Said to be 18 feet long.—On exhibition at the Western Fair, Sept. ’85.
The Statememt doth me surprise, Sir,
Which I read in Advertiser;
Can it be true or but an hoax,
This tale of eighteen feet long ox?
It almost doth exceed belief,
This great living, mammoth beef;
I fear the measurement will fail,
Unless extended is its tail.
1890.
I sent a copy of my poems to the pioneer of the cattle trade in Canada, and the exporter of fine bullocks received my present with a good deal of appreciative feeling, as my book recalled the older early times to his memory, and his kind reply induced me to pen the following; as the export of live cattle trade will soon reach the annual value of ten millions of dollars, and it is second only to the cheese export trade.
Baron of butcher’s burly brave,
Who ships live bullocks o’er the wave,
And elevates the beef standard,
Boldly he led on the vanguard.
Now export cattle trade ranks grand,
Thanks to enterprise of Frankland;
Forever more this trade will grow,
And blessings on this land bestow.
She will lay big double-yolk eggs and evade the duty.
A hen observed unto her mate,
Who was strutting round in state,
As roosters do who think they’re great,
About egg tariff do not fret.
Cheap eggs I’ll give the Yankee folk,
For I will lay big double yolk,
And very large shell I will fill,
And peck a flaw in McKinley Bill.
I heard the farmer’s wife one day,
These words unto her husband say,
There’s nothing on the farm doth pay
So well as these our hens do lay.
My love for you, my rooster, grows,
There’s none can match your morning crow,
You crow the hour Chronometer,
You weather crow Barometer.
But the poor duck it hath sad lack,
All it can do it is to quack;
Of course the poor thing must regret,
It don’t belong into our set.
I pity the web-footed things,
Who in water love to flap their wings;
The reason is of course because
They’re not genteel like us with claws.
It doth not lay one half the time,
We do, but wallows in the slime,
On land it is but a squatter,
Broad bills, more at home on water.
The fame of the Canadian Horse,
It is heard on many a course,
For it has won oft in the race,
And renowned for graceful pace.
Great change from the Indian pony,
Who in old times was the only
Horse that you could drive or ride,
Now you have the powerful Clyde.
’Tis true that he is rather slow,
But deep he plows so you may sow,
And over any kind of road
He will pull a mighty load.
Of brutes the horse doth lead the van,
And he is the best friend of man;
Well trained, so gentle and so kind,
And next he ranks to man in mind.
The Apiary is a bee village,
From thence they fly bent on pillage,
Extracting honey from the flowers;
They care not who doth own the bowers.
They seize on garden or on field,
Wherever blossoms sweets do yield;
’Mong garden flowers or fields of clover
They do roam about all over.
For their own use they make the honey,
Though owners sell it oft for money.
The bees so skilful do design
Their honey comes and they love sunshine.
From flower to flower they fly on wing,
And each one armed with a sharp sting,
Determined all the sweets to sieze,
Those marauding honey bees.
They live in a great commonwealth,
And they punish fraud or stealth;
They busy toil from morn ’till ’een,
And they are loyal to their Queen.
But bees, like men, they sometimes thrive
By robbing of their neighbors hive;
The weaker from their homes they drive,
While stronger flourish and survive.
This advantage hath the sheep,
Two crops each yoar from them you reap;
You get big price for tender lamb,
And crop of wool from shearing dam.
Industrious wife can spin the yarn,
And knit the socks, or old ones darn;
Or weave it up in her own loom,
And thrift to wealth it soon will bloom.
Or if to weaving she is loath,
She can sell wool and buy her cloth,
Or buy her hose knit by machine,
And life enjoy like to a queen.
But very oft the farmer’s wife
Has to work hard through all her life;
If husband has to drive the ploughs,
The wife perhaps must milk the cows.
And she too may churn the butter,
And no grumble she doth utter;
Though she doth work as hard as slave,
All trials she doth nobly brave.
Oft times large family she doth raise,
Her virtues they have cause to praise;
A guardian angel o’er her young,
When they were feeble round her clung.
’Tis sad to see the richest land,
Barren where water it doth stand;
You seek for crop but all in vain,
For land requires the under drain.
But you cause mother earth to smile,
When ventilated by the tile;
Before, she felt sour and old,
Drains warm her heart and expel cold.
Porous now are all her veins,
From filtration of the drains,
And each tiny sparkling rill,
Sends through her heart a pleasing thrill.
Before, it was cold and crusty,
And it was both sour and musty;
But now it doth beat high with hopes,
Rejoicing in her mighty crops.
Tile must be laid straight and level,
But of course with a slight bevel;
Sloping towards ditch or creek,
Where way to ocean it doth seek.
’Tis true that fiercer rages floods,
Since country it was stripp’d of woods,
And rivers they do broader spread,
With numerous tile drains quicker fed.
Prospectors from all nations hurry
To locate mines in Sudbury;
To them the highest worldly fame
Is to secure good mining claim.
No hardships daunt them in attempt,
A good mining claim for to pre-empt;
And the old miners here from Wales,
Of these mines tell glowing tales.
Mining fortune oft is fickle,
But ’tis not so with mines of nickel;
And Uncle Sam thinks he would feel
His navy safe ’neath nickel steel.
Railroads perform important function,
In opening mines at Sudbury Junction;
There if the rocks you
