Newspaper poets — Mount Defiance

In July 1777, military strategists John Trumbull and Benedict Arnold advised British Gen. John Burgoyne that where a goat can climb, artillery surely could follow.

A century later, the 750-foot summit overlooking Lake Champlain in Ticonderoga that became known as Mount Defiance was a popular picnic spot.

One picnicker who climbed the mountain on Aug. 4, 1875 wrote a poem about the experience.

The Ticonderoga Sentinel published the poem two days later.

Some young people a picnicking would go,

Up Mt. Defiance you must know,

So Wednesday morning being cloudy weather,

At the parsonage we got together;

From there we came to the foot of the mount,

There were only eight by actual count.

Our good and noble cousin Will,

With a basket toiled up the hill,

While Glover carried a large tin pail,

Filled from the spring with Adam’s ale,

Harry Carlough, famous young fella,

Was laden with wraps and a big umbrella.

The ladies were Laura and Betty Stark,

Bell and Al, and Emma Clark,

Who made the hills ring with laugh and song.

And up the steep path they trudge along,

Till they reached the top,

Then neath the shade of a lovely maple, they spread the table.

Will, from his lofty perch in a tree,

Looked long and anxiously down to see,

If among the people on the ground,

A little spot for him to be found,

Where he could sit so timid and shy,

And feast upon sweets and lemon pie.

The other guests sat in constant fear,

Of the mosquito hovering near.

At the foot of the mount we saw the train,

Swiftly gliding o’er the plain,

And the steamer moored at the dock,

We saw from our lofty perch on the rock,

With cheer after cheer did the air resound.

And the hills and the threw back the sound.

And thus in great glee the hours flew by,

Till the time for returning home drew nigh,

Fully equipped we set out on our way,

Sorry that it had been so short of day,

We chose a near path for the reason, you see,

We thought our journey would much shorter be.

We intended coming home by the “Indian Stairs,’

When soon we heard the cry of despair,

“We are lost! We are lost! rung out in the air,

For alas, we could find no trace of the stairs.

When nearly wild with fright and fear,

We heard from our guide a happy cheer;

“Eureka! Eureka! We have found them at last.

And all our fear and trouble are past.”

Weary and footsore, we sat down to rest,

Beside the cold spring, the waters the best,

That ever came from a mountain side,

Or refreshed a traveler, weary and tired,

We left for our homes agreeing together,

That the day had been pleasant tho’ rainy the weather,

And the time we had spent on the mountain heights,

Had been one of pleasure and delight.