100th Anniversary of the Battle of Lundy’s Lane Parade July 25, 1914 – Preparations at the corner of Main Street and Lundy’s Lane Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library
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.
John Newmark lives in St. Louis, Missouri with his wife and two children. An avid family historian, his 5th great grandfather, McGregory Vanevery, was one of the original settlers of Niagara, Ontario. He enjoys writing poetry about his ancestors, and the places they lived. Visit his website.
Upon the “table-rock” I stand,
And gaze into the depths profound,
In ecstacy at sights so grand,
And deafened by the sound
Of rushing waters, as they leap
Like maddened steeds, down hillside steep.
The falling spray my head bedews,
As gently as a vernal shower;
Or, as the Holy Ghost imbues
In consecrated hour,
The soul that inly yearns for love,
And seeks it from the throne above.
But I see more than chasm deep,
Than falling spray and rushing tide.
Sublime, indeed, the awful leap;
The awe will long abide—
God’s rainbow hangs in colors bright,
A thing of beauty in my sight.
Our cousins on the other side
And we too often disagree;
Puffed up, I fear, at times, with pride,
Each strong, and brave, and free;
But we forget the stormy past,
Our lands and hearts are linked at last.
The “Union-Jack” hangs o’er my head,
The “Stars and Stripes” my cousin rears,
But old-time grievances are dead
For all the coming years;
As separate flags they still may wave,
But we are one the world to save.
Source: Joseph Horatio Chant. Gleams of Sunshine: Optimistic Poems. Toronto: William Briggs, 1915.
Laura Secord stamp issued by Canada Post, September 8, 1992
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
