Elf Shot

written by James McIntyre

Elf Shot

— James McIntyre

A lad, brought up in Highland vale,
Who did believe each fairy tale
Which his granney oft to him told,
And of witches and of warlocks bold,
And he himself would often pore
For hours reading wizard lore.
One night his mother to the town
In a hurry sent him down,
So o'er his poney he did stride,
And to the town did fearful ride;
He thought that demons they would rush
On him from every rock and bush,
And as he went through the quarry
It did great increase his flurry ;
He felt that fiends with fiercest hate
Would surely there seal fast his fate.
But town he reached, and neath his vest
He parcel pressed beneath his vest ;
The poney now he mounts once more
For to pass quarry as before,
But, alas ! at that fatal spot
He heard a gun-he was elf shot;
He felt that from his breast a flood
Was pouring down off his heart's blood,
But he clung fast to pony's back,
Though loss of blood his frame did rack ;
But in spite of his alarms
He resolved to die in mother's arms;
And when he reached his own door
He said that he was drenched in gore
From bullet hole all in his breast ;
His father opened up his vest,
And he did sadly fear the worst,
But found yeast bottle had but burst.

About the poet

James McIntyre

James McIntyre (baptised 25 May 1828 – 31 March 1906), called The Cheese Poet, was a Canadian poet. McIntyre was born in Forres, Scotland and came to Canada in 1841 at the age of 14. He worked as a hired hand to begin with, performing pioneer chores that formed the basis of a number of his works. Later, he settled in St. Catharines, Ontario, where he dealt in furniture. There he married and had a daughter and son. He later moved to Ingersoll, Ontario, then a town of 5,000 on the banks of the Thames in Oxford County, the then-heart of Canadian dairy country. He opened a furniture factory on the river as well as a store which sold furniture, along with such items as pianos and coffins...

Read Full Biography

Poem of the Day

Epistle To William Simson

Robert Burns

I GAT your letter, winsome Willie;
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie;
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly,
And unco vain,
Should I believe, my coaxin billie
Your flatterin strain.

Read Full Poem

Poet of the Day

William Roscoe

He was born in Liverpool, where his father, a market gardener, kept a public house called the Bowling Green at Mount Pleasant. Roscoe left school at the age of twelve, having learned all that his schoolmaster could teach. He assisted...

Read Full Biography