T. D. Mcgee.

Having been kindly invited as a member of the Mechanics' Institute 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 noble fruit.

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

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

Patriot Fighting For His Home.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Canadian Sports And Games And Plays.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

The Good Man.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

Fight Of A Buffalo With Wolves.

James McIntyre, Simple Poetry

English

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John McKeen

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat,
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent
With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
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Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
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John Mckeen.

John McKeen, in his rusty dress,
    His loosened collar, and swarthy throat;
His face unshaven, and none the less,
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness,
    And the wealth of a workman's vote!

Bring him, O Memory, here once more,
    And tilt him back in his Windsor chair
By the kitchen-stove, when the day is o'er
And the light of the hearth is across the floor,
    And the crickets everywhere!

And let their voices be gladly blent
    With a watery jingle of pans and spoons,
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content,
And neighborly gossip and merriment,
    And old-time fiddle-tunes!

Tick the clock with a wooden sound,
    And fill the hearing with childish glee
Of rhyming riddle, or story found
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Departed Statesmen.

With a glance at Sir John A. Macdonald and Blake, the two living leaders, 1884.

        Joseph Howe, none higher stood than thou,
        Thou wert a man with lofty brow;
        D'Arcy McGee, so brilliant and free,
        From green isle you came o'er the sea.

        George Cartier to the French ever dear,
        So high you stood without a peer;
        John Sandfield for long you did build
        Power under economy's shield.

        George Brown, thou man of renown,
        Confederation you did crown;
        You now are all free from the strife
        The wrangle and jangle of political life.

        But if a glance at this world you take
        You will there see John A. and Blake,
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Lines Read At St. Andrew's Anniversary, 1868.

        Scotia's sons to-night we meet thee,
        With kindly feelings we do greet thee,
        In honor of the land of heather,
        Around this board to-night we gather.

        Land where the fields for border edges,
        Have garlands of blooming hedges,
        Land of the whin and of the broom
        And where the bonnie blue bells bloom.

        Land where you may enraptured hark
        To heavenly song of the skylark,
        Which soars triumphant in the skies
        Above the gaze of human eyes.

        Land of bleak hills and fertile dales,
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Erin's Address To The Hon. Thomas D'Arcy Mcgee.

O thou son of the dark locks and eloquent tongue,
With the brain of a statesman sagacious, and strong,
And the heart of a poet, half love, and half fire,
Thou hast many to love thee and more to admire;
But I bore thee, and nursed thee, and joyed at the fame
Which the sons of the stranger have spread round thy
I am Erin, green Erin, the "Gem of the sea."    [name.
Listen, then, to thy mother's voice, D'Arcy McGee.

Since the crown from my head, and the sceptre are gone
To the hand of the stranger, who held what he won,
I have borne much of sorrow, of wrong and of shame,
I've been spoken against with scorning and blame;
But still have my daughters been spotless and fair,
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Scottish Poets.

The following ode was read by the author at the Centennial Anniversary of Burns in the year 1859.


        This night shall never be forgot
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        'Round Scotia's brow he wove a wreath
            And raised her name in classic story
        A deathless fame he did bequeath,
            His country's pride, his country's glory.

        He sang her hills, he sang her dales,
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        Of death and Hornbook and such tales
            As Tam O'Shanter and his mare.

        He bravely taught that manly worth
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        H...

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