Verses and Rhymes By the Way Part 16

"We tried to stem the wave, We have been bold and brave, We held the losing cause, the Great Spirit hid his face, Our nation's place is gone, The white wave will roll on, Until from sea to sea we have no abiding place

"Although we do not stand To do battle for our land, The allies that we fight for, though white men, do not lie, Their foes are ours, stand fast, This fight shall be my last, 'Tis fitting, on the war-path, the Shawnee chief should die

"Where we have pitched our camp, Red blood shall dye the swamp, The battle to the swift, the victory to the strong, But be it as it will, My braves shall vanish still, Slain by pale face customs, snared by their treacherous tongue"

He turned, where in their pride Stood his warriors by his side, For them to-morrow's sun might s.h.i.+ne, to-morrow's breezes blow, "But Tec.u.mthe's lot is cast, This fight shall be his last, And they will do my wish," he said, "when I am lying low"

Wyandot's chieftain grave, Young and lithe, hold and brave, Stood by Tec.u.mthe, waiting the beginning of the fray; Tec.u.mthe silence broke, And thus to him he spoke, "My brother from this onset I'll never come away.

"This scarf of crimson grand, By brave Sir Isaac's hand, Was bound round me with praise, when his heart towards me was stirred; I belt it around you, My brother brave and true, Think about Tec.u.mthe, and remember his last word.

"When on the red war-path, War fiercely to the death, Be pitiful and tender to the helpless and the fair, I fought--have many slain, But not a single stain Of blood of maids or children dims the good sword I wear.

"Brother, a forest maid Within my wigwam stayed, She is called before me, far beyond the glowing west, This battle lost or won, You'll take my little son, Train him a Shawnee brave, let him be in deer skin drest.

"When grown a warrior strong, To feel his nation's wrong, When he is fierce in battle, and wise in council fire, Worthy my sword to wear, Then with a father's care, Let thy hand belt upon him the good sword of his sire.

"Tell him, I lived and fought For my nation and had not A thought but for their good on resentment for their wrong, Nor ever wished to have Any gift the pale-face gave Nor learned a single word of the fatal pale-face tongue

'Tell him, he is the last Of a race great in the past, Before the foot of white men had stepped upon our strand And if fate will not give Any place where they may live Let him die among his people and for his people's land.

'I strip this coat off here Of a British Brigadier It is a costly garment with gold lace grand and brave, The Shawnee chief is best, In s.h.i.+rt of deerskin drest, Not in pale-face gift they'll find me who lay me in the grave.

"I have lost all but life To meet in mortal strife, To kill many, that the white squaws weep as ours have done, To lie among the dead, With garments b.l.o.o.d.y red, And go to happy hunting grounds beyond the setting sun.

'This will be, Wyandot brave, You'll give to me a grave, In dimness of the forest, in earth my mother's breast, Each tall tree a sentinel, Will guard the secret well Of where you laid Tec.u.mthe down to his lasting rest'

After the fatal fight The strife became a flight They found the chief Tec.u.mthe lying still among the slain Never to fight again.

Ah! little recked he then That dastard white men outraged his body to their shame.

After the headlong flight, In the dark dead of night, They came, from further outrage his loved remains to save Within the forest deep They laid him down to sleep; And the forest guards the secret! no man knows his grave.

Our land, our pride and boast, Spreads now from coast to coast, Stands up a great Dominion among the ruling powers.

For us this chieftain fought, An ally unbribed, unbought; We guard his name and fame in this Canada of ours.

We have grown strong and bold, Able to have and hold; Our allies the red men are cared for with our care.

East or in the wild Nor-west, In peace they hunt or rest; No man their lands may covet because they're broad and fair.

CREED AND CONDUCT COMBINED AS CAUSE AND EFFECT.

The incident related in the following lines occurred thus:--At a meeting of Presbytery appointed to deal with the case of the Reverend David Macrae, of Gourock, Scotland, one of the members of the Court had stolen out to enjoy his pipe and the quiet of his own thoughts for a few minutes before engaging in the strife of debate, when he was accosted by a stranger, woefully dilapidated, who asked him with great earnestness if he would tell him where he could see Mr. Macrae, as he was most anxious to have some conversation with him. "Do you know, sir," said this poor, ruined one, "that on the doctrine of future punishment Mr. Macrae and I are in perfect accord, and I am very desirous to tender him my cordial sympathy and support. I esteem it my duty to do what I can to comfort and cheer this young and courageous minister of the Gospel, in the cruel and unjust persecution to which he is being subjected."

The Presbytery with one accord in one place, Were met to consider and speak on the case Of David Macrae, bent with reverend skill, On putting him through th' ecclesiastical mill I was there, I slipped out just the plain truth to tell, To ha e a quate thinkin time a by mysel On the new fangled doctrine o nae h.e.l.l ava, Which gies wrang doers comfort that is na sae sma'.

It's a gey soothm thoct aye, it pleases them weel, Leavin hooseless an hameless the muckle black deil, It delivers mankind frae a fear and a dread, Sae I pondered along never lifting my head Is it richt? is it wrang? is it truth or a lie?

We will cannily find oot the truth by and by If it's truth or a lie that lies at the root Should be shown when the doctrine grows up and bears fruit Thus I daundered and pondered, on lifting my e'e An answer to some o my thocts cam to me There cam' doon the causey a comical chiel, Wi an air an a gait that was unco genteel, By the cut o' his jib an the set o his claes He was ane o thae folk wha ha e seen better days, He was verra lang legged hungry-lookup an lean, His claes werna' new, nor weel hained nor clean, Tight straps his short trews to meet s.h.i.+ny boots drew, Where wee tae an' big tae alike keeked through, His coat ance black braid-claith, was rusty enough, It was oot at the elbows an' frayed at the cuff, It was white at the seams, it was threadbare and thin An' to hide a defects, b.u.t.toned up to the chin Bruised and dinged in the crown and the brim was his hat, But set jauntily on his few hairs for a that, Paper collar an' cuffs showed in lieu of a s.h.i.+rt, As he daintily picked his way over the dirt, His face leaden and mottled with blossom that grows Out of whisky, an' deep bottle-red was his nose; His e'en bleared an' bloodshot, were watery an' dim, Pale an' puffy the eyelids, an' red roun' the rim; Thae e'en, that ha'e gotten a set in the head, Wi' watchin' ower often the wine when it's red.

Eh, me, sirs! what wreck in the universe can Be sae awsome to see as the wreck of a man!

Whatever of talents, or good looks, or gear, What w'alth o' good chances had been this man's here; What gifts that might make his life lofty and grand, A blessin' to others, a power in the land.

All was gone, gifts an' graces, the greatest, the least, Were hidden beneath the broad mark o' the beast-- Stamped on, I may say, frae the head to the feet, All lost of the man but his pride an' conceit; Varnished ower wi' the airs o' the shabby genteel, He was gingerly steppin' his way to the diel.

But now he is gaun to greet me on the way Comin' forrid as ane that has something to say.

Takin' off wi' a flourish the bit o' a hat, He booed wi' an air maist genteel ower that; "Excuse me, sir, stoppin' you thus on the way, Can you bring me to where I'll see David Macrae?

He's a preacher that men of my culture must choose; I a.s.sure you he holds and he preaches my views; A doctrine divested of all vulgar fears, That I've held and believed in for years upon years.

A doctrine most sensible, likely, and true, I endorse it, sir, as, I trust, you also do?"

I answered him, gien a bit shake to my head, As I looked at the man and considered his creed; "You'll see Mr. Macrae, my man, there is nae doot, If you stan' aboot here till they're a' comin' oot; But my frien', this new doctrine, that fits ye sae fine, May be yours verra likely, but ne'er can be mine."

RETROSPECT

I sit by the fire in the gloaming, In the depths of my easy chair, And I ponder, as old men ponder, Over times and things that were.

And outside is the gusty rus.h.i.+ng, Of the fierce November blast, With the snow drift waltzing and whirling, And eddying swiftly past,

It's a wild night to be abroad in, When the ice blast and snow drift meet To wreath round all the world of winter A shroud and a winding sheet.

There's a dash of hail at the window, Thick with driving snow is the air; But I sit here in ease and comfort In the depths of my easy chair.

I have fought my way in life's battle, And won Fortune's fickle caress; Won from fame just a pa.s.sing notice, And enjoy what is called success.

As I sit here in ease and comfort, And the shadows they rise and fall, And the dear old familiar faces Look out from the pannelled wall.

Ah! reminders of living fondness Gleam out in their pictured looks; And in ranks round from floor to ceiling, Are my life-long friends, my books.

The bright wood fire crackles and sparkles, Leaping up with a sudden glow, Playing hide and seek with the shadows That flit round me to and fro.

They come and look over my shoulder, And they vanish behind my chair; Ah! the notice that life's November Has sprinkled with snow my hair.

Ah! the shadows that gather round me, That will never more depart, That are flitting around my chamber, That are closing around my heart!

All the shadows of undone actions, And the shadow of deep regret, Over many occasions wasted, And of duties, alas! unmet.

Over words that are left unspoken, And of woe that was left unshared, Over high resolutions broken, And calls that would not be heard.

And the shade of a deeper sorrow Still hovers about my chair; It is this, and not life's November, Has sprinkled with snow my hair.

For my life has pa.s.sed into evening, And I sit, mid the shadows here, Hearing still the shadowy whisper That success may be bought too dear.

TO THE RAIN