It was in Canada that Patrick McNally was court-martialled on the 21 October 1812. Not Long after General Brock was shot and killed at Queenston. FLAMBOYANTLY. When the wonderful Canadian Library and Archives sent us the photocopies of Documents much of that was verified. In addition we discovered that he had deserted 2 years previously in 1810. Judith and Patrick had 2 children by then . William and Mary. We still do not know where they met, where they married , where the children were born. Nor do we know the WHEN of those things. But we do know they were in Canada – come to think of it we are on legend and myth and recount here – Patrick was there. We don’t have any documents as to where Judith was or Who she was or – ? the first documents we have are of her being on the Broxbornebury Mystery here. However Canada features bigtime. So I am taking a look at Canadian poetry from the same era as Melinda over here in Australia. I’m sure there are more experienced researchers out there who know how to find marriages and births etc in Ireland , England and/or Canada. For now HERE IS SOME CANADIAN POETRY of the 19th CENTURY.
Allan, Peter John (1825-1848)
To what shall we compare the happiness of youth? When all things are fair unto our eyes, and the blos- soms of the tree of life, as yet untouched, are bright in rosy bloom. When eyes of angels seem to smile upon us from the flowers, and the breathing of the winds are grateful to our lips as the kisses of the one we love. When we wander in the cool shadow of the far-spread night, and quaff the streaming lustre of the moon and stars, as from a fountain of sparkling wine. When we view all things by the light of a joyous heart, and hope all things will be as now. To what shall we compare the happiness of youth? While the first pain, the earliest throb of disappoint- ment is felt but as a thorn in a bed of roses. Alas! the serpent pleasure attracts but to sting. The roses of joy fade and fall away, and the thorns of care are yet upon the branches of life. Lo! the winter is with us--it will be always winter now. Spring comes not again to the aged. To what shall we compare the happiness of youth? To a star that dies on the bosom of morning, that sinks in the flood of day. It is like a violet when the east wind bloweth. Like a bark that is chased and struck down by Euro- clydon, the mighty hunter of ocean. Like a lofty tower, like a beautiful tower of fine marble in the arms of the earthquake, dashed down for ever. Such is the happiness of youth.
Poem is in the public domain..