SUSANNA MOODIE

HAIL to the pride of the forest—hailTo the maple, tall and green!It yields a treasure which ne'er shall failWhile leaves on its boughs are seen.When the moon shines brightOn the wintry night,And silvers the frozen snow,And echo dwellsOn the jingling bellsAs the sleighs dart to and fro,Then it brightens the mirthOf the social hearthWith its red and cheery glow.Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades,It lifts its tall head on high,When the crimson-tinted evening fadesFrom the glowing saffron sky;When the sun's last beamsLight up woods and streams,And brighten the gloom below;And the deer springs byWith his flashing eye,And the shy, swift-footed doe;And the sad winds chideIn the branches wide,With a tender plaint of woe.The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,With the bow in his red right-hand,And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunkFrom the glorious forest land.But, blithe and free,The maple-tree,Still tosses to sun and airIts thousand arms,While in countless swarmsThe wild bee revels there;But soon not a traceOf the red-man's raceShall be found in the landscape fair.When the snows of winter are melting fast,And the sap begins to rise,And the biting breath of the frozen blastYields to the spring's soft sighs,Then away to the wood,For the maple goodShall unseal its honeyed store;And boys and girls,With their sunny curls,Bring their vessels brimming o'erWith the luscious floodOf the brave tree's blood,Into caldrons deep to pour.The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;Far down in the forest darkA ruddy glow on the trees is shed,That lights up their rugged bark;And with merry shoutThe busy routWatch the sap as it bubbles high;And they talk of the cheerOf the coming year,And the jest and the song pass by;And brave tales of oldRound the fire are told,That kindle youth's beaming eye.Hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree!Long may its green branch waveIn native strength, sublime and free,Meet emblem for the brave.May the nation's peaceWith its growth increase,And its worth be widely spread;For it lifts not in vainTo the sun and rainIts tall, majestic head.May it grace our soil,And reward our toil,While the nation's day is sped!

HAIL to the pride of the forest—hail

To the maple, tall and green!

It yields a treasure which ne'er shall fail

While leaves on its boughs are seen.

When the moon shines bright

On the wintry night,

And silvers the frozen snow,

And echo dwells

On the jingling bells

As the sleighs dart to and fro,

Then it brightens the mirth

Of the social hearth

With its red and cheery glow.

Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades,It lifts its tall head on high,When the crimson-tinted evening fadesFrom the glowing saffron sky;When the sun's last beamsLight up woods and streams,And brighten the gloom below;And the deer springs byWith his flashing eye,And the shy, swift-footed doe;And the sad winds chideIn the branches wide,With a tender plaint of woe.

Afar, 'mid the bosky forest shades,

It lifts its tall head on high,

When the crimson-tinted evening fades

From the glowing saffron sky;

When the sun's last beams

Light up woods and streams,

And brighten the gloom below;

And the deer springs by

With his flashing eye,

And the shy, swift-footed doe;

And the sad winds chide

In the branches wide,

With a tender plaint of woe.

The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,With the bow in his red right-hand,And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunkFrom the glorious forest land.But, blithe and free,The maple-tree,Still tosses to sun and airIts thousand arms,While in countless swarmsThe wild bee revels there;But soon not a traceOf the red-man's raceShall be found in the landscape fair.

The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,

With the bow in his red right-hand,

And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk

From the glorious forest land.

But, blithe and free,

The maple-tree,

Still tosses to sun and air

Its thousand arms,

While in countless swarms

The wild bee revels there;

But soon not a trace

Of the red-man's race

Shall be found in the landscape fair.

When the snows of winter are melting fast,And the sap begins to rise,And the biting breath of the frozen blastYields to the spring's soft sighs,Then away to the wood,For the maple goodShall unseal its honeyed store;And boys and girls,With their sunny curls,Bring their vessels brimming o'erWith the luscious floodOf the brave tree's blood,Into caldrons deep to pour.

When the snows of winter are melting fast,

And the sap begins to rise,

And the biting breath of the frozen blast

Yields to the spring's soft sighs,

Then away to the wood,

For the maple good

Shall unseal its honeyed store;

And boys and girls,

With their sunny curls,

Bring their vessels brimming o'er

With the luscious flood

Of the brave tree's blood,

Into caldrons deep to pour.

The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;Far down in the forest darkA ruddy glow on the trees is shed,That lights up their rugged bark;And with merry shoutThe busy routWatch the sap as it bubbles high;And they talk of the cheerOf the coming year,And the jest and the song pass by;And brave tales of oldRound the fire are told,That kindle youth's beaming eye.

The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;

Far down in the forest dark

A ruddy glow on the trees is shed,

That lights up their rugged bark;

And with merry shout

The busy rout

Watch the sap as it bubbles high;

And they talk of the cheer

Of the coming year,

And the jest and the song pass by;

And brave tales of old

Round the fire are told,

That kindle youth's beaming eye.

Hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree!Long may its green branch waveIn native strength, sublime and free,Meet emblem for the brave.May the nation's peaceWith its growth increase,And its worth be widely spread;For it lifts not in vainTo the sun and rainIts tall, majestic head.May it grace our soil,And reward our toil,While the nation's day is sped!

Hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree!

Long may its green branch wave

In native strength, sublime and free,

Meet emblem for the brave.

May the nation's peace

With its growth increase,

And its worth be widely spread;

For it lifts not in vain

To the sun and rain

Its tall, majestic head.

May it grace our soil,

And reward our toil,

While the nation's day is sped!

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