Brantford.
By James McIntyre
In these sketches of towns in Southern Ontario we are not vain enough to suppose that because we have produced some lines thereon that said rhymes are poetry. If we furnish an occasional poetic gleam like a dewdrop sparkling in the sun, it is all we dare hope for.
Brantford as thriving city's famed,
And after Indian Chief is named,
And here the sparkling Grand River
It doth flow a joy forever.
Campbell he sang a dismal tale
Of horrors of Wyoming's vale,
The tale one's mind doth ever haunt,
The cruelties of monster Brant.
But the Chief's son to England went
And Campbell to him did lament,
And all the tale he did recant
About cruel butcheries of Brant.
Now pleasant thoughts it doth awake
When Brantford thinks of her namesake,
She evermore with pride will chant
The bold heroic name of Brant.
We sing of two great Indian names,
Tecumseh on the banks of Thames,
And the Grand River it doth vaunt
O'er the historic name of Brant.
The city's pride it doth find vent
In building him a monument,
And Indians will proudly stalk
Past memorial of great Mohawk.