"Drummond Island" - a poem by Buster B. Bailey

There is a Gem of an Island, a perfect jewel in the sea

Surrounded by the water of Huron, it is the world to me.

At the mouth of the St. Mary's River, far from the cities turmoil

That is where my people settled, logging and tilling the soil

Netting the sturgeon and whitefish, catching trout in the streams

Rearing their families of children, always dreaming their dreams.

Sailing their boat in the Harbor . . . on missions of mercy and fun

Visiting with the Indians, homing when day is done.

Such were the stories told me, By Grandma, Mother and Dad

As we sat by the fire in the evening, when I was a little lad.

They told of crossing the river on ice that was treacherous and thin

With only a prayer to sustain them, they told of the fabulous Finn.

She with her hatchet, and singing, leading her pitiful band,

Staking out their homesteads, hoping to settle the land.

Clearing the grass from the marshes, coiling it up for hay;

Digging ditches to drain them, toiling day after day.

Clearing the land of boulders, splitting cedar for shakes

or pulling hard on whipsaw, for a home that a pioneer makes.

So was the Island settled by hunger, laughter, and tears

By sacrifice, sorrow and labor through all those turbulent years.

Then later came the woodsmen, the lumberman and his mills

taking the cedar out the swamps, the pine trees from off the hills.

Sleighing them down to the rivers, piling them up high at the dumps,

laying waste to the forests, leaving nothing but stumps.

After that, came the fires, burning the debris and trash,

Leaving the gutted earth, smoke blackened and covered with ash.

Years it took to recover and look like an Island should

But nature has a way of healing and the tourists found it good.

They came just a few when they started and
then there were more and more,

Building their cabins and houses, making roads to the shore.

Taking over our Island with everything modern and neat,

Electricity in the houses, pavement covers the streets.

Yachts abound in the Harbor, airplanes speed above,

Oh, They have invaded this Island,
but it's still the "Gem" That I Love.

Poem "Drummond Island" by Buster B. Bailey (September 14, 1907 - September 2, 1983)

Photo from the collections of George Litchard

Shows Harry Sahs (sic) from the Detroit News, and kneeling is Buster Bailey

Potaganissing Bay , Drummond Island, Michigan