The ancient poets ne'er did dream
That Canada was land of cream,
They ne'er imagined it could flow
In this cold land of ice and snow,
Like fruit that's large and ripe and mellow,
Sweet and luscious is Longfellow,
Melodious songs he oft did pour,
And high was his Excelsior.
We have seen the Queen of cheese,
Laying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze --
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.
In presenting this delicate, dainty morsel to the imagination of the people, I believed that it could be realized. I viewed the machine that turned and raised the mamoth cheese, and saw the powerful machine invented by James Ireland at the West Oxford companies factory to turn the great and fine cheese he was making there. This company with but little assistance could produce a ten ton cheese.
Who hath prophetic vision sees
Our muse it doth refuse to sing
Of cheese made early in the spring,
When cows give milk from spring fodder
You cannot make a good cheddar.
Goldsmith wrote Deserted Village,
Now again reduced to tillage;
Once happiest village of the plain,
Place now you look for it in vain;
If you are sulky, Nova Scotia,
We'll gladly let you float away
From out our Confederation;
You sicken us with sily agitation.
When this country it was woody,
Its great champion, Mrs. Moody,
She showed she had both pluck and push,
In her work, roughing in the bush.
There is a man, his name is Brown,
He lives in a suburban town
And has an office in the city,
His misfortunes you will pity.
When Father Ranney left the States,
In Canada to try the fates,
He settled down in Dereham,
Then no dairyman lived near him;