Thomas Cowherd: Verses about Funny

Domestic bliss! what tongue can speak thy praise!
What poet give, even in his noblest lays,
An eulogy that shall thy charms express,
Clothed in Truth's language, thy own native dress?
To thy sweet influence do we owe the choice
Of all mankind, whoever raised their voice
In Freedom's cause, or stood on battle-ground,
While Liberty her banner waved around.
To thee, when governed by God's holy book,
Must we in future for true heroes look.
For if thou dwellest in each family,
Then long may wave the flag of Liberty!
To keep thee shining brightly round each hearth,
Is worth the wealth contained in all the earth!
It does become us then to study well
(Who knows the secret? Would some Angel tell?)
The best of means by which to foster this
Great earthly blessing, pure domestic bliss!
Hail sweet conjugal union! Hail to thee!
May I thy humble votary ever be!
Take thee away, and each dear earthly home
Would soon a scene of dreadful strife become;
And from this source would spring a thousand woes
Which to imagine has my heart's blood froze!

Dear fellow countrymen! Stand forward now,
And faithful prove unto your marriage vow.
I conjure you by all the sacred ties
By which you're bound unto your families,
Whatever faults, through weakness, you display,
In this be faithful to your dying day!
Why will you leave the wife you swore to love,
Who should to you be as a precious dove,
To wanton with a harlot void of shame,
And bring disgrace upon a father's name?
Why will you pierce yourselves with sorrow through,
And ruin bring upon your children, too?
Oh! let a broken-hearted wife's deep sighs,
And children's woes, bring tears into your eyes!
Give to yourselves no rest, by day or night,
Till you have made their saddened faces bright.
Oh! there is One above who sees you now,
If you repent not he will bring you low!
Regard this warning, flee to God for peace,
From loving your dear families never cease.

And ye, whose task it is to make our laws,
Lend your strong influence to aid this cause;
See that your hands are clean-or make them so-
You've much to answer for, of weal or woe.
Young COOPER'S parents did on him impress
The way to gain domestic happiness:
More by example than by precepts strong
They their dear children sought to lead along
Their constant conduct to each other told
What they preferred before the richest gold.
And one who knows them well can testify
That they themselves would evermore deny,
Ere they would risk their own or family's peace,
As some have done, who scarce from jarring cease.
In such a family, as we might expect,
True discipline met not with long neglect.
And this, employed aright, the Lord will bless,
In spite of childhood's frequent waywardness.

Trained in this manner, WILLIAM soon arrived
Just to the time when means should he contrived
To get for him at once a proper trade,
And he to this not one objection made.
It was his choice that he might he employed
In marble works, and had the thought enjoyed
That some good master would his service need;
But disappointment was for him decreed.
Some other places then the father tried,
But all with boys appeared to be supplied.
The youth more anxious grew from day to day,
Nor could well brook what seemed such sad delay.
He oft retired at night unto his bed,
With various plans contrived in his young head;
But vanished soon were all these well-formed schemes,
As though they were so many empty dreams;
Until, by 'hope deferred,' he was made sad,
And even home scenes failed to make him glad.
He now had nearly reached his thirteenth year,
And did a small, weak youth, indeed, appear;
Yet though so very young and small, this boy
Had felt deep sorrow, and no little joy.

Good news at last he heard, with much delight,
When his dear father came from work one night;
He said a tradesman an apprentice wanted,
And told what wages would to him be granted.
WILLIAM at once accepted of the place,
And met the man next morn with smiling face.
'Twas soon agreed that he a month should try
The work, and his new master satisfy.
This soon flew past, and he was strongly bound
Till seven long years should, in their course, move round.

To mention all his trials and mishaps
Would please no reader of this tale, perhaps;
Suffice to say, he did himself exert
In his new business, and was soon expert
In making up their wares of shining metal-
A teapot, can, or otherwise a kettle.
Let none despise him for his occupation,
For God has stamped it with His approbation.
'Tis therefore lawful, and should always be
Approved of men, though e'en of high degree.
God's holy book commands that saints engage
In honest callings, throughout every age;
That they may lead a just and holy life,
Nor needlessly be found in worldly strife;
That they themselves and households may maintain,
From the just proceeds of a righteous gain.
Let none be found so foolish or so base,
As to regard mechanics as a race
Devoid of intellect and common sense,
Who to true honor have no just pretence.
Our ranks can boast of one far higher name
Than e'er was found in other paths of fame.
This, my assertion, may to many prove
A puzzle great, while puzzles they do love.
Cheer up, ye poor mechanics! and pursue
Your lowly trades, and Heaven keep still in view.

Ye who have naught to boast save rank and wealth,
Look round you openly-or look by stealth;
See what our factories have done for you-
And for the world-whichever side you view!
Without them, Ocean ne'er would bear a sail
To catch the breeze, or fly before the gale;
Without them, where could we obtain the Press-
That mightiest engine in the universe?
Take it away, and we should back be thrown
Into dark ages, which would Science drown.
While all the household comforts that we boast
Would disappear, and be forever lost!
Such thoughts as these would ramble through the brain
Of our apprentice, while he did maintain
A due respect for those above him placed,
And kept these things within his mind encased.

Let none suppose that he his trade pursued
Without exposure to temptations rude.
In that small shop he found a vicious youth,
Who feared not God, nor yet regarded truth:
One who deep drank, who gambled, swore and lied
Most awfully; nor can it be denied,
Some other practices he did pursue
Which, I would hope, he long has learned to rue.
'Twas well for WILLIAM that this vicious youth
Was, undisguisedly, averse to truth;
That, in attempting to sow evil seeds,
He made no secret of his foulest deeds.
Howe'er it was, our hero stood his ground,
In such sad vices never was he found.
He now acknowledges 'twas God's rich grace
Kept him from falling in that dangerous place.
And, from his heart, that goodness would adore
Which did preserve him 'midst such trials sore.
'Evil communications,' God declares,
'Corrupt good manners.' Who then boldly dares
To say their influence will not be seen
In those who long exposed to them have been?
For, well we know, the unregenerate mind
Is proper soil wherein to seek and find
The seeds of latent evil, which may spring-
And springing, grow, till they destruction bring.
Even so it was with WILLIAM'S carnal heart,
Some mischief settled in its fleshy part.
Nor was this all; he oft became the butt
Of journeymen or 'prentice, who would glut
Their hardened hearts by showing greatest spite
'Gainst him for following what he thought was right.
Often that wicked youth, in wantonness,
Would try all means to give him sore distress.
And once, with all a dreadful demon's rage-
In such acts none but demons would engage-
He threw him down, and held him; then applied
A lighted candle to his throat and tried
To make him think it merely was a joke!
Which was as true as most of what he spoke.
The sore thus made gave him most cruel pain,
And left a scar that does even now remain.

Bad as this was, it was not half so bad
As what was done unto another lad.
I heard the story, and believe it true-
And shudder while I have it in my view.

The town in which this shocking act was done
I have passed through-it was an English one.
The scene, a Tinsmith's shop, where several men
Were wont to work, and all were present then.
A monster man two solder-irons took,
Made them quite hot, and, with a fiendish look,
Went right behind the boy, and on each side
The heated irons to his face applied!
The youth saw one, his head aside he threw,
Received a burn, before his fate he knew;
He quickly turned it then the other way,
And had two scars unto his dying day!

Methinks I hear the thoughtful reader ask,
'Why was the man, at once, not ta'en to task?
Why did the other men not take a part
With that poor boy, and show a feeling heart?'
I am informed they all enjoyed the joke!
Not one reproachful word they ever spoke.
I blush to think that any of my trade
Should of such monsters ever be afraid.
The very thought still makes my blood to boil-
And shuddering, from such thoughts I back recoil!
I would have dragged the fiend unto a jail,
Or had him fastened to a wagon's tail,
Laid bare his back, and let the lash descend-
And, doing this, would still my act defend!

Ye masters, foremen, journeymen, and all
Who view such scenes, on each of you I call
To try your utmost now to do away
Such shocking deeds, enacted day by day!
If this you do not, you deserve the blame,
And richly merit good men's scorn and shame.

Our WILLIAM'S trials led him oft to think
That, while from duty he would never shrink,
It would be better far to leave his trade,
Than the sad object of such sport be made.
And to his father spoke to this effect-
Not in ill humor, but with much respect.
The father's counsel was, that he should stay.
As soon the other youth would go away.

I here may mention he had one good friend,
And one on whom he always could depend;
This was his dear young master, who oft took
Much pains in reading o'er the Christian's Book-
Received its lessons in his gentle heart,
And showed by this he chose the better part.
He would encourage and defend the youth,
Who saw it right to let him know the truth.
Alas! this master soon was seized by Death,
And died rejoicing in our 'common faith.'
COOPER with grief beheld the sorrowing scene,
And called to mind how kind that friend had been;
And often wished more like to him were found
In all the workshops through the country round.
Still time moved on; the elder youth took leave,
And those he left had no just cause to grieve.
'Twas WILLIAM'S turn to take the other's place,
And do his best to bring it no disgrace.
He now had under him a younger boy,
While better work did his own hands employ.
The workshop was a cellar, close to th' street,
And passers-by would oft the workmen greet.
The light came through an iron-grated space,
Making a prison-like and dismal place.

One day a stir was made that street within,
And each felt anxious to behold the scene.
The errand-boy was busy cleaning knives,
As others have done often in their lives.
He in a moment climbed upon the bench,
And the huge carver in his hand did clench.
WILLIAM was looking up, with outstretched throat,
Quite unobservant, being lost in thought.
'I'll cut! I'll cut!' fell quickly on his ear;
He felt sharp pain, and thus had cause to fear!
The boy, for fun, across WILL'S neck had drawn
The carving-knife, and stood still as a stone;
Quite terrified at sight of blood, he said,
'I thought it was th' back!' it proved the edge instead.
The wound was slight, but might have been far worse-
And he might ne'er have figured in my verse.
One thing the serious reader would expect-
To give God thanks he could not well neglect.
Ah, me! his passion drove such thought away-
Strong Passion's call he hastened to obey;
And feeling in a dreadful angry mood,
He beat the boy that it might do him good!
Yes, beat him without mercy, and declared
'Twas well, indeed, the lad no worse had fared!
God dealt not thus with thee, my hero fine,
He long forbore with all those sins of thine;
And 'twas but just thou should'st some mercy show,
To that poor boy, who did no better know.

My Muse, most willingly, would quit these themes-
Which are not seemly in a poet's dreams.
More pleasing topics now demand my pen,
Though often sung by many wiser men.
The subject of my verse had early felt
That sensibility within him dwelt.
So constituted was he, that at school,
When he should have been conning grammar's rule-
In deep arithmetic-or other task-
His eye would wander to a distant desk,
Which, having reached, itself it stationed there,
Fixed on some beauty-bud of promise rare!
'Twill not seem strange, then, if in after years
This thing called Sensibility appears.
Strange, or not strange, our hero's heart was warm,
Which made him seek the other sex's charm;
And when his mind was brought to fix on one
Who, in his eyes, all others far outshone-
He loved to ramble, on a moonlight night,
With that dear girl-so charming in his sight-
And listen to the murmuring of Kent's stream,
Whose face reflected full each pale moonbeam;
Or wander by the side of some lone wood,
In sweet discourse, which both considered good.
Or else they clomb, delighted, up that hill,
Upon whose top the Castle's ruins still
Invite the mind, in pensiveness, to know
The end of all things in this world below.
Yes, these have stood within that gloomy place,
Which now exhibits many a striking trace
Of the rude ravages of Man and Time,
As seen upon that edifice sublime.
And, as he stood upon that green hill's brow,
Has felt inclined abiding love to vow
To her, who fondly on his arm was leaning
With upturned eyes, which well bespoke their meaning.
That place is sacred to such lovers' vows-
As could be witnessed by each tree that grows
Around those ruins; which have also seen
Some sad, strange sights within their day, I ween!
Sometimes they chose to see a mutual friend,
And in sweet singing would the evening spend.
At other times through beauteous Gillingrove,
[Footnote: A well-known lovers' retreat.]
They, arm in arm, and rapt in love, would rove.
This walk they mostly took on Sunday nights,
As most in keeping with that day's delights.
For both had long quite strict attendants been
At a small Chapel, thought to be too mean
To be oft visited by wealthy men;
Though some would wander to it now and then.
As yet nor WILLIAM, nor his girl, professed
To be by saving Gospel Truth most bless'd;
Yet both went there three times each Sabbath day,
To join in singing, if they did not pray.
And 'tis but right that Christian parents should
To church take children, for the children's good.
To lead them to regard the Lord's own day-
Nor spend its hours in idleness or play.
These two young people might be quite sincere,
For all their friends could ever see or hear;
But though their love was warm, and pure as day,
Time spent in this wise runs to waste away.
Of leisure he had never much to boast,
For every work-day found him at his post;
From six at morn till eight o'clock at night,
He faithful wrought, as in his Master's sight.
Yet oft he wished-that wish was strongest then-
Improvement in his learning to obtain;
But, such love frolics made that wish in vain.
This grieved him much when, afterwards, desire
He felt to nurture true poetic fire;
And did regret that youthful follies cost
So much in precious time forever lost.
This folly seen, he strove with eager haste
To let his leisure run no more to waste,
And rose each morn at four or five o'clock,
To walk abroad, and gain of health a stock;
Or listen to the lark's sweet morning lay,
As he rose up to greet the King of Day;
Or let the lively, thrilling blackbird's song,
Charm his fond ear as he walked slow along.
Sometimes through well-fenced fields of new-mown hay-
Breathing out fragrance-he was wont to stray;
Or climb a bill with firm, elastic tread,
While Sol his early beams in radiance shed.
The Castle hill he mostly did prefer,
As quite accordant with his character.
Upon its ruins he would musing sit,
Till he was seized with a strong rhyming fit;
Then frame his welling thoughts to some rude verse-
Which friends were anxious he should oft rehearse.
If thus his leisure was not always spent,
He read what books his friends had to him lent.
Of such good things he owned but very few-
And parents needed all the cash he drew.
Thus was his time most constantly employed,
While life passed smoothly on-not unenjoyed.

Hail, Rural Life! from whom such pleasures spring,
That I invoke my Muse thy charms to sing.
Whether I view thee in my native land,
Where Science lends to Industry her hand,
To make her cornfields yield a double store,
Or beautify her landscapes more and more-
Where wealth immense is very freely spent,
By those who on thy weal are still intent;
Or here, in Canada, thy face I view
On well-cleared farms, or those which are quite new;
However rude thy features, or despised-
Though in Town-life, thy charms by me are prized.
A sense of these still urges me along,
As I proceed with my unlettered song;
And every line which I may write on thee,
I trust will evidence sincerity.

The new-come settlers now with speed prepare
To log the fallow they have cleared with care.
For Summer, with her heat intense, has fled,
And fruit-crowned Autumn has come in her stead.
The brush, well dried, is burnt; and all around
Logs, black and charred, are lying on the ground.
These into heaps must every one be drawn,
By means which to all Bush-men are well known.
Have they not strength or time the work to do?
They ask their neighbor's help, and oxen, too.
And fellow-feeling, sprung from their own need,
Leads these the summons to obey with speed.
Should the set day be fine, they start from home
Without regret, and to the fallow come.

One looks so pale, he seems not fit for work;
Has had the Ague, and it still doth lurk
In his poor frame, and may again appear
A dozen times before he's closed the year!
Some others, also, wear quite sickly looks,
As though they had run deep in Doctors' books;
Or are reduced, by heat and toil intense,
Till work, with them, would seem, but mere pretence.
But let us not pre-judge them; they have hearts
Brave as a lion, and will act their parts.

The 'fixings' ready, some experienced hand
A 'Come, boys! Let's to work!' gives as command.
This said, their strength and numbers they divide;
'Haw, Buck!' 'Gee, Bright!' is heard on every side.
'Boys, bring your handspikes; raise this monster log
Till I can hitch the chain-Buck! lazy dog!
Stand o'er, I say! What ails the stupid beast?
Ah! now I see; you think you have a feast!'
Buck snatches at a clump of herbage near,
And deems it is, to him, most savory cheer;
But thwack, thwack, thwack, comes from the blue-beech goad;
He takes the strokes upon his forehead broad
With due submission; moves a little piece,
That those unwelcome blows may sooner cease.
The chain is hitched; 'Haw, now!' is loudly heard,
And the half-buried log is disinterred.
'Get up! Go 'long?' vociferously shouts
Every ox-teamster, at these logging bouts.
The heap is reached; now list the loud 'Whoa-ay!'
Louder and louder, till the oxen stay.
The chain's unhitched; 'Now, boys! your handspikes seize;
Lift! Altogether! Rest it on your knees;
There; roll him over. Ah! 'twas nobly done!
The fire will dry his coat, as sure's a gun!'
And thus, to lighten toil, they pass the joke,
Or stand a moment to have serious talk.
One of some accidents his neighbors tells,
Till each warm bosom with emotion swells;
How Jack Maguin was logging at a 'Bee,'
And got his right leg broke beneath the knee;
How he, through careless treatment, was laid up
For full two months, and had scarce bite or sup.
Or how Will Sims was chopping near his house,
And his best ox was feeding on the 'browse,'
When all at once the quivering tree descended
Upon the beast, and thus his life was ended!
Anon we notice that each smutty face
Beams with good humor, and the cause we trace
To the supply of whisky just parta'en-
A thing which often proves the settler's bane.

Again they work with stimulated strength,
And, 'midst more noise, the log-heaps rise at length.
The dinner hour arrives; the horn is blown
To make the fact to all the loggers known.
The teams to some near pasture now are led,
Or with new hay most plentifully fed.
The men make for the house with decent haste-
None are inclined to let time run to waste.
But this does not prevent the laugh and jest,
At the black face by every one possessed.
To wash is needful, and refreshing, too,
So all go at it without more ado.
This task performed, which all should take delight in,
They to the feast prepared need no inviting.
Their heavy labor gives an appetite,
And they can eat with relish and delight.
But first their host, if he's a Christian man,
Gives thanks to God with all the warmth he can.
Then all the workmen ample justice do
To those good things so tempting to the view.
Dear Reader, have you seen a logging feast?
No? Wait a while, and I will place at least
The chief ingredients before your eyes;
Here's a huge prime ham; there are pumpkin pies;
Mealy potatoes next our notice claim-
The bread and butter we need never name,
They must be there of course; and here's a dish
Of no mean size, well filled with splendid fish.
That's boiled, fresh mutton; those are nice green peas;
This huckleberry pie is sure to please!
And now I'll cease-no, three things yet remain;
Tea, cream and sugar, might of slight complain!
There, will this do? Or is there something more
Which you would think it right to set before
Such worthy eaters? I am satisfied
It can't be bettered in our Bush-land wide!
Good as it is, and hungry as they are,
They cannot from good jests themselves debar.
One sees his neighbor cast a longing glance
Toward that berry pie; and, rare good chance!
'Tis nearest him, he chuckles with delight,
And is about to whip it out of sight;
But Fortune, still capricious, gives the No;
His nearest neighbor does an interest show
In this proceeding, and the pie has snatched,
Quite in good humor, ere the scheme's well hatched!
The disappointed couple sympathise,
And signal to each other, with their eyes.
The third one, quite unselfish, deems the jest
Gone far enough, and now resolves 'tis best
To help himself, and hand round to the rest.
Another to the fishes takes a notion,
With more of selfishness than wise precaution.
His work-mate spies this, and removes the prize
A leetle further from his longing eyes.
Such jokes pass free; and no great wrong is done
To real good-fellowship by harmless fun.
'Tis o'er at last, when most of them partake
The pipe delicious, for its own dear sake.
They rest and smoke, and smoke and rest again,
Until the 'Come, boys!' sounds in loudest strain.
Once more to work, with fresh alacrity,
They reach the fallow, pleased as men can be.
The teamsters call their cattle, not far strayed,
But chewing cud beneath some green tree's shade.
'Co' Buck! Co' Bright!' throughout the woods resound,
And each trained ox moves forward at the sound.
Again the work goes forward, as before.
Till nearly night-fall, when their task is o'er.

Naught now remains but scattered chips and sticks,
Which their host's hopeful son at leisure picks,
And lays upon the heaps-some here, some there-
The burning to assist, which needs due care.
'Tis supper time; again the horn is heard,
And its deep tones has woodland echoes stirred.
Most charming sound to my poetic ear;
And every time 'tis heard still far more dear!
They hear the sound, but yet seem loath to go;
And when they do, their steps are very slow.
They are well tired; no wonder; such a day
Of work laborious would some tire for aye!
Once more they wash; once more they freely eat;
Then light their pipes; and now each other greet
With warm 'Good night!' but, ere they have departed,
Their host thanks them, from gratitude warm-hearted.
Now all are gone, save two, who skulk behind,
Of the younger son; and, if I am not blind,
A couple of bright girls I failed to mention,
Are not quite unaware of their intention.
But this is not my business, so I'll pass
To other things, and let each court his lass.

Should next day prove a fine one with a breeze
So strong as just to move surrounding trees,
The Settler may his new-raised log-heaps fire,
And see them burn to suit his heart's desire.
The fire is placed; where, think you? Not below,
But on the top, and burns at first but slow.
See, now, the wind has blown it to a flame;
And soon the log-heap fire's no longer tame!
Dry sticks and chips, in all the openings placed,
Will prove the time spent on them was not waste.
The embers, falling, make these soon ignite;
And now the heap, from end to end, is bright!
With pale or ruddy flame; the smoke ascends
Thick, black and curling, as its way it wends
Toward the sky. Now twenty heaps are fired
And form a sight I often have admired.
The heat becomes intense; for Sol's warm rays
Uniting with the wood-fire's fiercest blaze,
Make it past bearing; yet the Settler bears
The heat and toil, and smiling aspect wears,
Because the work progresses to his mind.
Let us draw nearer, then-'twill seem more kind-
And watch him with the handspike thrust the brands
Closer together. He a moment stands
To wipe the perspiration from his face,
Which streams fast forth again, and leaves its trace
In his pale looks and daily shrinking frame.
Now, every pile's a mass of glowing flame!
The wind, increasing, whirls the fire about,
And makes the workman, if he's wise, look out
For stacks and fences-dangerously near.
He knows the risk; he deems there's cause for fear;
So keeps his eyes still wandering all around,
To mark the rising smoke where'er 'tis found.
Neglect might very soon cause damage great,
In that which should, his labor compensate.
Hence his wise caution as the wind grows stronger,
Until the 'burning' needs his care no longer.
This o'er he drags the ground, and sows his grain,
And of the toil required does not complain.
He 'sows in hope;' and, if he take due care,
A splendid crop sill soon be growing there.
In view of this, let us suppose him singing
The LOGGER'S SONG, while peaceful thoughts are springing.


THE LOGGER'S SONG.

Come, Boys, to the Logging be cheerfully jogging,
A day's work's before us, I trow;
The Fall is advancing, Sol's mild beams are dancing
On the brook, in the Fallow below.
Cheerily, cheerily, cheerily, O!
Let's log in the Fallow below.

The oxen are waiting, they need no fresh baiting,
Till dinner-time come for us all;
Now, while we are pushing, our work the new Bush in,
Let none into carelessness fall.
Steadily, steadily, steadily, O!
Let's work in the Fallow below.

The logs, thickly lying, our strength seem defying;
But forward, Boys! true courage show!
With hand-spikes unbending, this day we will spend in
The capture of each charred foe.
Speedily, speedily, speedily, O!
We'll capture each black, charred foe.

Now, lads, in your teaming, let's have no blaspheming!
Your oxen are patient and strong;
Our logging laborious need not be uproarious,
Nor lead us to anything wrong.
Decently, decently, decently, O!
Let's act, as the huge log-heaps grow.

When dinner-horn sounding, calls all that are found in
The Fallow to come to the Feast,
Let's guard 'gainst satiety-eat with sobriety-
So shall our joys be increased.
Soberly, soberly, soberly, O!
We'll eat what our friends may bestow.

When day is departing, and we are all starting
For Home, with its sweet earthly bliss,
May thoughts of wives smiling be still reconciling
Our minds to hard labor, like this.
Then freely, most freely, still freely, O!
To all neighbors' loggings we'll go.


Such work as that I have described above,
And holding plow, kept WILLIAM on the move.
Of active turn, he worked beyond his strength-
And felt the sad effects, in full, at length.
Yet at this season, in Canadian woods,
He could not well refrain from musing moods.
Nor was it any wonder, when each day
Added fresh charms to Nature's grand display.
The once-green leaves, struck by the early frost,
Made up in gorgeous tints what they had lost!
He felt that never in his life before
Had he e'er seen such hues as those trees wore.
Some that were shaded still preserved their green,
While others near were decked in golden sheen.
Some in deep crimson robes were gaily drest,
Others in shades of brown, as seemed them best;
While not a few, of pride in dress were fuller,
And had their robes of every splendid color!
The weather, too, was of that balmy kind,
So suited to a dreamy state of mind;
For mighty Sol felt his yet powerful rays
Subdued, being wrapped in a thin, blue haze.
'Tis true, there came the oft-recurring thought,
That all these beauties were too dearly bought;
That soon, too soon, tempestuous winds would rise,
And murky clouds veil those bewitching skies!
That Winter but delayed his coming now
To gather blackness on his cold, knit brow,
That he might rush with tenfold furious rage,
And all the elements in war engage,
To strip the trees of all their splendors bare
And make sweet Nature a stern aspect wear!
Such thoughts at times filled him with melancholy,
Which then, shook off, were looked upon as folly
And after-thoughts brought in their joyous train
Pleasures prospective, during Winter's reign.
The fleecy snow's wild dancing through the air;
The clean, white sheet, wove for the soil to wear,
To guard the plants designed for next year's food
From Frost's attacks, when in a vengeful mood.
The sleighing, too, in prospect, had delights
For one like he-so used to Fancy's flights.
He heard already, in imagination,
The jingling bells, producing sweet sensation.
And 'midst such dreaming Time flew swiftly by,
While he, to stay its course, wished not to try.
His Sabbath days met with observance due,
For he to Christian ways continued true.
The family with loving Brethren met,
Some miles from home, as oft as they could get.
With them 'broke bread,' and joined in praise and prayer,
Or heard Christ's doctrine read, or preached, with care.
This they continued every Sabbath day,
And found much benefit from it always.

Meanwhile their worldly means grew less and less,
And fear of debt led them through some distress.
At last their circumstances were made known
To a dear friend, who did a kind heart own.
He WILLIAM took, to help him in his store,
And gave good wages-which endeared him more
To those, thus favored, who by this perceived
He carried out, in practice, truths believed.
In this employment WILLIAM staid not long,
His sensitiveness soon made things go wrong.
He therefore back returned into the Bush,
Where Want stood ready his fond hopes to crush.

Ere this, dread Winter had set in with rigor,
Yet he his bright axe took again with vigor.
Throughout the woods the snow lay very deep,
And Nature's face betokened death-like sleep.
Few sounds were heard to break the stillness round,
Yet in those few our hero pleasure found.
The loud report of Indian hunter's gun,
Which sometimes made the cattle homeward run;
The beauteous woodpecker's quick rap-tapping
At girdled trees, that long since had no sap in;
Besides, the chopper's almost constant stroke
Rang through pure air, and louder echoes woke;
While ever and anon a tree would fall
With thundering crash, which might some minds appal.
These all were sounds which he loved well to hear,
For they, 'mid hard employ, his heart did cheer.

Severe the Bush-man's life, and full of danger,
While, to most scanty fare he is no stranger.
It needs good eyes, strong arms, and courage, too,
To live the life which most new settlers do.
The elder COOPER'S sight was very bad,
Which came nigh bringing him a fate most sad.
They were both chopping at a basswood tree-
Stroke followed after stroke most rapidly-
When, lo! a sudden blast of wind arose,
WILLIAM perceived it, and withheld his blows;
Looked up, saw danger, bade his father fly!
Reached a safe place himself, which was near by;
The tree came down; he quickly then returned,
And stood amazed as soon as he discerned
His father's near escape from tree-crushed fate;
He quite unconscious of his danger great.
There rested, just a foot above his head,
A huge crook'd branch, that might have struck him dead,
Had it not been for God's most watchful care,
So plainly manifested to him there.
This wondrous mercy called forth gratitude,
And Love's warm glow fresh in their hearts renewed.

In cutting logs for barn, and drawing lumber,
Our hero spent of days a goodly number.
Amongst deep snow, and with a slow ox-team,
One thinks 'twould prove a damper to his dream.
Not so, however; though his food was scant,
Of liking for the Bush he felt no want.
He and his brother scoured the woods around,
Where'er 'twas likely straight logs could be found.
These cut, were left till snow had 'settled down,'
When to the barn-site they with speed were drawn.
Thus passed the hardest months of that hard season,
And Sol's increasing warmth was hailed with reason.
The more, because that Sugar-time drew near,
With its romantic scenes, to WILLIAM dear
From what he heard the older Settlers say,
So, for it he prepared without delay.

South of their home there grew a splendid lot
Of noble maples, in a sheltered spot.
Convenient to this place, there also grew
Some good black-ash, of which he chose a few
From these he made small troughs to catch the sap,
Whene'er the time should come the trees to tap.
A good pine tree he sought, with eager eyes,
To form a store-trough, of most ample size.
Obtained a gouge, and next his spiles prepared;
For all the toil required he little cared.
'Good axe-men fifty small troughs make per day;'
So said old Woods-men, in a boasting way.
This roused ambition in his youthful breast,
And he worked hard, scarce taking time for rest.
His pride was somewhat humbled when he found
That he could make but thirty each day round.
Yet courage took from this, that their's were made
Of soft pine wood, which did their smartness aid.

'Tis March, and now the snow has settled down
To half its former depth; Sol's beams have grown
Sufficiently direct to make clear days
Feel warm enough to raise the sap, which plays
With life-renewing power, through all the trees;
And yet, at night, 'tis cold enough to freeze.
The Sugarer knows no time must now be lost
To be successful; so he takes his post
About the centre of the 'Sugar-Bush,'
Whence he his labors can most freely push.
If wise, in lieu of gash he bores a hole
With auger, at right height, in each tree's bole;
Drives in his gouge a-slant, inserts his spile,
Places a trough-fast lessening thus his pile.
At first, perhaps, the sap will scarcely flow;
He heeds this not, but onward still doth go,
Till every tree that he intends to tap
Is quite prepared to yield its share of sap.
This done, without delay he now will fix
His boiling place, and get two strong, forked sticks;
These, well secured, with pole to reach across,
For hanging kettles he is at no loss.

By this time, if the day continue warm,
His work assumes a more than common charm.
The huge store-trough conveniently is placed,
And he, to gather sap, begins in haste.
With pail upon each arm he moves along,
O'er the soft snow, the noble trees among.
If tunable, perhaps a song he sings
Of 'Auld lang syne,' or some more serious things,
Which tends to make his work more easy seem,
Or drive away some foolish, waking dream.
The Bush, if large, will need another band
To tend the fire; and this one must command
Sufficient knowledge of the Sugaring feat
To guard the syrup from too great a heat.
He must mind, too, to fill the boilers up;
And if he choose, he may ev'n take a sup
Of maple-honey, whose delicious flavor
More than repays their outlay and hard labor.
It now has reached that point when constant watch
Must be kept o'er it, lest they spoil the batch.
New milk, or eggs, are used to clarify
The saccharine juice, that it may truly vie
For purity, with any sugar made,
By those who have been brought up to the trade.
'Tis read now for straining; and as Eve
Draws her dark curtains, we the Bush may leave,
And follow him who bears his precious load,
Well pleased, but tired, to his rude log abode.
Let's enter, unperceived, that we may see
The Sugar take its next and last degree.
Through flannel bag the syrup now they strain,
And the close texture does the dregs retain.
Now it is placed o'er quite a gentle fire,
Till it assume that state which they require.
This, b repeated trial, they discover;
When cool, it will 'grain' well, and boiling's over.
I've now gone through this sugar-making process
In business form; not giving, more or less,
A hint of frolics which the young folks play,
In sugaring-time, and after close of day.
My readers may imagine, if they choose,
The fun that from such gatherings ensues;
While I proceed to frame a harmless Song,
Expressive of the Sugarer's feelings strong,
As he his most delightful work pursued,
Midst leafless trees, in deepest solitude.


THE SUGAR-MAKER'S SONG.

Sol's warmth is increasing, the Frost-King is ceasing
His hold on the sap of the trees;
And having wrought steady, my troughs are all ready,
So now I will eagerly seize
My few rude tools, ere ardor cools,
Nor heed the melting snow.
Some days of toil will never spoil
The pleasure before me, I know.

I need no inviting, to work I delight in;
Of such I have plenty to-day;
The soft blush of Morning the scene is adorning,
Then why should I longer delay?
The Maple tree will give to me
Its bounty most profuse;
One huge sweet cake I hope to make
Each day, from the saccharine juice!

Last night's splendid freezing as truly most pleasing
To those who the Sugar-Bush love;
This morn's indications' need no explanations,
As the day will abundantly prove!
Then haste, comrade, and bring your spade;
To clear away the snow,
That our wood-fire may soon acquire
A beautiful, bright, ruddy glow.

Now, whilst I am tapping the trees with sweet sap in,
Prepare you a good stock of wood;
Be watchful in boiling, run no risk of spoiling
By carelessness, prospects so good!
O, as I tap, out flows the sap
In a small crystal stream!
I feel as gay, on this fine day,
As I have in some youthful dream!

Now, comrade, each kettle of cast-iron metal
Is full enough quite for a start;
Pray keep the fire going, but yet not too glowing,
For thus you will best act your part.
While I am off, guard the store-trough
From cattle browsing near;
This splendid 'run' may soon be done-
The north wind is coming, I fear!

The syrup needs skimming. 'Leave it to the women?'
Ah, comrade, it never will do!
They may mind the straining without much complaining,
Yet think it is quite enough, too.
Now eventide, and frost beside,
Bid us our labor cease;
For home we'll make, and syrup take
To them, as an offering of Peace!



The lively strain which I have just indulged,
Must change full soon, if facts were all divulged.
For darker shades come o'er my hero's dream;
But we must pause, ere we resume the theme.
And trust this sketch of rude Bush-life may prove
Acceptable to those who Nature love.
Such retrospect has charms for one like me,
Who has passed through such scenes most happily.
Pardon me, Reader, if my unlearned song
Should seem to you quite dull, and much too long;

The good of all I would most gladly seek,
From purest motives, and with spirit meek-
Not counting Fame, so dazzling to men's eyes,
But God's approval, as my wished-for prize.
Should this be mine, I shall be quite content,
And deem my time and labor wisely spent.