Stan Skrzeszewski wearing a replica War of 1812 British Army uniform. Image courtesy of the author
To soldiers thou art the year of war
Men tell your stories
And sing of thy glories
Poets speak of thee
Filling hearts with strange premonitions
And memorable distinctions
That was Canada in the Year 1812
Note from Stan Skrzeszewski: With thanks to Adam Mickiewicz, Pan Tadeusz, trans by Watson Kirkconell (University of Toronto Press, 1962), 311
Source: Stan Skrzeszewski. Creative Memories: In Honour of the Polish Soldiers Who Died at the Battle of Fort Erie. London, Ont. : Stan Skrzeszewski, 2015
Stan Skrzeszewski is a writer of poetry, short stories, plays and even one libretto. He also serves as a curator at the Orlinski Museum and Archives of the Polish Armed Forces. In another life, Stan was a librarian, management consultant and a facilitator of philosopher’s cafes. The son of a Polish Veteran and Scottish War Bride, he feels a passionate need to record history.
Brock’s Monument on Queenston Heights and cenotaph erected on spot where he fell in battle, Canada. A Keystone View Stereotype, 1908. Image courtesy of the Library of Congress
They crossed in the gray of the morning, ‡‡Stole o’er from the other shore,
To invade the land of the Maple Leaf, ‡‡Two thousand proud foes, or more:
A detachment of the old Forty-Ninth, ‡‡And Dennis’s brave volunteers,
Opposed their landing determinedly, ‡‡Opening on them with cheers.
The roar of the guns from the battery ‡‡Rolled down Niagara’s gorge,
Awakening Brock and his fearless men ‡‡From their rest at old Fort George.
And in a hot haste Brock and his aides-de-camp ‡‡Rode fast through the pale, cold light,
Bidding Sheaffe and his men to follow on ‡‡To aid in the coming fight.
Meanwhile the Americans won the heights, ‡‡And the guns half way below;
Their loss was a serious menace, too, ‡‡In the hands of the haughty foe.
Swift as the fleet wind Brock gained the vale ‡‡And lifted his flashing eye,
Measuring the foe on the cold, gray steeps, ‡‡And the battery nearer by.
“The guns must be won!” Brock quickly cried, ‡‡And came an answering cheer
From the intrepid, ready Forty-Ninth — ‡‡Brave souls devoid of all fear!
“Forward! charge home to the battery’s side!” ‡‡And dauntless he led the way,
Driving the foe from the smoking guns ‡‡By the cold steel’s deadly play.
Heroically leading, he drew their fire, ‡‡And fearlessly fighting fell,
Pierced through the breast by a mortal shot, ‡‡The leader all loved so well.
“Don’t mind me,” he thoughtfully cried; ‡‡“Push on, brave York volunteers!”
Sent a message to his sister over the sea, ‡‡His eyes suffused with tears.
Thus perished war’s genius gloriously, ‡‡A great leader, young in years;
So loved and mourned for, brave, pure soul, ‡‡Thy name we bedew with tears.
Gallantly Sheaffe by St. David’s moves up, ‡‡Turning their flank by the way,
Gaining the heights by an impetuous rush, ‡‡Not a moment held at bay.
Consuming volleys they hurl on the foe, ‡‡Then charge with their deadly steel,
And hundreds are slain in the mad mêlée — ‡‡See, the foe in panic reel!
The British line sweeps resistlessly down; ‡‡The proud foe must surely yield.
Ha! they break — they break into headlong flight ‡‡In defeat from that blood-red field!
Over the heights in mad flight now leaping, ‡‡Some were impaled on the trees,
Where mockingly their garments fluttered ‡‡For years in the storm and breeze.
Some plunged in the cold, rushing river ‡‡To gain safely the other shore,
But were lost in the swirl of its waters, ‡‡And were heard of nevermore.
Nine hundred men surrendered to Sheaffe, ‡‡A force greater than his own.
Ah! ’twas a gallant day, and nobly won; ‡‡Signally the enemy were overthrown.
And standing there on the glorious Heights, ‡‡They cheered for country and King;
They unfurled the “flag of a thousand years”; ‡‡Their shouts o’er the scene did ring.
‘Twas a far-famed day for our lovèd land, ‡‡Ring it over the world so wide;
Like veterans Canadians fought that day, ‡‡With the regulars side by side.
Dearly the victory was won for us ‡‡In the death of beloved Brock.
Immortal hero! thy irreparable loss ‡‡Was to all a grievous shock.
They muffled their drums and reversed their arms, ‡‡And marshalled around his bier,
And solemnly bowed their war-worn heads, ‡‡And silently dropped a tear.
E’en the painted savages loved him well, ‡‡And o’er each stoical face
Stole a shadow of pain and tenderness, ‡‡Hallowing that sacred place.
A grateful country has planted there ‡‡A monument tow’ring high,
His memory e’er to perpetuate, ‡‡Pointing ever to the sky.
The hero and his aide, parted not by death, ‡‡Secure their relics rest there,
In the lovely land of the Maple Leaf ‡‡Ever so loyal and fair.
Aye, a grateful country placed it there — ‡‡On earth there’s no grander scene —
And we sing with a grateful, fervant heart ‡‡To our Country and our Queen.
Revere, then, the dead, and honor them still, ‡‡They died our freedom to save;
God bless the flag of a thousand years, ‡‡May it long o’er us proudly wave!
Source: Lieut.-Col. J. R. Wilkinson. Canadian Battlefields and Other Poems. 2nd ed. Toronto, William Briggs, 1901
This is a 96 page, book-length poem about John, from Rhode Island, who takes a trip first to New York City and then to Niagara Falls by boat and train. His romantic encounters are described, as well as the adventures he has in Niagara Falls with hackmen, swindlers, and hustlers. At the same time, he is impressed with the natural beauty of the Falls.
Read the full poem at Hathi Trust
Citation: Barlow, John R. John’s Trip, or a Visit to Niagara. A Serio-Comic Poem in Four Cantos. Niagara Falls: William Pool, Printer, 1871
Rendezvous Motel & Restaurant, 3611 Lundy’s Lane, Highway 3a & 20, Niagara Falls, Canada. Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
In the town where I was born, we’d walk up Lundy’s Lane And talk about the dreams we had. Life was a glass of ginger ale and a juke box serenade, And we never thought of growing old. Yes, I know those days have come and gone Still I think about my old home town.
At a place called the Rendezvous, we’d congregate at eight And talk about the baseball game. Lights flashing on the window pane, watching cars go up the lane, We’d wait for friends and lovers. Yes, I know those days have come and gone Still I think about my old home town.
Lavender mist makes a foggy night haze While the falls come crashing ahead. And I lean on the rail feel the damp cooling spray Watching the foam turn a luminous maze.
And as I drive towards the town, the neon signs flash on And thoughts begin to fill my head. Oh the happiness I found, in my family’s old home town Where nothing seemed to ever change. Life was very simple, way back then And we thought that it would never end.
When our dreams of long ago were scattered on the way And our childish hopes departed. Life went on but not the same, we grew up, we’re not to blame, And those magic times forgotten. Life was very simple, way back then And we thought that it would never end.
Source: Niagara Falls (Ontario). Coronation Centre Newsletter, 1974
Narushima Ryūhoku published in book Ryuhoku Ikou, 1892
The startled traveler wakes to the thunder by his pillow,
rises and climbs among old trees to the roaring brink:
in the deep night, heaven and earth one vista of white;
the moon comes, parting the mile-high curtain of pearls.
Translated by Burton Watson
Source: Watson, Burton (tr.). Japanese Literature in Chinese, vol. 2: Poetry & Prose in Chinese by Japanese Writers of the Later Period. New York: Columbia University Press, 1976
