Lines On The Death Of A Farmer's Wife.

        This good woman when in this life,
        She was kind mother and good wife,
        And managed her household with care,
        She and her husband happy pair.

        And her name it will long be praised
        By the large family she has raised,
        She laid up treasures in the skies,
        And now enjoys the Heavenly prize.

        She rose each morn with happy smile,
        And ardent all the day did toil,
        For work it to her had a charm,
        And busy was each hand and arm.

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

Thanksgiving Ode, November 15th, 1888.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Reminiscences

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Gray Hairs.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

The Old Snake Fence.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

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Her Lover's Step.

        Step, step, step, 'tis her lover's walk,
        She knows his step as well's his talk;
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        Step, step, step, she now is wed,
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James McIntyre

Four Acre Farm.

        This is a tale, but it is truth,
        Of maiden lady named Ruth,
        She owned a small four acre farm,
        Which possessed some rural charm.

        This maiden she was past her youth,
        But none e're fell in love with Ruth,
        Though you must not infer from thence
        That she possessed not grace nor sense.

        She was handsome in her day,
        But beauty quickly fades away,
        Good vegetables and fine roots
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        And a first-class good milch cow
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In Memoriam.

Lines on the death of my only son, who died on the 5th of July, 1876, on the anniversary of his mother's death.


        His mother from celestial bower,
        In the self-same day and hour
        Of her death or heavenly birth,
        Gazed again upon the earth,
        And saw her gentle, loving boy,
        Once source of fond maternal joy,
        In anguish on a couch of pain.
        She knew that earthly hopes were vain,
        And beckoned him to realms above
        To share with her the heavenly love.

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Lines On The Death Of Joseph Atkinson, Esq., Of Dublin.

If ever life was prosperously cast,
    If ever life was like the lengthened flow
Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
    'Twas his who, mourned by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife.
    The simple heart above all worldly wiles;
Light wit that plays along the calm of life,
    And stirs its languid surface into smiles;

Pure charity that comes not in a shower,
    Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds,
But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,
    Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves
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The Old Wife and the New

He sat beneath the curling vines
That round the gay verandah twined,
His forehead seamed with sorrows lines,
An old man with a weary mind.

His young wife, with a rosy face
And brown arms ambered by the sun,
Went flitting all about the place,
Master and mistress both in one.

What caused that old mans look of care?
Was she not blithe and fair to see?
What blacker than her raven hair,
What darker than her eyes might be?

The old man bent his weary head;
The sunlight on his gray hair shone;
His thoughts were with a woman dead
And buried, years and years agone:

The good old wife who took her stand
Beside him at the altar-side,
And walked with him, hand clasped in hand,
Through joy and sorrow till she died.

Ah, she ...

Victor James Daley

The Good Man.

        Cheerful and happy was his mood,
        He to the poor was kind and good,
        And he oft' times did find them food,
        Also supplies of coal and wood,
        He never spake a word was rude,
        And cheer'd those did o'er sorrows brood,
        He passed away not understood,
        Because no poet in his lays
        Had penned a sonnet in his praise,
        'Tis sad, but such is world's ways.

James McIntyre