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

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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

On Queenston Heights by Sarah Anne Curzon

I stood on Queenston Heights ;
And as I gazed from tomb to cenotaph,
From cenotaph to tomb, adown and up,
My heart grew full, much moved with many thoughts.
At length I cried :
” O robed with honor and with glory crowned.
Tell me again the story of yon pile. ”
And straight the ancient, shuddering cedars wept,
The solemn junipers indued their pall,
The moaning wind crept through the trembling oaks
And, shrieking, fled. Strange clamor filled the air ;
The steepy hill shook with the rush of arms ;
Around me rolled the tide of sudden war.
The booming guns pealed forth their dreadful knell ;
Musketry rattled ; shouts, cries, groans, were heard ;
Men met as foes, and deadly strife ensued.
From side to side the surging combat rolled,
And as it rolled, passed from my ken.
But hark ! a ringing cheer peals up the height,
Once more the battle’s tide bursts on my view.
Brock to the rescue ! Down goes the alien flag !
Back, back the dark battalions fall. On, on
The ” Tigers ” come. Down pours the rattling shot
From out the verdant grove, like sheets of hail.
Up, up they press, York volunteers and all.
Aha! the day is ours ! See, where the hero comes
In conquering might, quick driving all before him !
O brave ensample ! O beloved chief !
Who follows thee keeps ever pace with honor.
Such tale the hill-side told me, and I wept.
Nay ! I wept not ! The hot, indignant thoughts
That filled my breast burned up the welling tears
Ere they had chance to flow, and forward Hate
Spake rashly. But calm reflection
Laid her cool hand upon my throbbing brow
And whispered, ” As up the misty stream
The Norseman crept to-day, and signals white
Waved kind salutes from yon opposing shore ;
And as ye peered the dusky vista through.
To catch first glimpse of yonder glorious plinth,
Yet saw it not till I your glance directed,—
So high it towered above the common plane ;—
So towering over Time, shall Brock e’er stand.—
So, from those banks, shall white-robed Peace e’er smile.”

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

Read about Sarah Anne Curzon

Sir George W. Ross was Ontario’s Premier and Minister of Education. Read about him here.

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

At the Grave of Abram Hull by Sarah Anne Curzon

Abram Hull was a captain in the United States Infantry, and was killed in the battle of Lundy’s Lane, 25th July, 1814, and interred on the battleground, near to the spot where he fell, with the fallen on both sides. The battleground was consecrated as a cemetery, and is now kept in order by the Lundy’s Lane Historical Society.

Not that thou wast an enemy do I desire
Thy grave shall be no mound of weeds or mire ;
My country’s enemies are mine, and I would fight
With tireless arm to guard her sacred right.
Not that thou wast an enemy and I forget
The fierce incursion—unforgiven yet.
But that thou wast a mother’s son, I’d keep,
For mother-love, thy bed in thy last sleep.
Lay e’er, my son, in stranger-land a foe,
I would some mother-breast should pity know,
Some kindly hand should smooth, as I do now,
His last long pillow, and upon his brow
Drop gentle tears for one so brave and young,
Nor leave, for enmity, a warrior’s dirge unsung.

Source: The Dominion Illustrated, 17th August 1889

Read about Abraham [Abram] Hull

Read about Sarah Anne Curzon

Read about the Battle of Lundy’s Lane

Tag: War of 1812

Sir Isaac Brock to His Soldiers by Charles Mair

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Lundy’s Lane by William Thomas White

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On Queenston Heights by Sarah Anne Curzon

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Laura Secord by Charles Edwin Jakeway

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At the Grave of Abram Hull by Sarah Anne Curzon

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