Backward”
Raise High the Banner
A Pleasing Illusion
A Ghost Story
Sir Walter Scott
- MacGregor’s Gathering
Big Stag
Eagle and Stag
Fairy Tale
Address to the Scottish Clans at Woodstock
Lines on Colonel Wonham
Murder of a Young Englishman
Fair Day at Embro
Decoration Day
Strange Water Wheels at Beachville
Fight in a Cave
The Present Time
The Rescue
Lady Ann
Tom Norton
Fox Hunt Yarn
The King and Peasant
Spanish Donkey
Child and Horse
Mule and Bear Fight
Bear and Buzzsaw
Wooden Leg
Alligator Rider
Young Swell and Tramp
Lightning Rod Agent
Conquered by a Child
Joined His Church
Soldier and Gander
Indian Wars
Love in a Snowdrift
Blanket Shield
Dime Story
Alligator and Boy
Lines
Lines
Political
The Flood on the Creek
Big Crops of 1891
Death of Parnell
Short Route to the Orient
Endnotes
Colophon
Uncopyright
Imprint
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My friends we sing Canadian themes,
For in them we proudly glory,
Her lakes and rivers and her streams,
Worthy of renown in story;
And in these leaves we hope is strewn
Some wheat among the chaff,
And maple boughs by rude axe hewn,
Where one may find a rustic staff;
To help him o’er the rugged lines
If he to weariness inclines.
Some see no beauties near to home,
But do admire the distant far,
They always love abroad to roam,
View glory in but far off star;
But let it never be forgot
That distant hills when closer seen
Are after all a barren spot
Not like your own hills clad in green;
You’ll find they are but idle dreams
To seek for happiness afar.
At home there’s lovely lakes and streams,
Remain content now where you are;
At us we hope you will not rage
Because we sing of local charms
In each varied town and village
As well as round our local farms,
But our address it must be brief,
So now we bid you all adieu,
But of our book pray read each leaf
Until the whole you have gone through;
Each one doth know it is not wise,
Though our songs may not be vocal,
Chants of our home for to despise,
But prize them ’cause they are local.
Reminiscences
On the laying of the corner stone of the Brock monument at Queenston Heights, and the final interment of the General who had fallen at the battle of Queenston, Oct. 13th, 1812.2 The remains of his Aide, Col. McDonald, were also deposited under the new tower.
A wail went o’er broad Canada,
When it was known a vile outlaw
Had at midnight’s awful hour,
With ruffian hand blown up the tower.
’Neath which had slept the gallant Brock
Who bravely fell on Queenston’s rock,
But graceful column soon shall rise,
Its beauteous shaft will kiss the skies.
For from Queenston’s woody height
You may behold a pleasing sight,
The grim old veterans of the war,
Militiamen with many a scar.
Indian braves from each nation,
Grouped to pay their last ovation,
Round the remains of General Brock,
Who led them oft in battle’s shock.
Old heroes now again do rally,
Feebly they move along the valley,
Not as they rushed in days of yore
When torrent like they onward bore.
And swept away the foeman’s ranks
O’er Niagara’s rugged banks,
So indignant was their grief
On losing of their warrior chief.
Now with triumphant funeral car,
Adorned with implements of war,
The sad procession slow ascends,
As round the hill its way it wends.
Marching to mournful, solemn note,
While grand old flags around it float,
And now may peace be never broken
’Mong lands where Saxon tongue is spoken.
“For peace hath victories by far
More glorious than horrid war,”
England doth Longfellow revere,
And America loves Shakespeare.
Hail Britannia’s noblest daughter,
Who is surrounded by the water
Of many a lake and broad sea,
Land of beaver and of maple tree.
Her lofty brow is wreathed with smiles,
For from the far Atlantic isles
In pomp have come their delegates,
All seeking to unite their fates.
With Canada great northern queen,
And now throughout the land is seen,
High festival and stately dance,
Triumphant nuptials to advance.
And soon shall Red River valley
And distant Vancouver rally,
To form this Empire gigantic
From Pacific to Atlantic.
In his long voyage o’er the sea,
To where doth grow the maple tree,
May he be blest with pleasant gales,
The coming man, the Prince of Wales.
The maple grows but in good soil,
Where nature doth reward for toil
The farmer splitting his fence rails,
He welcome bids the Prince of Wales.
In the woods the axe is ringing
And the yeoman merry singing,
The song resounds o’er hills and dales,
Our future king the Prince of Wales.
Round the brow of
