The Flood on the Creek

Almost broken was the lyre
In the hands of bard McIntyre,
Who long had mused beside the stream,
Till rudely wakened from his dream.

The waters high in each dam pent,
Rushed furious when they found vent;
Through the flood gates opened wide
Madly raged the foaming tide.

He heard the waters awful dash,
And he heard his warehouse crash,
And saw the waves in wild commotion
Bearing his stock to the ocean.

Now thanks he gives unto each friend,
Who a helping hand did lend;
With gratitude they did inspire
The heart-felt thanks of McIntyre.

Old friends and new he’ll gladly meet
On the west side of Thames street,
Where he has a foundation sure,
And a good stock of furniture.