By the side of a moss Lived young Donald Ross, Among the heathery hills And the mountain rills, In a snug little cot Content with his lot He never knew sorrow With his wife and wee Flora.

But an order went forth O'er the land of the north, To burn many a home So the wild deer might roam, With grief he then did toss Every night Donald Ross, And sad seemed the morrow For his wife and sma' Flora.

O it was a cruel deed But n.o.bles do not heed The sorrows of the poor Drove on a barren moor, Where he wove a wreath Of the blooming heath, For to crown with glory The brow of little Flory.

He then bade farewell To his mountain dell, Where his fathers appears Had lived a thousand years, With their few goats and sheep Which feed on hills so steep, O it was a sad story For bonnie little Flory.

He sought a distant strand, In Canada bought land, To him a glorious charm To view his own broad farm, His horses and his cows, Cultivators and plows, And now his daughter Flora She is the flower of Zorra.

PATRIOT FIGHTING FOR HIS HOME.

On the sh.o.r.es of the northern lakes An infant giant now awakes, He has long time been in a dream, But now is roused by engine's scream.

For mighty spirits are abroad Traversing of each great railroad, For it is a glorious theme The peaceful conquest made by steam.

But should the foot of invader vile Ever desecrate his soil, He firm will meet him bold and brave And give him soil Canadian grave.

FIGHTING FOR CONQUEST.

'Tis n.o.ble for to fight for home, But some nations fight to plunder, For conquest o'er the world to roam, To tear peaceful lands asunder.

For to give wealth and a great name To some aspiring commander, Who wishes to acquire great fame As a modern Alexander.

Statesmen and kings a war will wage, And many thousands strew the plain, Covered with gore in the carnage, Where brave and n.o.ble men are slain.

Leaving their families to mourn, Now who can soothe the ills of life, To them they never shall return, No one can now cheer the poor wife.

Or the sweet little orphans dear Think of father and of mother, Of sweetheart, sister and of brother, Who oft will shed the fruitless tear.

CANADIAN AUTHORS.

MRS. MOODY.

In giving a glance at various Canadian authors perhaps it would be well to commence with that early writer Mrs. Moody. She was a sister of the celebrated Agnes Strickland, author of "The Queens of England."

When this country it was woody, Its great champion Mrs. Moody, Showed she had both pluck and push In her work roughing in the bush.

For there alone she did dwell At time McKenzie did rebel, Outbreak her husband strove to quell, Her own grand struggles she doth tell.

Round bush life she threw a glory, Pioneer renowned in story, But her tale it is more cheering When she wrote about the clearing.

Her other sister Mrs. Traill[C]

Though eighty-seven she doth not fail, She now is writing of wild flowers Grown in Canada's woody bowers.

[C] Mrs. Traill lives near Peterboro. Mrs. Moody died in Toronto. I sent her a copy of my poems in 1885, and she thanked me for the same through a friend as she was in feeble health at the time.

T. D. MCGEE.

Having been kindly invited as a member of the Mechanics' Inst.i.tute some 25 years ago by the late Jeremiah O'Neill, Esq., to meet that gentleman in company with a number of our townsmen, when Mr. McGee was rising from the table the chair being new stuck to him, and it being near a general election he very wittily remarked that he hoped the people of Montreal would be as anxious to retain him in his seat as the people here are. We wrote the following lines at the time, the last verse was added afterwards.

D Arcy McGee, All compliment thee, The hope of the land On your lecture so grand.

Though that is your forte, Oh give us the sport Of an hour of your chat, Then we'll laugh and grow fat.

For none but the vile Could 'ere cease to smile, When near to thee So brilliant and free.

Plant of green Erin's isle, Long in Canadian soil, May you take deep root And bear much n.o.ble fruit.

Our hopes were in vain, Alas he is slain, By a crankish hand The flower of the land.

GEORGE MENZIES' POEMS, 1883.

About one third of a century ago there flourished in Canada three Scottish editors, all of whom were poets, McQueen of the Huron Signal, G.o.derich, who wrote a grand song on "Our Broad Lake," and McGeorge of the Streetsville Review. The following lines are on George Menzies who was a Woodstock editor.

One day while pa.s.sing 'long the road On a small book we almost trod, Its leaves were scattered o'er the ground, We picked them up and when we found

The author's name, it did inspire Us with a very strong desire To read the little volume through, For most of it to us was new.

He doth sing of land of heather And Canadian scenes together, He did adore Niagara's roar Where mighty flood o'er fall doth pour.

But poets lives are often brief And he had his full share of grief, Which to his life did gloom impart, But he bore up with his brave heart.

Lines sent to Thomas Conant of Oshawa, a writer of Canadian sketches

We do greet thee Thomas Conant, You truthful paint Canadian charms, And you are the great exponent Of beauties of her woods and farms.

You give fine sketch of bird and fowl, Of the blue jay and the plover, And of great white Canadian owl, All proves of nature you're a lover.