Maggie's Farm

I always liked Scots-Canadian Standish O'Grady on forests, a century of visionaries

Here forests crowd, unprofitable lumber,
O'er fruitless lands indefinite as number;
Where birds scarce light, and with the north winds veer
On wings of wind, and quickly disappear,
Here the rough Bear subsists his winter year,
And licks his paw and finds no better fare . . .
The lank Canadian eager trims his fire,
And all around their simpering stoves retire;
With fur clad friends their progenies abound,
And thus regale their buffaloes around;
Unlettered race, how few the number tells,
Their only pride a cariole and bells ....
Perchance they revel; still around they creep,
And talk, and smoke, and spit, and drink, and sleep