Brantford

In these sketches of towns in Western Ontario, we are not vain enough to suppose that because we have produced some rhymes thereon that said rhymes are poetry. If we furnish an occasional poetic gleam, like a dewdropp 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 Wyonming'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 Of 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.