Sir Isaac Brock to His Soldiers by Charles Mair

Ye men of Canada !
Subjects with me of that Imperial Power
Whose liberties are marching round the earth :
I need not urge you now to follow me,
Though what befalls will try your stubborn faith
In the fierce fire and crucible of war.
I need not urge you, you have heard the voice
Of loyalty, and answered to its call.
Who has not read the insults of the foe—
The manifesto of his purposed crimes ?
That foe, whose poison-paint, false liberty,
Runs o’er his body politic and kills
Whilst seeming to adorn it, fronts us now !
Threats our poor Province to annihilate,
And should we find the red men by our side—
Poor injured souls, who but defend their own—
Calls back Extermination from its hell,
To stalk abroad, and stench your land with slaughter.
These are our weighty arguments of war,
Wherein armed Justice will enclasp its sword,
And sheath it in its bitter adversary ;
Wherein we’ll turn our bayonet-points to pens,
And write in blood :—Here lies the poor invader ;
Or be ourselves struck down by hailing death :
Made stepping stones for foes to walk upon—
The lifeless gangways to our country’s ruin.
For now we look not with the eye of fear ;
We reck not if this strange mechanic frame—
Stop in an instant in the shock of war.
Our death may build into our country’s life,
And failing this, ’twere bettor still to die
Than live the breathing spoils of infamy.
Then forward for our cause and Canada !
Forward for Britain’s Empire—peerless arch
Of Freedom’s raising, whose majestic span
Is axis to the world ! On, on, my friends !
The task our country sets must we perform—
Wring peace from war, or perish in its storm !

Source: George W. Ross (ed.) Patriotic Recitations and Arbor Day Exercises. Toronto : Warwick & Rutter, 1893.

Read about Sir Isaac Brock

Read about the War of 1812

Read about Brian Deines’ painting of Sir Isaac Brock

Visit Brian Deines’ website

Lundy’s Lane by William Thomas White

July it was, and the sun’s fierce heat
On road and meadow glistened and beat.

Glistened and beat till the hillside brown
Shrivelled and parched in its angry frown.

Till the dust lay white ‘neath the creaking wain,
And never a zephyr to promise the rain.

Backward from Queenston, backward for aye,
The hostile invaders had passed on their way.

While hot on their rear like a hound on the track,
By the way he retreated brave Riall came back.

By the way he retreated from Chippewa fight,
Outnumbered and beaten that terrible night.

And now where the ground softly slopes from the plain.
And the fragrance of orchards breathes o’er Lundy’s Lane,

At the point where it joins with the old Portage road,
His scanty battalions defiantly stood.

In front lay the foe ; to his challenge they come,
But behind hear the beat of the patriot drum !

For Drummond is marching that pitiless day.
And the feet of his soldiers are swift for the fray.

Undaunted by numbers, by odds undismayed,
“Form the line with the guns in the centre,” he said.

Six o’clock, and the sun as it sunk to its rest.
Like a circle of blood shot its glow from the West.

One instant its gleam on their battle ranks broke ;
The next it was lost in the batteries’ smoke.

And they grappled, they struggled, they fought and they fell,
‘Mid the flash of the bayonet, the hiss of the shell.

One to four ! they are Britons in blood and in bone,
And the land that they fight for they know is their own.

One to four ! shall they perish when wisdom says “Fly?”
On ! Forward like heroes ! for valor says ” Die.”

One to four ! and the twilight in horror shrinks down,
And over the dead casts her mantle of brown.

One to four ! and there fades the last glimmer of light,
And they fought hand to hand for the guns in the night.

And the flashes of flame shot their glare o’er the gloom,
And the cannons re-echoed the cataract’s boom.

And the smoke of their volleys strewn far o’er the plain
Seemed the ghosts of the fallen contending again.

Rose the moon, pallid orbed, her pale course to pursue,
Belated, reluctant, aghast at the view !

So their hands from the slaughter a moment they stay,
A moment they stand statue-like in its ray.

A moment of breathing—a moment—no more,
Then bellowed the cannons their grape as before.

Till the foe, horror-smitten at blood so out-poured,
Withdrew with the bayonet, withdrew with the sword.

So, baffled and vanquished, they sullenly fled,
And night and the victors kept watch with the dead.

Source: George W. Ross (ed.) Patriotic Recitations and Arbor Day Exercises. Toronto : Warwick & Rutter, 1893.

About William Thomas White

Read about the Battle of Lundy’s Lane

Laura Secord by Charles Edwin Jakeway

On the sacred scroll of glory
             Let us blazon forth the story
Of a brave Canadian woman, with the fervid pen of fame,
            So that all the world may read it,
            So that every heart may heed it,
And rehearse it through the ages to the honor of her name.

            In the far-off days of battle,
            When the muskets’ rapid rattle
Far re-echoed through the forest, Laura Secord sped along
            Deep into the woodland mazy,
            Over pathways wild and hazy,
With a firm and fearless footstep and a courage staunch and strong.

            She had heard the host preparing,
            And at once with dauntless daring
Hurried off to give the warning of the fast-advancing foe ;
            And she flitted like a shadow
            Far away o’er fen and meadow,
Where the wolf was in the wildwood, and the lynx was lying low.

            From within the wild recesses
            Of the tangled wildernesses
Sounds mysterious pursued her ‘long the winding forest way,
            And she heard the gutt’ral growling
            Of the bears, that, near her prowling,
Crushed their course through coverts gloomy with their cubs in noisy play.

            Far and near the hideous whooping
            Of the painted Indians, trooping
For the foray, pealed upon her with a weird, unearthly sound,
            While great snakes went gliding past her
            As she sped on fast and faster,
And disaster on disaster seemed to threaten all around.

            Thus for twenty miles she travelled
            Over pathways rough and ravelled,
Braving danger for her country like the fabled ones of yore.
            Till she reached her destination,
            And forewarned the threatened station
Of the wave that was advancing to engulf it deep in gore.

            Just in time the welcome warning
            Came unto the men, that, scorning
To retire before the foemen, rallied ready for the fray,
            And they gave such gallant greeting,
            That the foe was soon retreating
Back in wild dismay and terror on that glorious battle-day.

            Few returned to tell the story
            Of the conflict sharp and gory
That was won with brilliant glory by that brave Canadian band,
            For the host of prisoners captured
            Far outnumbered the enraptured
Little group of gallant soldiers fighting for their native land.

            Braver acts are not recorded
            In historic treasures hoarded,
Than the march of Laura Secord through the forest long ago,
            And no nobler deed of daring
            Than the cool and crafty snaring
By the band at Beaver Dam of all that well-appointed foe.

            But we know if war should ever
            Rage again o’er field or river,
And the hordes of the invader should appear within our land,
            Far and wide the trumpets pealing
            Would awake the same old feeling,
And again would deeds of daring sparkle out on every hand.

Source: Charles Edwin Jakeway. The Lion and the Lilies: A Tale of the Conquest and Other Poems. Toronto: William Briggs, 1897

This poem is discussed in Episode 2 of the Niagara Falls History and Poetry podcast

Read about Laura Secord

The death notice of Charles Edwin Jakeway published in the Barrie Examiner March 8, 1906 from Find a Grave

Read about the Battle of Beaverdams

The Niagara Elector: A Jolly Ditty by Anonymous

I cannot vote for Thompson—
Just hear the reason why—
Because this new Dominion
Wants men who will not lie.
We want no two-faced member,
When treason lurks around ;
We want a true Canadian
That’s honest, upright, sound.
I cannot vote for Thompson,
His loyalty aint clean :
He forswore his allegiance
To England’s noble Queen.

I will not vote for Currie,
He’s nothing but a tool,
And gets his education
In the Globe’s disloyal school.
He’s helping Brown’s convention,
To organize new strife,
To aid the agitator
To start in public life.
I will not vote for Currie,
His eyes are set behind,
And he cannot look before him,
To see what’s in the wind !

I will not vote for Thompson,
He’s crazy as a loon,
He’d make a splendid member
To represent the moon !
His stomach is enormous,
It never can be filled,
He eat Niagara Common,
Our railroad he has grilled.
He leased up all the farmers,
And still holds out his dish,
He swallowed half the river,
And he wanted all the fish !

I cannot vote for Currie,
He serves Dictator Brown,
Who sides with Reds and traitors,
Who hate the Queen and Crown.
I cannot vote his ticket,
He’s in the boat with Howe,
The foe of Federation
Who wants to raise a row.
His road is not a right one—
The Currie Road you see
He goes for Yankee Thompson,
And that’s enough tor me !

I’ll never vote for Thompson,
He wants to cut and carve,
He built himself a palace,
And let his workmen starve.
We’ll raise the British colours
And never turn our coat.
We’ll put in Angus Morrison
By every loyal vote !
We will not go for Thompson,
His promise never sticks.
We will not eat his pancakes,
Nor take his dirty bricks !

We will not vote for Currie,
He’s only fit to bark,
We’ll choose an honest farmer
Who is a man of mark.
He ploughs the Heights of Queenston,
He glories in their fame,
A loyal British Farmer,
And Robertson’s his name !
We’ll never vote for Thompson,
He took the Yankee oath,
We will not vote for Currie,
For HE seems nothing loath.

Come all ye Whigs and Tories,
Whatever your degree ;
Niagara Town and Township,
Now loyally agree !
We love Confederation ;
We hate mere faction fight,
We’ll back th’ Administration
So long as they do right !
For Morrison and Robertson,
We’ll man the union boat,
We’ll gloriously elect them
And never split a vote !

God save our new Dominion,
God save our noble Queen ;
We’re now the biggest nation,
America has seen.
We go for law and order,
We’ll squelsh both Howe and Brown.
We’ll support the constitution,
They shall never pull it down !
For Morrison and Robertson,
We’ll all throw off our coats
They are the people’s candidates,
And they shall have our votes !

Source: The Niagara Elector has no date, no author, and no publication information. This item can be found in the collections of Library and Archives Canada and full text on the Internet Archive

N.B. The correct spelling of “Thompson” as used in the poem is without the “p” – hence “Thomson”

This poem refers to the federal and provincial elections of 1867. In the federal election held from August 7 to September 20, 1867, in the Town of Niagara (current day Niagara-on-the-Lake) Conservative Angus Morrison defeated Liberal William Alexander Thomson 300 votes to 250 votes. In the provincial election of September 3, 1867, Conservative Donald Robertson defeated Liberal James Currie 302 votes to 254

February 4, 1912 by Jessie Clark

‘Twas on a Sabbath morning,
From distant homes they strayed,
To see our old Niagara
In her mantle of white arrayed.

And with Jack Frost’s protection,
The tourists thought how grand
To be on the noted ice bridge
Anywhere to stand.

But the strength of Frost was feeble,
Compared with mighty force
Of the rushing undercurrent
Unchanging in its course.

For soon the ice was parted
And, alas! too quickly was seen
People on glassy islands
Floating down the stream.

And there was Mrs. Stanton
Just paralyzed with fear,
Saying to her husband
Let us die right here.

Near by a brave young laddie,
Who was running his life to save,
Heard the call: “Come back and help us
To escape a watery grave.”

And as he thus responded
To try and save another
He said to his companion:
“Don’t you tell my mother.”

But a message of mental telepathy
To that mother quickly flashed,
While ropes were dangling here and there
And the cruel waters splashed.

For she saw in a glass of water
Ice and people, too,
Rushing about confusedly,
Knowing not what to do.

Then she thought of the treacherous river,
That water so fierce and wild,
And exclaimed: “I have a presentiment
Something has happened to my child!”

Brave men worked hard to save
The two who still remained
On that block of ice much smaller
Than when it first was framed.

For, Oh, they were surrounded
By Niagara’s silvery crest,
Which none were allowed to step on:
Not even a noted guest.

Kneeling in prayer they were ushered,
The time was very brief,
Until the Whirlpool caught them
And gave them sweet relief.

Image and insert containing the poem by Jessie Clark courtesy of Niagara Falls Museums, accession number 2024.016.29. Many thanks to Assistant Curator Sara Byers for bringing this to my attention.

Read about the tragedy here.

Category: Niagara History & Folklore

Sir Isaac Brock to His Soldiers by Charles Mair

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Lundy’s Lane by William Thomas White

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Laura Secord by Charles Edwin Jakeway

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The Niagara Elector: A Jolly Ditty by Anonymous

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February 4, 1912 by Jessie Clark

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