The ancient poets ne'er did
That Canada was land of cream,
They ne'er imagined it could
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
Were nearly robbed of all their charms,
O'er cropped the weary land grew
And nearly barren as a moor,
But now the owners live at
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,
Yie'ds plenty now to fill their mows,
Both wheat and barley, oats and
But still their greatest boast is cheese.
And you must careful fill your
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
To sing of milk and curds and cream,
Were it collected it could
On its bosom, small steam boat,
Cows numerous as swarm of
Are milked in Oxford to make cheese.
