William Hunter Poems 1898

42. WINTER-Antrim Farm – The Fourth Daughter of the Year (January 1898)

Of all the daughters of the year
We like Miss Winter best
She always brings much fun and cheer
And in pure white is dressed…
We love the rose tint of her cheek
Her bright and sparkling eyes
All youthfull hearts her company seek
Tho’ oft with snowy skies…
The jingle of the merry bells
Is heard where’er you go
O’er hill and plain and lonely dells
She shakes her flakes of snow…
Far out upon the icy stream
The skaters whirl and go
While others with a dashing team
Rush o’er the sparkling snow…
People there are who’ve never seen
A sheet of glassy ice
Their fields are always fair and green
They thing their climate nice…
We love this maid in robe of snow
Of praise we will not stint her
Our love for Spring and Summer show
Our Autumn and our Winter.

43. THE INDIAN’S FAREWELL TO BAI-DE-DORE – Antrim Farm – January 1898

One day in the year eighteen hundred and fifty
A fine-looking Indian stepped out from his door
The squaw in his tent was both nimble and thrifty
And looked at her lord as he stalked near the shore…
It was twelve years before that this young brave had courted
The belle of the lodge on the Pene-tang-gore
And oft with deft fingers his bright beads had sorted
Since she came to his lodge by the bay Bai-de-dore…
He had told her that morning they would have to be leaving
For the white man was coming to cut down the wood
No tear in her eye, though her bosom was heaving
She was hiding her feelings as well as she could…
And four little Indians who called him their father
Were playing so merrily about the tent door
To stay by the beautiful bay they would rather
And hunt for the shells along the smooth shore…
It did not take long their goods for to pack
The Indian reached up to the peg for his gun
His squaw took the most of their goods on her back
And their tramp for new hunting-grounds now was begun…
And up through the woods where oft times they had sported
On the well-beaten trail to the top of the hill
Where oft the young braves had the dusky maids courted
But the woods to-day were quite lonely and still…
And up on the hill where the white folk now bury
And lay their dear friends in their long quiet rest
The Indians now seemed to be in no hurry
For they laid down their packs and looked to the West…
Some minutes they stood without ever moving
As they looked on the spot that they always liked best
It had been the place of his forefathers choosing
And oft hunting parties had found it a rest…
“Farewell”, said the Indian to the home of my childhood
The spot that is nearest and dearest of all
Farewell to the friends asleep in the wildwood
Though in my dreams I’ll their faces recall…
How deep was my sleep, and how sweet was my slumber
When lulled to my rest by Lake Huron’s roar
My mother’s sweet kisses I’ve had without number
Since the day that she gave me to sweet Bai-de-dore…
Farewell to the bay ‘long whose shores I have gamboled
Or plunged in its waters so clear and so bright
Where I with my comrades have often assembled
And kept up our dances far into the night…
No more shall I float in my birch bark canoe
Nor skim o’er its waters so far from the shore
And like to a seagull that so leisurely flew
And dipped in the waters of dear Bai-de-dore…
Farewell to the scenes that I now leave forever
To seek a new lodge on the far Northern shore
To forget this loved spot in my heart I will never
O I long for the white man to trouble no more.

44. Latest device for carrying out an agreement fully covered by letters patent in the USA and Canada. (Cheese Johnny inventor and patentee B.C.) For testimonials apply to the
UNDERWOOD CHEESE MFG.CO – Antrim Farm – January 1898

For something fresh and something good
Be sure you come to Underwood
And if your debt you will not pay
We’ll show you now another way…
Of course it would not suit so well
When we our factory cheese would sell
And selling it at seven per pound
The buyer gives us three all round…
We’d think he was a tricky man
For working out that yankee plan
But don’t you fret, we’ll have our way
In spite of what the others say…
To vote them down, it is quite easy
Though they may make the matter breezy
We catch right on whene’er they grunt
And just cheek up, and say we won’t…
Of course they squeal, and kick, and holler
It’s not so nice to lose a dollar
It’s easy too for to us make it
‘Cause they’re not able now to take it…
Instead of paying seven per cent
(We do not want our surplus spent)
We’ve hit it now, right to a T
We’ll only pay those fellows three.

45. ONTARIO “YET” – Antrim Farm – February, 1898

Hurrah, Hurrah for Whitney
Ontario’s loyal son
Hurrah, hurrah, will soon be free
The fight will soon be won…
No more shall loved Ontario
A million dollars spend
To help Sir Wilfred Laurier
And Israel Tarte, his friend…
And full two thousand parasites
(“Just like the San Jose Scale”)
That suck our blood with all their might
Until our strength does fail…
And Dryden, how he hollers
About his butter trade
Each pound just cost two dollars
Now where’s the money made…
No more shall Davis pig-sty
Its cholera porker sell
While honest men do blush and sigh
The story for to tell…
No more shall “Yankee” saw mills then
Take just our best pine logs
While Hardy and Ross say to our men
Why you go to the dogs…
Rise up Ontario in thy might
And freeman ballots cast
And twenty years of moonlight
Will not much longer last.

46. THE WHACKING OF WHITNEY – Antrim Farm – March, 1898

The swing of victory’s in the air
The “Globe” I’m sure has done its share
And tried it’s best to just get there
Upon the 1st of March…
Hardy and Ross did what they could
To make their boasting promise good
To whack this Whitney as they should
Upon the 1st of March…
As Whitney thus they tried to whack
They slipped up quickly on his track
And thought to hit him on his back
Upon the 1st of March…
But people often times do slip
Before the cup gets to the lip
So Hardy, Ross, just got a trip
Upon the 1st of March…
That landed them upon their nose
And Whitney tramped them on their toes
And gave them some left hand blows
Upon the 1st of March…
For Gibson’s down deep in the gutter
And Dryden’s done for making butter
And all the “Grits” are in a splutter
E’er since the 1st of March

47. PRAYERS – Antrim Farm – April 1898

I do not like the prayers of some
In choicest language dressed
Who utter words with flippant tongue
As in a seeming jest…
I do not like the prayers that come
As from a cavern deep
With shouts so loud, as I hear some
To wake the dead from sleep…
I do not like the prayers that say
“God send the heathen light”
And still refuse to help to pay
Those who would teach them right…
I do not like to hear the Prayer
To bless the needy poor
When they themselves refuse to share
And turn them from their door…
I like the prayer — that Bible light
May heathen darkness chase
That gives their money with delight
To bless man’s fallen race…
I love a Prayer that feeds the poor
Before his words are said
That opens wide the friendly door
Where orphans oft were fed.

48. EASTER – Antrim Farm – April 10th, 1898

All o’er the hills of Palestine
The shroud of night was cast
The mid-day sun refused to shine
Or look upon that form Divine
That suffered for these sins of mine
And gave me life to last…
Then in the dark and lonesome tomb
That bruised form was laid
The Teacher cut down in his bloom
Their fondest hopes were blasted soon
With hearts so full of darkest gloom
While not a word was said…
But as the darkest hour of night
Is just before the dawn
So ere the sun had shed its light
To chase away the shades of night
The Saviour rose in all his might
Upon that Easter morn…
And vanquished all the hosts of hell
And broke sin’s dreadful chain
Then Mary thought it must be well
To Peter and the rest to tell
What to the women’s eyes befell
Their Lord had risen again…
And so through all succeeding years
That joyful story tell
How Christ without a cloud appears
To banish all our sighs and fears
And give us joy instead of tears
To ring the Easter bell…
And as that light shines thro’ the years
We think of that blessed dawn
That from the power of death doth save
His precious life for us he gave
More of that wondrous life we crave
That shone on Easter morn.

49. MAY 24TH – Antrim Farm – May 24th, 1898

The blackbird’s click is heard again
Through all the bright spring day
He hunts for worms with might and main
Throughout the month of May…
The robin with his bright red breast
Hops from you on the way
And never seems to think of rest
All through the month of May…
The smaller birds with joyful praise
Do not their songs delay
But full glad choruses they raise
That tell of pleasant May…
There’s music too in the bullfrog
It had always been his way
To rest his chin upon a log
And bass out, — this is May…
The boys and girls are full of glee
And out at night they’ll stay
Because they think they should be free
All through the month of May…
The farmer too must hurry round
He has his trees to spray
If he would have some fruit that’s sound
Then work your pump in May…
And one and sixty years ago
Became the Queen’s birthday
How many scenes of Joy and Woe
Have passed since that bright May…
So now I’m sure we’ll all enjoy
A real nice holiday
Then let all girls and every boy
Keep twenty-fourth of May.

50. THE OLD RED CLOVER – Antrim Farm – June 1898

We see the grain grow in the fields
Where once ’twas brown and bare
We see the flowers that nature yields
To make our land so fair
Again is come the sweet bright time
When shrubs are covered over
With all their leaves that look so fine
None beats the old Red Clover…
Its dark green leaves grown brown and fair
Its stalks so rich and sweet
That gather treasures from the air
Some plough it down for wheat
The bumble-bee is busy too
Though oft he is a rover
He always keep the field in view
Where grows the old Red Clover…
We love to see the evening beams
In sunsets mellow glow
Shed o’er the meadow by a stream
Where buttercups may grow
And Lady, Rosie, Cherry, Boss
Come home without a drover
While other cows their heads still toss
In fields of old Red Clover…
We love to see its bonnet blue
Nod at us as we pass
With open face so sweet and true
Much like a blue-eyed lass
With winsome smile that can beguile
Some honest-hearted lover
But still we think just all the while
No grass like old Red Clover.

51. IN THE WOODS – Antrim Farm – October 16th, 1898

I have seen the woods in balmy spring
When Nature’s face was smiling
I have heard the brightest song-birds sing
My leisure hours beguiling
When summer’s sun was blistering hot
I have sought the cooling glade
And found the wild forget-me-nots
Grow in the wild-wood shade
With dark green leaves throughout the wood
The trees are covered over
A fit retreat for thinking mood
Or for a weary rover
For hosts of comrades all the day
Keep up a ceaseless chatter
And always have their little say
I wonder what’s the matter?
Is it because that here I came
And caught them at their play?
And does my presence spoil their game?
Is that the reason, pray
They know that summer’s passing on
The woods is looking sober
And bright warm days soon will be gone
For this is chill October

52. CHARLEY BOWMAN – Antrim Farm – December, 1898

Of all the heroes of our day
Who led their forces to the fray
In honest work and noble way
None gets ahead of Bowman…
Southampton’s man was in the field
And did his magic power yield
And made his greatest rival yield
And bow the knee to Bowman…
That Highland chief McNaughton bold
Stood in his way, so I am told
He very soon had him controlled
This wonder working Bowman…
They met by chance once in the Queen’s
And sat for hours, and tossed up beans
And nothing more was done, it seems
Just Dan and Charley Bowman…
The work was done, the bargain struck
All must admire the German luck
And grieve that Dan had not more pluck
Than strike his flag to Bowman…
These Highland lads of kilt and hose
Have swallowed Bowman, boots and clothes
How hard the pill, why no one knows
Not even Charley Bowman…
Now Bowman shouts, “he did not buy”
As blood and thunder fill his eye
So just look out ye Tory fry
For such a fighting Foeman…
Dargai’s Heights, Pat Millive there
Did of that highland glory share
But not a man that I’m aware
Did bear the name of Bowman…
He tried to cover o’er his tracks
For fear he’d get some good hard whacks
And went to Bruce to pat their backs
This good and gentle Bowman…
He went to church at Underwood
To show that he was very good
And never spoke but what he should
This goody, goody Bowman…
Then Jermyn thought he’d try his hand
This magic foeman to withstand
He soon went down to bite the sand
And found himself a woe man…
Now Hardy, Ross and their combine
Have near run out their sands of time
‘Twill suit them now so very fine
To have the help of Bowman…
So now if Bowman’s bound to win
He’ll have to part some of his tin
A good deed done is not a sin
So, buy out D.M Jormyn (Jermyn?)

53. COUNTY COMMISSIONERS – Antrim Farm – December, 1898

Whene’er you go out on the street
You’ll see some groups of voters meet
They want to know who’s going to stand
For nomination day’s at hand
And then on Nomination day
So many men will have their say
And some will tell of good deeds done
These last two years, at Walkerton…
Those that are in would like to stay
If only for three dollars per day
They do not care for honour, No
Nor care for things that make a show
They say they’ve make this county famed
They built a “Refuge”, that is claimed
To be both well and cheaply done
Since they went down to Walkerton…
Some say, the county’s taken a leap
Full twenty thousand dollars deep
And twenty years shall pass away
Before the last red cent we’ll pay
Now “Harcourt”, he could show quite plain
That all this money is clear again
He’d show how slick it could be done
Let’s get him quick at Walkerton

54. ADAM BURWASH – A Neighbor – December 1898

He was not a statesman who held us in rapture
As we hung with delight on his sweet silver tongue
Nor yet was a preacher who quoted from Scripture
Though oft with delight he had God’s praises sung
He was not a warrior that fell in his glory
With the war shouts of comrades, that rung in his ears
Nor lay down to rest beside wounded and gory
‘Mid the sighs of the widows, and orphans hot tears
No diamond or star shone out from his breast
Nor seemed he to need it (as some lying in state)
But in simple plain shroud he was quietly dressed
And we laid him to rest near the cemetry gate
He’s gone to the place where he’ll take his last sleep
By the side of his kindred who had passed on before
No more shall he stand by their grave-sides and weep
For the loss of youth’s friends he used to adore
No more shall he roam thro’ the woods as in childhood
Nor bathe in the waters ‘long Lake Huron’s rough shore
No more shall his axe ring in clearing the wildwood
As it often had done in the stern days of yore
The snow was piled up by the winds of December
And hissed round the grave, and flew over his bier
A sorrowful duty (we’ always remember)
To lay down to rest this first Bruce pioneer

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