are the shires round Frith of Moray,
Here lies the valley of Strathspey,
Famed for its music, lively, gay,
Elgin cathedral’s ’prentice aisle
Is glory of that ruined pile.
What modern chisel now could trace
Fine sculpture of that ancient place,
And Forres famed for Sweyn’s stane
In honor of that kingly Dane,
’Graved with warriors runes and rhymes,
Long prior to historic times,
For a thousand years its been forgot
Who was victor Dane or Scot,
It is the country of McBeth
Where good King Duncan met his death,
And barren heath that place of fear
Stood witches cauldron of Shakespeare,
Nairn’s Cawdor castle strong remains
Full worthy of the ancient Thanes,
And nestled ’neath the hills and bens
Queen of the moors, the lochs and glens,
Full proudly stands in vale of bliss
Chief Highland town of Inverness,
Near here the famous falls of Foyers
Where Burns and others tuned their lyres,
And the fatal field of dark Culloden
Where doughty clans were once down trodden,
Here men yet wear the tartan plaid
Ready to join the Highland Brigade,
And when the Frith you look across
The eye beholds Sutherland and Ross,
Where Duke has harnessed mighty team,
Plows hills and rocks and moors by steam,
Perhaps it may in part atone
For cruel clearings days bygone,
And Cromarty, whose wondrous mason,
First learned his geologic lesson,
Friends may rear a stately pillar,
The old red sand stone of Hugh Miller,
Ben Wyvis towers like monarch crowned,
Conspicuous o’er the hills around,
With crest ’ere white with driven snow,
Strathpeffer’s water cure below.
Lines Read at St. Andrew’s Anniversary
1868.
The following is a clipping from an old Ingenoll paper on St. Andrew’s Anniversary, 30th November, 1868:
The Anniversary of Scotia’s tetular saint was celebrated on Monday with great éclat 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 honor 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 skylark,
Which soars triumphant in the skies
Above the gaze of human eyes.
Land of bleak hills and 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 brose,
Of blue bonnets and of tartan hose,
The land where all good wives do bake
The thrifty, wholesome, oaten cake.
We hope some day to tread the strand
Of our own dear native land,
And see the lasses shear the corn18
Near the banks of the Findhorn.
Where the Jeans and the Maggies
Excel in making glorious baggies,
And o’er the sea we’ll some day sail
To get a bowl of good green kail.
