Our neighbours in a score of states,
Being more or less united,
Determined to come over here,
Not especially invited.
Having the job made up some how
With Napoleon the Great,
That he should make the Russian bow
While they of Canada would make a state.
Our ancestors a boon secured—
The freedom of each station ;
From trials that they then endured
Was born our present nation.
Year about eighteen twelve ;
Forget them shall we never ;
In memory's pages they still shall live
Till death our lives shall sever.
In all those years, '13, the most
Of fighting here was done,
And in '13, June 24th,
The grandest victory won.
April's days were nearly o'er
When Toronto was laid low ;
May had counted one month more
When in Niagara was the foe.
The militia were disbanded —
No more fighting to be done —
O'er every farmer's mantlepiece
A musket up was hung.
When the leafy month of June,
When foliage clothed the beech,
The folly of invasions,
Indians and militia teach.
Two Indian braves by Boerstler slain,
Made their station at the Ten,
Determined to fill up new graves
With twice as many men.
The farmer viewed his meadow land,
Now ready for the scythe ;
"To-morrow I this grass will cut,
If tomorrow I'm alive."
Scarce finished was his ramble,
Walking slowly to his meal,
He hears the note of warlike spoil
By the Indian in his zeal.
To-day he knew he'd other work ;
Scarce touched his morning meal,
But, taking down his trusty gun,
He towards the fore did steal.
The Beechwoods spread with ample shade
Cast over all a sombre hue.
Whose sturdy trunks assist to aid
To keep our men from view.
Those who lived near arrived the first
The foe to hold at bay
Until were gathered to the field
Those who further lived away.
Soon cannon from the mountain brow
Boom on the calm, still air,
And to engage in battle
Militia far and near repair.
The regulars had heard alarms
The horseman were on time
To take the leader's sword and arms
And guard them to our line.
A victory small, and won like this
By the farmers of the Ten,
Had more effect to keep the peace
Than an army of fighting men.
But, as the seasons come and go,
Never that long day of June
Shall be blotted from our memory,
Our harvest work as soon.
Source: Thorold Post, June 8, 1894, p. 6
Read about the Battle of Beaverdams
