James McIntyre

James McIntyre

(1827-1906 - Poet)

FirstFoot didn't think it was possible. But Scotland produced another poet whose work is so execrably bad, that it rivals that of our good friend William McGonagall. Try this for starters:

Ode On the Mammoth Cheese
weight over seven thousand pounds)

We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.

All gaily dressed soon you'll go
To the great Provincial show,
To be admired by many a beau
In the city of Toronto.

And so on ….. unbelievably, it gets worse. Try this utterly awful doggerel:

We'rt thou suspended from balloon,
You'd cast a shade even at noon,
Folk would think it was the moon
About to fall and crush them soon.

McIntyre was born in Forres, but buggered off to Canada at the age of 14. The Canadians claim him as their worst poet, but FirstFoot thinks we'll just have him back. After all, we have a reputation for bad poetry to maintain.

His life appears to have been respectable but unremarkable. He trained as an undertaker and went into business on his own. First as an undertaker, he then opened a furniture factory in Ingersoll, Ontario. Ingersoll was dairy country and cheese making one of it's primary industries.

This seems to be the explanation for the inspirational poetry which made him famous. He decided to write poems about cheese.

Cheese, or cheese poetry. Fantastic. If you are going to make a career out of writing crap poetry, then write it about something completely bizarre like cheese.

Married three times, McIntyre was a well kent face in Ingersoll, and his death at the ripe old age of 79, was the subject of a fulsome obituary in the Ingersoll press.

So, as FirstFoot's tribute, how about this?

Lines Read At A Dairymen's Supper

It almost now seems all in vain
For to expect high price for grain,
Wheat is grown on Egyptian soil
On the banks of mighty Nile.

And where the Ganges it doth flow,
In India fine wheat doth grow,
And price of labor is so cheap
That it they can successful reap.

Then let the farmers justly prize
The cows for land they fertilize,
And let us all with songs and glees
Invoke success into the cheese.

Pure and utter genius. Eat yer heart oot Bill McGonagall

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