Caledonia Springs, New York.

        The water spouts up from the ground
        And there doth form a pond around,
        'Tis fed from no apparent rills,
        And it near by drives several mills.

        And here the little ponds are seen
        Where fish are propogate by Green,
        Fish hatcheries here had their birth,
        And now they're spread o'er all the earth.

        Here in each pond thousands of trout
        Rush around their circular route,
        Of various breeds, age and size,
        Speckled o'er with various dyes.

        Geologists do gaze with pride
        On specimens all petrified,
        Here church is built of those rare stone,
        Fish, reptiles, birds, in days bygone.

        Strange thoughts in mind it doth awake,
        As it is far from sea and lake,
        Even the hill tops do abound
        With proofs here flowed the sea profound.

        With reverence we gaze around
        On an ancient burial ground,
        Those who once did tread the heather
        Now rest quietly here together.

James McIntyre

James McIntyre was a Canadian poet, most notable for his poetry concerning cheese, cheese-making, dairying, and dairy products. Often referred to as 'The Cheese Poet,' McIntyre's work is celebrated for its earnestness and unintentional humor, making him both a beloved and an infamous figure in literary circles. He emigrated from Scotland to Canada in 1851 and settled in Ingersoll, Ontario, where he became a successful businessman and community leader.

James McIntyre

Will Carleton.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Lines Read at a Parsonage Opening at the Village where Ranney had once flourished, 1883.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Stratford.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Fight With A Bear In The Northwest.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

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An Idyl

        Upon a gnarly, knotty limb
            That fought the current's crest,
        Where shocks of reeds peeped o'er the brim,
            Wild wasps had glued their nest.

        And in a sprawling cypress' grot,
            Sheltered and safe from flood,
        Dirt-daubers each had chosen a spot
            To shape his house of mud.

        In a warm crevice of the bark
            A basking scorpion clung,
        With bright blue tail and red-rimmed eyes
            And yellow, twinkling tongue.

        A lunging trout flashed in the sun,
            To do some petty slaughter,
        And set the spiders all a-run
            On little stilts of water.

        Toward noon upon the swamp there stole
            A deep, ...

John Charles McNeill

Lines On A Fountain.

        We love cold water as it flows from the fountain,
        Which nature hath brewed alone in the mountain;
        In the wild woods and in the rocky dell,
        Where man hath not been but the deer loves to dwell;
        And away across the sea in far distant lands,
        In Asia's gloomy jungles and Africa's drifting sands;
        Where to the thirsty traveller a charming spot of green
        Is by far the rarest gem his eyes have ever seen;
        And when he has quenched his thirst at the cooling spring,
        With many grateful songs he makes the air to ring;
        For many nights he dreams of this scene of bliss,
        And when he thinks of Heaven it is of such as this.

James McIntyre

Tilsonburg.

        After him who did the mills own,
        This place was called in honor Tilson;
        Bright gleaming like to a beaming star,
        Is clear waters of the Otter.

        And it doth form here a vast pond,
        Which extends for miles beyond,
        A fortune on town it will shower,
        This prodigious water power.

        No other spots to youth appear,
        Like lovely little lakes round here,
        And few small towns have fine roadway
        Lined with brick blocks like your broadway.

James McIntyre

An Old Fish Pond.

Green growths of mosses drop and bead
Around the granite brink;
And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.

Slow efts about the edges sleep;
Swift-darting water-flies
Shoot on the surface; down the deep
Fast-following bubbles rise.

Look down. What groves that scarcely sway!
What "wood obscure," profound!
What jungle!--where some beast of prey
Might choose his vantage-ground!

* * * * *

Who knows what lurks beneath the tide?--
Who knows what tale? Belike,
Those "antres vast" and shadows hide
Some patriarchal Pike;--

Some tough old tyrant, wrinkle-jawed,
To whom the sky, the earth,
Have but for aim to look on awed
And see him wax in girth;--

Hard ruler there by right of might;
...

Henry Austin Dobson

The Source

Water in hidden glens
From the secret heart of the mountains,
Where the red fox hath its dens
And the gods their crystal fountains;
Up runnel and leaping cataract,
Boulder and ledge, I climbed and tracked,
Till I came to the top of the world and the fen
That drinks up the clouds and cisterns the rain,
And down through the floors of the deep morass
The procreant woodland essences drain -
The thunder's home, where the eagles scream
And the centaurs pass;
But, where it was born, I lost my stream.

'Twas in vain I said: "'Tis here it springs,
Though no more it leaps and no more it sings;"
And I thought of a poet whose songs I knew
Of morning made and shining dew -
I remembered the mire of the marshes too.

Richard Le Gallienne

The Fens

Wandering by the river's edge,
I love to rustle through the sedge
And through the woods of reed to tear
Almost as high as bushes are.
Yet, turning quick with shudder chill,
As danger ever does from ill,
Fear's moment ague quakes the blood,
While plop the snake coils in the flood
And, hissing with a forked tongue,
Across the river winds along.
In coat of orange, green, and blue
Now on a willow branch I view,
Grey waving to the sunny gleam,
Kingfishers watch the ripple stream
For little fish that nimble bye
And in the gravel shallows lie.

Eddies run before the boats,
Gurgling where the fisher floats,
Who takes advantage of the gale
And hoists his handkerchief for sail
On osier twigs that form a mast--
While idly lies, nor wanted mo...

John Clare