Lines on Ingersoll

The Thames, and tributary rills
Here they do drive numerous mills,
Enabling millers, to compete,
To pay high price for oats and wheat.
Here streams do drive many a wheel
For to grind both flour and oat meal,
And town will extend its boundries
With its enterprising foundries;
And, brighter day for it yet dawns
With its grand mansions, and fine lawns.

poem by James McIntyre
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Oliver Goldsmith

Goldsmith wrote Deserted Village,
Now again reduced to tillage ;
Once happiest village of the plain,
Place now you look for it in vain ;
There but one man he doth make rich,
And hundreds struggle in the ditch ;

' Ill fare the land to many ills a prey
Where wealth accumelates but men decay.'
His honest Vicar of Wakefield
Forever he will pleasure yield.

poem by James McIntyre
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On Doctor Gardener

Gardner told a sad tale of woe,
How he was oft o'erwhelmed in snow
But was he frightened ? no ! no ! ! no ! ! !
He onward cheerfully did go,
And though that he did freeze his cheek
The fire side he did never seek,
But straight went onward, in his course,
So happy, driving his good horse,
And merrily along the way
The bells did ring around his sleigh.

poem by James McIntyre
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Irish Poets: Oliver Goldsmith

Goldsmith wrote Deserted Village,
Now again reduced to tillage;
Once happiest village of the plain,
Place now you look for it in vain;
There but one man he doth make rich,
And hundreds struggle in the ditch;

"Ill fare the land to many ills a prey
Where wealth accumelates but men decay."
His honest Vicar of Wakefield
Forever he will pleasure yield.

poem by James McIntyre
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Lines on Methodist Union

Sept. 1883, whereby the whole of the churches of that denomination
were united into one body.

A pleasing sight to-day we see,
Four churches joined in harmony ;
There difference was but trivial,
But strove each other to outrival.

In friendship now they do unite,
And satan only do they fight ;
And they'll plant churches in North-West,
Where they can serve the Lord the best.

poem by James McIntyre
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Robert Fleming Gourley

There came to Oxford Robert Gourley,
In his old ago his health was poorly ;
He was a relic of the past,
In his dotage sinking fast,

Yet he was erect and tall,
Like noble ruined castle wall.
In early times they did him impeach
For demanding right of speech,
Now Oxford he wished to represent
In Canadian Parliament ;
But him the riding did not honor,
But elected Doctor Connor.

poem by James McIntyre
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Lines on a Type Writer

Having received a letter from a gentleman, done with a type writer,
and glorying in its superiority to the pen; we replied as follows :-

You glory in your type writer,
And its virtues you rehearse,
But we prefer the old inditer-
Moves two-forty, prose and verse.

And let each man work his will,
But never, never do abuse
The ancient and glorious quil
From the wing of a noble goose. *

poem by James McIntyre
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Caledonian Games

Lines on Caledonian games, May, 1884.

On grassy amphitheater
Spectators sit, to view the war
'Mong bold contestants on the plain,
Where each doth strive the prize to gain ;
And when the little boys and girls
In highland dress and waving curls,
From London, danced the Highland fling;
The whole mass did their praises sing ;
And at the concert did applaud
The little charmers Blanch and Maud.

poem by James McIntyre
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Ensilage

The farmers now should all adorn
A few fields with sweet southern corn,
It is luscious, thick and tall,
The beauty of the fields in fall.

For it doth make best ensilage,
For those in dairying engage
It makes the milk in streams to flow,
Where dairymen have a good silo.

The cow is a happy rover
O'er the fields of blooming clover,
Of it she is a fond lover,
And it makes the milk pails run over.

poem by James McIntyre
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Harvest Home Festivals

In summer time it doth seem good
To seek the shade of the green wood,
For it doth banish all our care
When we gaze on scene so fair.

And birds do here in branches sing
So merrily in early spring,
And lovingly they here do pair,
Their mutual joys together share.

Here nature's charming never rude, Inspiring all with happy mood,
Tables had choice fruit of season, And we too had feast of reason.

poem by James McIntyre
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