But horrid death each one did feel,
Had sure befallen little Neil,
Consternation all did fill,
And they cried shut down the mill.
But still no person they could tell
What had the poor child befel,
The covered race, so long and dark,
Of hopes there scarcely seemed a spark.
Was he held fast as if in vice,
Wedged 'mong the timbers and the ice,
Or was there for him ample room
For to float down the narrow flume.
Had he found there a watery grave,
Or borne along on crest of wave,
Think of the mother's agony wild,
Gazing through dark tunnel for her child.
But soon as Partlo started mill,
Through crowd there ran a joyous thrill,
When he was quickly borne along,
The little hero of our song.
Alas! of life there is no trace,
And he is black all over face,
Though he then seemed as if in death,
Yet quickly they restored his breath.
Think now how mother[H] she adored
Her sweet dear child to her restored,
And her boundless gratitude
Unto the author of all good.
[H] Mrs. Mary McKay McLeod, the author of some fine poems on Scottish and Canadian subjects.