Poetry quotes

Lines written when Nova Scotia was threatening to withdraw from the Confederation.

If you are sulky, Nova Scotia, We’ll gladly let you float away

From out our Confederation; You sicken us with sly agitation. If any more our patience you do tax We’ll let you go to Halifax.

The ancient poets ne’er did dream That Canada was land of cream,

They ne’er imagined it could flow In this cold land of ice and snow,

Where everything did solid freeze, They ne’er hoped or looked for cheese.

And since they justly treat the soil, Are well rewarded for their toil, The land enriched by goodly cows Yields plenty now to fill their mows, Both wheat and barley, oats and peas, But still their greatest boast is cheese.

Cow, you must treat her as a Queen, When grass is dry cut her feed green;

8he will repay you for your toiling For there’s profit in the soiling, Its benefits one daily sees Who takes an interest in the cheese.

To prove the wealth that here abounds, One cheese weighed eight thousand pounds,

Had it been hung in air at noon Folks would have thought it was the moon,

It sailed with triumph o’er the seas, ’Twas hailed with welcome, queen of cheese.

Or, when the bird doth graceful fly, Seeming to float upon the sky,

For poetry is the pure cream, And essence of the common theme.

Poetic thoughts the mind doth fill, When on broad plain to view a hill, On barren heath how it doth cheer, To see in distance herd of deer, And poetry breathes in each flower, Nourished by the gentle shower, In song of birds upon the …

You glory in your typewriter, And its virtues you rehearse,

But we prefer the old inditer, For to write either prose or verse.

And let each man work his will, But never never do abuse The ancient and glorious quill From the wing of a fine old goose.

You glory in your typewriter, And its virtues you rehearse, But we prefer the old inditer, For to write either prose or verse.

And let each man work his will, But never never do abuse The ancient and glorious quill From the wing of a fine old goose.

On a young girl showing me a scar on her cheek where a stick of wood struck her.

On a young girl showing me a scar on her cheek where a stick of wood struck her.

In its own place ’tis very good Always to have plenty of wood;

But, striking fair maid, that is rude, And puts me in an angry mood.

Delineator of mankind, Who shows the workings of the mind, And in review in nature’s glass, Portrays the thoughts of every class.

That man is dull who will not laugh At the drolleries of Falstaff,

And few that could not shed a tear At sorrows of poor old King Lear.

That man is dull who will not laugh At the drolleries of Falstaff,

And few that could not shed a tear At sorrows of poor old King Lear.

Or lament o’er King Duncan’s death Stabbed by the dagger of McBeth, Or gentle Desdemona pure, Slain by the misled jealous Moor.

“I’ll fare the land to many ills a prey Where wealth accumulates but men decay.” While hundreds struggle in the ditch, His honest vicar of Wakefield, Forever he will pleasure yield.

Like fruit that’s large and ripe and mellow, Sweet and luscious is Longfellow,

Melodious songs he oft did pour And high was his Excelsior. He shows in his Psalm of Life The folly of our selfish strife, With Hiawatha we bewail His suffering in great Indian tale. Indian nation was forlorn Till great spirit planted corn;

So here we’ve met in distant land Poor honest Robin to extol, Though oft we differ let us stand United now in Ingersoll.

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.

Protected from the stormy blast By the Rocky Mountains vast, Through canon blows no storm terrific, But balmy breezes from Pacific.

Canada is a young giant, Has not yet acquired its strength,

On the arts of peace reliant, Throughout its vast breadth and length.

And enjoy a double pleasure In re-chewing hidden treasure,

The cow is a kindly creature, Kind and pleasant in each feature.

About her is a homely charm, And her the dog should not alarm, But let all safe guard her from harm, The gentlest creature on the farm.

For it doth make best ensilage, For those in dairying engage, It makes the milk in streams to flow, Where dairymen have a good silo.

The cow is a happy rover O’er the fields of blooming clover,

Of it she is a fond lover, And it makes milk pails run over.

And in your efforts do not halt But let them daily lick the salt, And never let the dogs them chase, But let them walk at their quiet pace.

The sweet milkmaid of early days Her own household she ably sways,

And her daughters now milk the cows, And her sons they now guide the plows.

This is a tale, but it is truth, Of maiden lady named Ruth, She owned a small four acre farm, Which possessed some rural charm.

This maiden she was past her youth, But none e’re fell in love with Ruth,

Though you must not infer from thence That she possessed not grace nor sense.

But his two friends so brave and true Row quick ’longside in a canoe,

And fire in bruin leaden balls, Thus saving friend from bear and falls.

A man on Nova Scotian Bay On broken raft was borne away, Right out on the open sea Where the storm did blow so free, No shelter from the wind or wave He thought the gulf would be his grave, He had no food life …

Though now on top of highest mount, Where he has found true honour’s fount, Yet those below he don’t despise, But strives to aid them for to rise.

Politeness, perseverance and pluck, To their possessor will bring good luck.

A picture hung in a public hall, And it was much admired by all, Painted by a true artist’s hand, The subject it was truly grand.

And kindly o’er her he doth stand, She asked him for to take her hand, Thanked him for ribbon green and blue, Then evermore bade him adieu.

Love it is the precious loom, Whose shuttle weaves each tangled thread,

And works flowers of exquisite bloom, Shedding their perfume where we tread.

Love it is the precious loom, Whose shuttle weaves each tangled thread, And works flowers of exquisite bloom, Shedding their perfume where we tread.

Step, step, step, ’tis her lover’s walk, She knows his step as well’s his talk;

He is the favorite of her choice, So his step’s familiar as his voice.

Pain and suffering all are past, She joyous cried he’s come at last; And soon she breathes out her last breath, He guides her through the vale of death.

Do not despise the humble weed, For the Lord He first sowed the seed,

Perhaps it bears most precious fruit, And useful leaves and potent root.

For to save life one great solver Would be to prohibit the revolver,

Weapon of coward and of bully, Who slaughter friends in their folly.

Let now no man or any boy, With loaded arms ever toy, Showing off their manly vigor, Pointing to friend and pulling trigger.

From home they were many a league, And weak with hunger and fatigue, Each clung upon a miner’s back, On their way home down mountain track.

Once on a time a lady quarrelled With the witty Douglass Jerrold,

Because that he had been so bold, To hint that she was growing old.

She said her hair was dark ’till one day She used an essence turned it gray,

O, yes, said he, tincture of time Affects the hair in this our clime.

At great reunion of the South, Of those had faced the cannon’s mouth, Where each could show a glorious scar He had received in the war.

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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.

The truth to me was great surprise then, That world was greater than horizon; Our views through life they thus expand, Beholding God’s creation grand.

Life is greatly what we make it, Through good and ill we must take it;

And we should not troubles borrow, But strive to banish all our sorrow.

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.

The authors have a mighty mind, And to philosophy inclined; They adore the metaphysical, And humble thoughts do them appal.

But though our style it may seem rude, We love for to be understood;

And though we have no skill nor art, We hope to reach some honest heart.

Here nature pleasantly doth smile On this dear little lonely isle; The natives soon do him espy, And cast on him a longing eye.

They thought his flesh they would like raw, The first white man they ever saw;

His skin to them seem’d sweet and clean, But they found he was far too lean.

And he is learning now to read, So natives generous will him feed; Thus he will retain their hearts, When his father this life departs.

This tale a proof it doth afford That pen is mightier than the sword;

In warriors no more they glory, But in the man who tells the story.