And this is the story of pedagogue John Of Kentucky, and how it befell That, in the heroic old days that are gone, He did what he had to do, well. God set him his task in the woods of the West To teach and to tame what was wild; To give his heart’s love and the blood of his breast For the good of the pioneer’s child. No story of Theseus or Hercules strong More beautiful is, nor so true; The meed of devotion to duty is song: Then pay John McKinney his due. JOHN FILSON. Matthias Denman, Robert Patterson and John Filson laid out the town of Losantiville, now the city of Cincinnati, in 1788. Filson, schoolmaster and surveyor, went out to explore the woods between the Miamis, but never returned. John Filson was a pedagogue-- A pioneer was he; I know not what his nation was Nor what his pedigree. Tradition’s scanty records tell But little of the man, Save that he to the frontier came In immigration’s van. Perhaps with phantoms of reform His busy fancy teemed, Perhaps of new Utopias Hesperian he dreamed. John Filson and companions bold A frontier village planned, In forest wild, on sloping hills, By fair Ohio’s strand. John Filson from three languages With pedant skill did frame The novel word Losantiville To be the new town’s name. Said Filson: “Comrades, hear my words: Ere three-score years have flown Our town will be a city vast.” Loud laughed Bob Patterson. Still John exclaimed, with prophet-tongue, “A city fair and proud, The Queen of Cities in the West!” Mat Denman laughed aloud. Deep in the wild and solemn woods Unknown to white man’s track, John Filson went, one autumn day, But nevermore came back. He struggled through the solitude The inland to explore, And with romantic pleasure traced Miami’s winding shore. Across his path the startled deer Bounds to its shelter green; He enters every lonely vale And cavernous ravine. Too soon the murky twilight comes, The boding night-winds moan; Bewildered wanders Filson, lost, Exhausted, and alone. By lurking foes his steps are dogged, A yell his ear appalls! A ghastly corpse, upon the ground, A murdered man, he falls. The Indian, with instinctive hate, In him a herald saw Of coming hosts of pioneers, The friends of light and law; In him beheld the champion Of industries and arts, The founder of encroaching roads And great commercial marts; The spoiler of the hunting-ground, The plower of the sod, The builder of the Christian school And of the house of God. And so the vengeful tomahawk John Filson’s blood did spill,-- The spirit of the pedagogue No tomahawk could kill.