The Crowland Safe Guard Union and Port Robinson Presbyterian Sabbath Schools held a union picnic at the Falls on Aug. 15, and the occasion has been immortalized by the Crowland poet, as followeth : —
Wheelbarrow Race During Picnic in Queen Victoria Park, July 1927. Photo by Edwin Hodge Courtesy of the Niagara Parks Commission / Niagara Falls Public Library
Did you ever Pic-nic at the Falls ‡‡Upon a summer’s day ?
If not, I tell you, ’tis the place ‡‡To pass the time away.
Now first of all you name the day, ‡‡But then, if it should rain,
You fix upon another date, ‡‡And then perhaps again.
And next you must a chicken catch, ‡‡Be sure to take off its head,
Then fill it well with dressing ‡‡And roast it when it’s dead.
You fix a lot of other things ‡‡To fill the basket up ;
‘Tis well to take some dishes too, ‡‡A plate and spoon and cup.
The time comes round — you’re on the road, ‡‡Your best friend at your side,
And if you chose a pleasant day ‡‡You will enjoy the ride.
You can go by the Clifton hill, ‡‡Or down the old ravine,
No difference how you get there ‡‡Upon the park and green.
You meet your many neighbours there ‡‡Their friendship to renew,
Along perhaps with relatives ‡‡And strangers quite a few.
You’ll meet there Col. Gzowski ‡‡And he’ll not speak to you,
But gaze in blissful ignorance ‡‡Upon the sights to view.
And noon comes round, the tables spread ‡‡With pies and cakes and such
And some one at your elbow says, ‡‡“Take care, don’t eat too much.”
Now some drink water pure and bright, ‡‡But grannies have their tea,
For you can get hot water ‡‡Right at the park Q. V.
We sit along the bank awhile ‡‡And watch the Misty Maid ;
Some people will not ride on her ‡‡Because they are afraid.
The day is spent, we start for home ; ‡‡On two things we agree.
That we have had a pleasant time, ‡‡We’re tired as we can be.
Many thanks to Arden Phair for referring this poem to the Niagara Falls Poetry Project curator.
Source: Undated newspaper clipping (probably the Welland Tribune) found in The Diaries of Melvin Byron Misener, held at the Mayholme Foundation in St. Catharines. The clipping has the date “1900” handwritten in the margin of the previous page. Misener (1847-1936) was known as “The Crowland Poet.” Read more about Misener
Fairview Cemetery, Niagara Falls, Ontario Image courtesy of the City of Niagara Falls
I walk alone, eyes downcast
seeking paths of fallen leaves,
to disguise the sound
of breaking armour.
Cemeteries in the fall
are good places for disguise.
I can lie there,
surrounded by stone confessors,
and speak aloud
all that is in me.
Joy, sorrow,
goodness and sin.
There is no forgiveness,
or absolution offered.
They are not my pardoners.
They are just marks left for others,
who perhaps, like me,
spent troubled times there,
before making it their home.
Source: Shie Sirianni published this poem in Captured Essence: Niagara Poetry Anthology, vol. 11. St. Catharines: Canadian Authors Association, Niagara Branch, 1995
With thanks to Arden Phair who pointed out this poem by Shie Sirianni to the Niagara Falls Poetry Project curator.
The river carries me here
As a babe on its island’s shores I play
Palms and fingers squish soft sand, feet kick,
On my back, sun warmed laps of waves.
Currents change with the seasons
Moody green, then blue; milky, then grey
Factory polluted in a haphazard way.
In autumn steam rises after first frost
Buckhorn’s creek freezes over in white
Our skates’ steel cuts crust to granules of light
We hear the creak of the sheet unable
to bear our weight; it cracks, we lie on the ice
crawl to shore; imagine the classmate trapped
head under the lip of ice, face turned blue
frozen in his boots, red cap and jacket;
first of our generation to pay the price
like deer seeking to drink fresh water
stranded on ice floe; eyes wide in fear
headed for the Rapids, then the Falls.
Sooner or later the current carries us all.
Source: Kathy Gilbert, 2021
Award winning poet Kathy Gilbert grew up in Niagara Falls, NY, attending St John de La Salle, Prince of Peace, and 66th Street schools before moving to Grand Island. She currently resides in Northern California where she received an MFA in poetry from San Francisco State University. In 2020, she published a poetry collection, Aprils Three. Other poems have appeared in Transfer, Anomalous, Swampwriting, The Steel Toe Review, The Community of Writers, and,Vistas & Byways. She is currently working on a book about Niagara Falls.
The Falls of Niagara From Goat Island, 1853 Drawing by George Wallis. Courtesy of the Library of Congress
I am the flood gates between neighboring states, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And sever the waters in twain
That flow through great lakes, and in hill and vale takes ‡‡‡‡‡‡Its source in the Laurentian.
The racing rapids above, rush, jostle and shove, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And run at a furious pace,
Then, nearing my ledge, leap over the edge, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Like steeds in a steeple chase.
When the floods break asunder, they roar like thunder ‡‡‡‡‡‡As over my ledge they flow,
And roll in their might all day and all night, ‡‡‡‡‡‡In a termagant strife below.
Lying there at my feet in the chasm they beat, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Where in fury they’re lashed to foam
‘Gainst stray fallen blocks of shattered old rocks, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And in agony writhe and moan.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡II.
But when they get free, how they rollick with glee, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Delighted my bondage to break,
And surge through the gorge into whirlpools, thence forge ‡‡‡‡‡‡Their way to Ontario Lake.
From the strength of my force, they take their long course, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Where the banks of St. Lawrence guide,
Till they sweep full and free out to the blue sea, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Where the waters are vast and wide.
When they bid me good-bye, I neither fret nor sigh ‡‡‡‡‡‡For I know they will merge with the tide,
And in clouds, spray or foam, with the winds wander home, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And again o’er my cataract glide.
For year in and year out, they come back with a shout, ‡‡‡‡‡‡From far parts of the old hemisphere,
To my green swarded shore, for my cataract’s roar ‡‡‡‡‡‡Has a musical charm to their ear.
They enjoy the great fun, o’er the rapids to run, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And leap into limitless space,
Then when they alight, from my great lofty height, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Down through the gorge run and race.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡III.
I’ve been a long time in this northern clime, ‡‡‡‡‡‡As Niagara’s flown on and on,
And centuries have sped since its waters I’ve shed, ‡‡‡‡‡‡As to me they have come and gone.
My banks and bowers are now laden with flowers, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Where once the great forests held sway,
For man’s hand now designs, which did once the Divine’s ‡‡‡‡‡‡In an earlier ancient day.
I send them betimes, when favoring gale inclines, ‡‡‡‡‡‡A welcome refreshing cool shower,
That their spirits renew, like the moistening dew ‡‡‡‡‡‡That comes in the early morn hour,
The summer sun beams on the spray at times gleams, ‡‡‡‡‡‡As winds lift it up on their arm,
And clear rainbow rays reflect on these sprays ‡‡‡‡‡‡Their radiant beauty and charm.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡IV.
In stern winter’s embrace, or the sun’s beaming face, ‡‡‡‡‡‡These torrents dash over my bounds,
And incessantly flow through ice, sleet or snow, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And ever their roar resounds.
From the staggering shocks down over the rocks ‡‡‡‡‡‡A mist to the heavens ascends,
Which rears an ice bridge, with its girders and ridge, ‡‡‡‡‡‡That across my borders extends.
This misty spray sprite, in its devious flight, ‡‡‡‡‡‡With summer’s sunbeams paint rainbows,
But in winter’s chill grip, when icicles drip, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Sculptures weird fairy forms where it goes.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡V.
My old solid bed rocks have weathered the shocks ‡‡‡‡‡‡Of earthquakes and tempests and storm,
But the teeth of the tides, as it o’er my breast glides, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Have gnawed away part of my form.
These tides have flown on, as the ages have gone, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And I’ve seen races pass away,
Who lived out their life ‘mid its labor and strife, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And now mingle with earth and clay.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VI.
With their feastings and songs, I attract great throngs ‡‡‡‡‡‡From every known portion of earth,
Who gaze and wonder if my floods and thunder ‡‡‡‡‡‡Date back to the time of its birth.
And the ages pass by and the winds at times sigh, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And the sun, moon and stars rule the sky,
But I keep in my breast their yearning request, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And neither affirm nor deny.
And so the world’s throng have gazed on me long, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And heard my floods roar like thunder,
Till the sights and sound, as they pour and bound, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Have made me the world’s great wonder.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VII.
In the days of yore on my dense wooded shore, ‡‡‡‡‡‡The wild forest beasts came to drink,
And the Indian’s shrill yell, with its echoing swell, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Filled the canyon from brink to brink.
Then all Nature was wild and the sun kindly smiled ‡‡‡‡‡‡On a primitive race of man,
Who paddled a canoe, camped under skies blue, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And was monarch of all it o’er ran.
From my fleet flowing floods in the heart of his woods, ‡‡‡‡‡‡His mind caught a glimpse divine,
And when their voice roared, his gods he implored, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And made me the seat of his shrine.
Ah ! they were my guests on their hunting quests, ‡‡‡‡‡‡When this land was the home of these braves,
In far hunting ground, their souls may be found, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Here their ashes lie scattered in graves.
‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡‡VIII.
I hold in my palms two friendly clasped hands ‡‡‡‡‡‡Of nations whose love will ne’er cease;
With floods from both hands, I baptize these two lands ‡‡‡‡‡‡In the name of the spirit of peace.
And may there abide in these lands side by side, ‡‡‡‡‡‡Through season of good or ill,
A reign of long peace, may my arc never cease ‡‡‡‡‡‡To betoken their national good will.
My stream parts in twain, but their blood is the same, ‡‡‡‡‡‡And they hold sway on sea and land,
And lead the broad way to that promising day ‡‡‡‡‡‡That the great Prince of Peace has planned.
Source: William Melville McClemont (1865-1935) published this privately in Hamilton, Ontario, undated.
Glacier left these giant’s pebbles
Strewn along a path
Now green moss and brown earth
Velvet our feet as we walk
Leaves like ruffled lace
Are sewn to its edges
Sun caresses with delicate fingers
Bright stars of flowers shine
Purple, gold and white
And the wind plays tag
Giggling through the trees
Source: Captured Essence: Niagara Poetry Anthology, vol. 11. St. Catharines: Canadian Authors Association, Niagara Branch, 1995
With thanks to Arden Phair who pointed out this poem by Jean Roland to the Niagara Falls Poetry Project curator.
The Bruce Trail runs from its southern terminus at Queenston Heights, through the northern part of Niagara Falls, to Tobermory, a total of 895 kilometers.
