praise,
Though but a poor crop he doth raise.
He never travelled far abroad,
And worships still his father’s God;
From modern thoughts he is quite free,
And newspapers doth seldom see.
He believes the tales his Granny told
To him long since in days of old,
And his wife, kind-hearted Mary,
Believes in both witch and fairy.
She sweeps her hearth so clean each night,
For fairies in bright fire delight;
And they love to see all things neat,
Those pretty little creatures sweet.
So to the cot of John McCrae
They every night do wend their way
For to view the peat fire burn,
And to help his wife to churn.
Neighbors great jealousy display,
They can’t make butter like McCrae,
For the fairies have the power
Of making all the milk turn sour.
One moonlight night old John McCrae,
He in the glen saw fairies play;
The prettiest sight he ever seen,
While they did dance upon the green.
And John doth solemn pass his word
They were as small as humming bird;
When he these charmers did behold,
They were clad in green and gold.
The most charming one upon the green,
She was just crowned the fairy queen,
She told John she loved his wife
Because her home it knew no strife.
But she asked John for a reward,
She said Mary’s bannocks were too hard,
And that the fairies loved to eat
Little nibs of softer meat.
So fully John he told Mary
Of the strange request of fairy,
So now each day she doth bake
A little tiny griddle cake,
In morning fairies they have flown,
And the little cake too is gone;
But wicked people full of vice
Say that the cake is eat by mice.
But this John’s heart it snd doth grieve
That people should themselves deceive;
It hath been so since Adam’s fall,
Some believe much, some not at all.
So now farewell to John McCrae,
May we meet him some other day,
For to our heart it is relief
To find a man with old belief.
Some folks to beauty they are blind,
So full of selfishness the mind;
And others happy to catch gleam
Of the green field or hill or stream.
Address to the Scottish Clans at Woodstock
June 19th, 1890.
Scotia’s Sons! We love to meet thee,
And with hearty feelings greet thee;
You have come in a right good flock
To this progressive town, Woodstock.
And Scottish clans, noble order,
Here they meet from o’er the border;
From greatest of Republics, south,
That vast land of wondrous growth.
We will not call them foreign nation,
For they are our own blood relation,
And this gathering all so grand
Is welcomed by Clan Sutherland.
The Highland men of Illinois,
Tn our old age increased our joys,
Making us an honorary member,
Their kindness we will e’er remember.
And may you often meet together,
From land of whin and broom and heather;
Wallace, and Bruce, and Burns, and Scott,
Are names should never be forgot.
And Zorra’s fame is heard afar,
Victorious in each tug of war;
All loved the little boys and girls
In Highland dress and waving curls.
And you have chose Canadian
For the chief of your Royal Clan,
And you will find that Sutherland,
Is one who ably will command.35
When Wonham got orders
To march to the borders,
His boys they were ready,
And fell in quite steady.
They first march’d to Woodstock
To prepare for war’s shock,
And soon camped at Windsor,
Facing American shore.
Murder of a Young Englishman
By one of his own countrymen, a few miles east of Woodstock, February, 1890.
Death of Benwell and execution of Birchall.36 Mr. Perry was Sheriff at that time; now Mr. Brady holds this position, and a son of the late sheriff is Deputy.
Now a sad tale we hiive to tell:
A few miles east, in Blenheim swamp,
So cruel slain was young Benwell,
Whose body lay ’mong snow and damp.
He was a well-bred English youth,
Hoping to own Canadian farm,
But his countryman devoid of truth,
He did plot his deadly harm.
Sad fate, the world did appal,
That he by bullet thus should die;
Fired by protended friend, Birchall,
Who swung for it on gallows high.
Of Scottish names a great array
We meet at Erabro on Fair Day;
McDonald, McKenzie and McKay,
And Murray, Ross and Sutherland,
And Munroes round you stand.
Your lassies worthy of our song,
And youth are famed for muscle strong
For they can pull both hard and long;
And their fame is heard afar.
Victorious in each tug of war.
But these battles bring no sorrow
To the hardy youth of Zorra,
And no tears to eyes of Flora;
They are not deadly tugs of war,
And they leave no wounds nor scar.
Decoration Day
The following lines were delivered by me at ihe first Decoration of Graves in Ingersoll. I took part in a ceremony of the same kind in Woodstock in 1890, and such was the superabundance of flowers there that I reserved a boquet for the grave of young McKenzie, who fell nobly fighting for his country at the Battle of Ridgeway. The County of Oxford has erected a fine monument, with a substantial iron railing around the hero’s grave, on the banks of the Thames.
This is the opening dedication
Of annual day of decoration,
And thus each year will brothers meet
To shed the bloom and perfume sweet;
For they will have a noble aim
In meeting on the banks of Thame.
In the States they decorate grave
Of each departed soldier brave,
But here in Ontario West
We decorate where brothers rest,
Though some are unknown to fame
They peaceful rest on banks of Thame.
No more their grave is place of gloom,
But scene of fragrance and bloom;
No more the tomb is dismal cave
For flowers each year will o’er it wave;
In sweet remembrance each name
Will live beside the silver Thame.
Flowers here will shed their rich perfume
And thus dispel the dismal gloom;
Departed’s memory we cherish,
And their names shall never perish,
While doth flow the pleasant stream
O’er pebbly bed, the crystal Thame.
