The ancient poets ne’er did dream
That Canada was land of cream,
They ne’er imagined it could flow
In this cold land of ice and snow,
Where everything did solid freeze,
They ne’er hoped or looked for cheese.
A few years since our Oxford farms
Were nearly robbed of all their charms,
O’er cropped the weary land grew poor
And nearly barren as a moor,
But now their owners live at ease
Rejoicing in their crop of cheese.
And since they justly treat the soil,
Are well rewarded for their toil,
The land enriched by goodly cows
Yields plenty now to fill their mows,
Both wheat and barley, oats and peas,
But still their greatest boast is cheese.
Cow, you must treat her as a Queen,
When grass is dry cut her feed green;
8he will repay you for your toiling
For there’s profit in the soiling,
Its benefits one daily sees
Who takes an interest in the cheese.
And you must careful fill your mows
With good provender for your cows,
And in the winter keep them warm,
Protect them safe all time from harm,
For cows do dearly love their ease,
Which doth insure best grade of cheese.
To us it is a glorious theme
To sing of milk and curds and cream,
Were it collected it could float
On its bosom, small steam boat,
Cows numerous as swarm of bees
Are milked in Oxford to make cheese.
To prove the wealth that here abounds,
One cheese weighed eight thousand pounds,
Had it been hung in air at noon
Folks would have thought it was the moon,
It sailed with triumph o’er the seas,
’Twas hailed with welcome, queen of cheese.