  In giving a glance at various Canadian authors perhaps it would be well to commence with that early writer Mrs. Moody. She was a sister of the celebrated Agnes Strickland, author of "The Queens of England." When this country it was woody, Its great champion Mrs. Moody, Showed she had both pluck and push In her work roughing in the bush. For there alone she did dwell At time McKenzie did rebel, Outbreak her husband strove to quell, Her own grand struggles she doth tell. Round bush life she threw a glory, Pioneer renowned in story, But her tale it is more cheering When she wrote about the clearing. Her other sister Mrs. Traill Though eighty-seven she doth not fail, She now is writing of wild flowers Grown in Canada's woody bowers. T. D. MCGEE.Having been kindly invited as a member of the Mechanics' Institute some 25 years ago by the late Jeremiah O'Neill, Esq., to meet that gentleman in company with a number of our townsmen, when Mr. McGee was rising from the table the chair being new stuck to him, and it being near a general election he very wittily remarked that he hoped the people of Montreal would be as anxious to retain him in his seat as the people here are. We wrote the following lines at the time, the last verse was added afterwards. D Arcy McGee, All compliment thee, The hope of the land On your lecture so grand. Though that is your forte, Oh give us the sport Of an hour of your chat, Then we'll laugh and grow fat. For none but the vile Could 'ere cease to smile, When near to thee So brilliant and free. Plant of green Erin's isle, Long in Canadian soil, May you take deep root And bear much noble fruit. Our hopes were in vain, Alas he is slain, By a crankish hand The flower of the land. GEORGE MENZIES' POEMS, 1883.About one third of a century ago there flourished in Canada three Scottish editors, all of whom were poets, McQueen of the Huron Signal, Goderich, who wrote a grand song on "Our Broad Lake," and McGeorge of the Streetsville Review. The following lines are on George Menzies who was a Woodstock editor. One day while passing 'long the road On a small book we almost trod, Its leaves were scattered o'er the ground, We picked them up and when we found The author's name, it did inspire Us with a very strong desire To read the little volume through, For most of it to us was new. He doth sing of land of heather And Canadian scenes together, He did adore Niagara's roar Where mighty flood o'er fall doth pour. But poets lives are often brief And he had his full share of grief, Which to his life did gloom impart, But he bore up with his brave heart. Lines sent to Thomas Conant of Oshawa, a writer of Canadian sketches We do greet thee Thomas Conant, You truthful paint Canadian charms, And you are the great exponent Of beauties of her woods and farms. You give fine sketch of bird and fowl, Of the blue jay and the plover, And of great white Canadian owl, All proves of nature you're a lover. ROBERT FLEMING GOURLEY.Robert F. Gourley was a graduate of St. Andrew's University, Scotland. He was the first to agitate for popular rights in Canada. He was banished from the country and while crossing the Niagara River he asked for a brush to wipe Canadian dust from his feet. He became a champion of popular rights in England and he whipped Lord Brougham in the lobby of the House of Commons, for which breach of privilege he was sentenced by the House. Mr. Gourley owned several farms in Oxford, Ontario, and sought to represent South Oxford in 1858, but Dr. Connor, an uncle of Hon. E. Blake, won the seat; Mr. Blake was his uncle's secretary through the contest when he was a youth. There came to Oxford Robert Gourley, In his old age his health was poorly; He was a relic of the past, In his dotage sinking fast; Yet he was erect and tall Like noble ruined castle wall. In early times they did him impeach For demanding right of speech, Now Oxford he wished to represent In Canadian parliament, But him the riding did not honor, But elected Doctor Connor. Lines sent to Alexander McLaughlan, Amaranth Station, with a copy of my poems: We send to you these rugged rhymes In memory of the olden times, Great chief of our poetic clan, Admired by all, McLaughlan. |
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