Dave Cameron, the Scot
Chewed tobacco a bit;
Though chewing for years,
He never did spit.
John Wallace, the Irish,
For high land he sought;
And when he had cleared,
Found stones he had bought.
Noah Cotton, Joe Langman,
Sawmillers, indeed;
Wirh lumber and shingles,
Filled every need.
John Anderson, the Songster,
Knox singing did lead;
For many long years
Like a steady old steed.
Robert Minty, the notes
Could read from the book;
And when John was awa
The Precenter's stand took.
Joe Locke may have been Irish,
He may have been Scot;
By dint of hard work
A good living he got.
Walter Hunter, the cobbler;
Made shoes big and small;
Also farmed for a living,
As did they all.
Thomas Lawson, the Squire.
The servant of law,
Served up the doses
To fit needs as he saw.
Bob Storey, "Be Garry"
He had a sore titch;
Through the midst of his farm
Ran Little John's ditch.
Bob Porter, the teacher,
For honors did run;
He raised a large family
All full of fun.
James Burton, the vet;
His wife ran a loom,
Weaving cloth frou the bairn
And rags from frou the room.
Thomas Martin, J.P.
Tory sons he had eight;
And one whom they could not
Hobble his gait.
At Jer Sexton's a bent
For some reason did fall;
James Loftus' thigh was broken-
No more can recall.
James Mahoney from Ireland,
A fussy old bloke,
Builded a barn, where
'Twas always a joke.
Peter Ryther raised sons
John, Joe, Bill, Mike, Jim and Pat;
Mike speared a big tater,
Says Peter, "Drap that."
Aristocrat Crossland,
Postmaster, Mail Carrier;
Though cranky and crusty,
To wrongdoing a barrier.
From this veneered man
Your Post Office took name;
Mail weekly at first,
New free Delivery's "the game."
Morrisons, Duncan and Neil,
For many a year;
Neil was assessor
The scratch in the gear.
There was old Abie Bauldry
With swivel and flail,
Made the peas fly in winter
Like sputters of hail.
John Keown's brother Lewis,
With oxen, oxyoke and chain,
Three johns and a Joe
Were loggers of fame.
Noah, two Johns and Joe
The corners took up;
And by night built of logs
A house, neat as a book.
Langmans - White Bill,
Joe, Black Bill and Dick;
Stalwart men and good workers
With axe, saw or pick.
Billy Bell, on the Ninth,
Had boys full of life;
Playing pranks on all,
And so could his wife.
Noo, There's Sandy and Jimmy,
Who never did shave;
Jimmy was handy,
And Sandy the slave.
Jim Bell a farm took
By the side of the lake,
And with untiring labor,
An honest living did make.
Little Bill Ansley,
Some three-forty big;
When driving to church
Required one seat of the rig.
Kirkpatricks, one family,
Some twenty or more;
Long, lanky and lean,
Were hustlers on pikepole and shoar.
The Pattersons too;
Were a strapping lot;
Assisted by Kirkies,
Some battles they fought.
Wm. Carruthers, likewise,
Now completes the list
Of those by the lake,
Who farmed in the mist.
Then careful Amos Train,
The grand old man;
Who for many years as Reeve,
The Township's business ran.
This brings me to McCuaigs,
Duncan, Jessie and John;
Borrowed Archie's scythe
Its return did bemoan.
Also Blains and Smiths
A very good lot;
And with them included
Smith's son-in-law, Pott.
Now, next we arrive
At Scot Archie's abode;
His wife was an Ingram
From Elmvale Road.
Then there's Batt and Napoleon,
The one's Irish; 'Tother's French;
Hstlers logging or clearing,
On handspike or wrench.
John Sexton, whose illness
From pneumonia was short;
For many years on the school board,
Had a business resort.
Ralph Burton, from Knox Kirk
His departure he took;
On his farm built a church
In a shady wee nook.
Henry Lyons, Ralph's daughter,
Ada Burton, did marry;
Son Ashton's on the farm
And Albert's in Barrie.
Then there's old Mattie Lawson,
Who undaunted did take
His bride to the woods
With an axe and two bits for a stake.
William Mills, MacDonald stamps
His walls did adorn;
his old dog would go
Wake Bob in the morn.
Then I must not forget
Michael Kelly, whose wife
And son, Martin, a wild cat
Relieved of its life.
McGinnis, Little John and Big
Oldtimers were too;
Had sons in each family,
And girls not a few.
John Kidd and his Clydes,
Performing a great feat;
Taking in a load
A hundred of wheat.
There was old Robert Bell,
Somewhat a recluse,
To his wife not even
Imparting the news.
Later cam James Dow,
A smithy undaunted;
Doing any odd jobs
And whatever was wanted.
Some other old timers
I may have omitted;
If you forward the names,
With rhyme they'll be fitted.
Dickens
