At work today I found a very old poem about the Island I live on.
You can click here to bring you to the original size photo of the island, it will not disappoint.
ISLE LA MOTTE
A little isle in Lake Champlain that we all love so well,
Where the days so long gone by wild Indian tribes did dwell;
Today their handicraft is found-not trinkets made of bone-
but skinning-knives, and sharp spear-points, and arrow heads of stone.
It was here the British forces from their gunboats tried to land
But were driven off by Yankees with their flintlocks in their hand:
It was here a hundred years ago that Caleb Hill was slain
Upon this little Island near the foot of Lake Champlain.
It was here the British forces sailed one September day
to fight McDonough's fleet which lay in Plattsburgh Bay;
and cannon balls then fired from the old-time British guns
Are still unearthed and brought to light, we find them one by one.
And leaden musket bullets of our one-time British foe
Are sometimes found, though fired a century ago;
Grim souvenirs of long ago when our ancestors fought
To keep the enemy away from dear Isle La Motte.
I love the bays and marshes where the wild ducks are galore
I love its wide sand beaches and its rocky, wooded shore;
And now in my declining years I know no other spot
To which my heart clings with such pleasure as historic Isle La Motte
I have dwelt here half a century, my age is near fourscore,
I feel sure in a short time hence, that I will be no more;
And when I have been called to go, my wish may not be vain,
I want to lie on Isle La Motte, the gem of Lake Champlain.
copyright, 1925, by D. T. Trombly