Roughing It In The Bush, By Susanna Moodie











































































































































 - 

He went away that day with a stranger in a waggon from Peterborough,
and never afterwards was seen in that - Page 242
Roughing It In The Bush, By Susanna Moodie - Page 242 of 349 - First - Home

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He Went Away That Day With A Stranger In A Waggon From Peterborough, And Never Afterwards Was Seen In That Part Of Canada.

We afterwards learned that he went to Texas, and it is thought that he was killed at St. Antonio; but this is mere conjecture.

Whether dead or living, I feel convinced that -

"We ne'er shall look upon his like again."

OH, THE DAYS WHEN I WAS YOUNG!

Oh, the days when I was young, A playful little boy, When my piping treble rung To the notes of early joy. Oh, the sunny days of spring, When I sat beside the shore, And heard the small birds sing; - Shall I never hear them more?

And the daisies scatter'd round, Half hid amid the grass, Lay like gems upon the ground, Too gay for me to pass. How sweet the milkmaid sung, As she sat beside her cow, How clear her wild notes rung; - There's no music like it now.

As I watch'd the ship's white sail 'Mid the sunbeams on the sea, Spreading canvas to the gale - How I long'd with her to be. I thought not of the storm, Nor the wild cries on her deck, When writhed her graceful form 'Mid the hurricane and wreck.

And I launch'd my little ship, With her sails and hold beneath; Deep laden on each trip, With berries from the heath. Ah, little did I know, When I long'd to be a man, Of the gloomy cares and woe, That meet in life's brief span.

Oh, the happy nights I lay With my brothers in their beds, Where we soundly slept till day Shone brightly o'er our heads. And the blessed dreams that came To fill my heart with joy. Oh, that I now could dream, As I dreamt, a little boy.

The sun shone brighter then, And the moon more soft and clear, For the wiles of crafty men I had not learn'd to fear; But all seemed fair and gay As the fleecy clouds above; I spent my hours in play, And my heart was full of love.

I loved the heath-clad hill, And I loved the silent vale, With its dark and purling rill That murmur'd in the gale. Of sighs I'd none to share, They were stored for riper years, When I drain'd the dregs of care With many bitter tears.

My simple daily fare, In my little tiny mug, How fain was I to share With Cato on the rug. Yes, he gave his honest paw, And he lick'd my happy face, He was true to Nature's law, And I thought it no disgrace.

There's a voice so soft and clear, And a step so gay and light, That charms my listening ear In the visions of the night. And my father bids me haste, In the deep, fond tones of love, And leave this dreary waste, For brighter realms above.

Now I am old and grey, My bones are rack'd with pain, And time speeds fast away - But why should I complain? There are joys in life's young morn That dwell not with the old. Like the flowers the wind hath torn, From the strem, all bleak and cold.

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