In
1914, R.K. Kernighan, popularly know as The Khan, was widely considered Canada’s
unofficial poet laureate as well as Canada’s Mark Twain.
Forty
years previously, he had been a newspaper reporter in Hamilton, cutting a very
Bohemian presence with his clothing choices, and manner of living.
By 1914, The Khan was semi-retired living near
the Wentworth County village of Rockton. Behind the main Kernighan residence
was the log cabin which had been on the property since pioneer times. The Khan
called that cabin, the Wigwam, and it was there that he continued to write
poems and short stories, writings that were mailed to the Hamilton Herald for
publication, after which they were picked up by other newspapers across Canada.
On
January 2, 1914, in the Hamilton Herald, the following poems appeared under the
on-going headline, “Chronicles by the Khan.”
The
poem captures the idea that most, but not all of the pioneers of Canada had
died, although a few remained to pass on advice, through the Khan to the
present generation.
THE
PIONEER’S ANTHEM
Our steps are growing feeble, our strength
is failing fast;
We give a New Year’s greeting and this
may the last.
Once we were strong of though and
thigh, once strong of thumb and
thew.
Once we were as an army; today we are
so few.
The open grave’s before us, the staff
Falls from each hand.
To our children’s children and their
children’s
children we bequeath this land!
A land that’s big with beauty, a land
that’s fair and free.
A land in sweet tranquility, a land
that’s
good to see.
Thriving towns and cities, smiling farms
on every hand –
To
our children’s children and their children’s
children we bequeath this land!
We came to build, and building, a mighty
structure grew,
And as we builded, builded better
than we knew.
And through the darkening wilderness,
lo! we were led in might.
Our log heaps made a smoke by day, a
pillared flame by night.
Now when across the continent we’ve
seen our task expand.
To
our children’s children and their children’s
children we bequeath this land!
Our, O our country, the triumph
of our toil!
Unto her God we give our souls, our
bodies to her soil.
Standing by our graveside, this our
Last command:
For
our children’s children and their children’s
children we bequeath this land!
No more we’ll feel the autumn leaves
Frosted ‘neath our feet;
No more we’ll see our fields and hills
Begoldened with the wheat:
No more we’ll smell the apple bloom
When spring is here again;
No more we’ll bring the milch cows home
Along the darkening lane.
The battle time is over, and we must
Now disband –
To
our children’s children and their children’s
children we bequeath this land!
Lord. Thou ledst us hither, still ever
with
us be!
Now lettest Thou Thy servants depart in
peace to Thee!
Hear Thou our last weak prayer – we hold
Thee by the hand –
For
our children’s children and their children’s
children we bequeath this land!
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