VOYAGEUR SONG
OUR mother is the good green earth,Our rest her bosom broad;And sure, in plenty and in dearth,Of our six feet of sod,We welcome Fate with careless mirthAnd dangerous paths have trod,Holding our lives of little worthAnd fearing none but God.Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slideAbove the fretted sand,Our frail canoes, like shadows, glideSwift through the silent land;Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tideRocks rise on every hand,Our path will we confess denied,Nor cowardly seek the strand.The foam may leap like frightened cloudThat hears the tempest scream,The waves may fold their whitened shroudWhere ghastly ledges gleam;With muscles strained and backs well bowed,And poles that breaking seem,We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proudItself our lord did deem.The broad traverse is cold and deep,And treacherous smiles it hath,And with its sickle of death doth reapWith woe for aftermath;But though the wind-vexed waves may leap,Like cougars, in our path,Still forward on our way we keep,Nor heed their futile wrath.Where glitter trackless wastes of snowBeneath the northern light,On netted shoes we noiseless go,Nor heed though keen winds bite.The shaggy bears our prowess know,The white fox fears our might,And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow,With angry snarls take flight.Where forest fastnesses extend,Ne'er trod by man before,Where cries of loon and wild duck blendWith some dark torrent's roar,And timid deer, unawed, descendAlong the lake's still shore,We blaze the trees and onward wendTo ravish nature's store.Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eveThese calls the echoes wake.We rise and forward fare, nor grieveThough long portage we make,Until the sky the sun-gleams leaveAnd shadows cowl the lake;And then we rest and fancies weaveFor wife or sweetheart's sake.
OUR mother is the good green earth,Our rest her bosom broad;And sure, in plenty and in dearth,Of our six feet of sod,We welcome Fate with careless mirthAnd dangerous paths have trod,Holding our lives of little worthAnd fearing none but God.Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slideAbove the fretted sand,Our frail canoes, like shadows, glideSwift through the silent land;Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tideRocks rise on every hand,Our path will we confess denied,Nor cowardly seek the strand.The foam may leap like frightened cloudThat hears the tempest scream,The waves may fold their whitened shroudWhere ghastly ledges gleam;With muscles strained and backs well bowed,And poles that breaking seem,We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proudItself our lord did deem.The broad traverse is cold and deep,And treacherous smiles it hath,And with its sickle of death doth reapWith woe for aftermath;But though the wind-vexed waves may leap,Like cougars, in our path,Still forward on our way we keep,Nor heed their futile wrath.Where glitter trackless wastes of snowBeneath the northern light,On netted shoes we noiseless go,Nor heed though keen winds bite.The shaggy bears our prowess know,The white fox fears our might,And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow,With angry snarls take flight.Where forest fastnesses extend,Ne'er trod by man before,Where cries of loon and wild duck blendWith some dark torrent's roar,And timid deer, unawed, descendAlong the lake's still shore,We blaze the trees and onward wendTo ravish nature's store.Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eveThese calls the echoes wake.We rise and forward fare, nor grieveThough long portage we make,Until the sky the sun-gleams leaveAnd shadows cowl the lake;And then we rest and fancies weaveFor wife or sweetheart's sake.
OUR mother is the good green earth,Our rest her bosom broad;And sure, in plenty and in dearth,Of our six feet of sod,We welcome Fate with careless mirthAnd dangerous paths have trod,Holding our lives of little worthAnd fearing none but God.
OUR mother is the good green earth,
Our rest her bosom broad;
And sure, in plenty and in dearth,
Of our six feet of sod,
We welcome Fate with careless mirth
And dangerous paths have trod,
Holding our lives of little worth
And fearing none but God.
Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slideAbove the fretted sand,Our frail canoes, like shadows, glideSwift through the silent land;Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tideRocks rise on every hand,Our path will we confess denied,Nor cowardly seek the strand.
Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide
Above the fretted sand,
Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide
Swift through the silent land;
Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide
Rocks rise on every hand,
Our path will we confess denied,
Nor cowardly seek the strand.
The foam may leap like frightened cloudThat hears the tempest scream,The waves may fold their whitened shroudWhere ghastly ledges gleam;With muscles strained and backs well bowed,And poles that breaking seem,We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proudItself our lord did deem.
The foam may leap like frightened cloud
That hears the tempest scream,
The waves may fold their whitened shroud
Where ghastly ledges gleam;
With muscles strained and backs well bowed,
And poles that breaking seem,
We shoot the Sault, whose torrent proud
Itself our lord did deem.
The broad traverse is cold and deep,And treacherous smiles it hath,And with its sickle of death doth reapWith woe for aftermath;But though the wind-vexed waves may leap,Like cougars, in our path,Still forward on our way we keep,Nor heed their futile wrath.
The broad traverse is cold and deep,
And treacherous smiles it hath,
And with its sickle of death doth reap
With woe for aftermath;
But though the wind-vexed waves may leap,
Like cougars, in our path,
Still forward on our way we keep,
Nor heed their futile wrath.
Where glitter trackless wastes of snowBeneath the northern light,On netted shoes we noiseless go,Nor heed though keen winds bite.The shaggy bears our prowess know,The white fox fears our might,And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow,With angry snarls take flight.
Where glitter trackless wastes of snow
Beneath the northern light,
On netted shoes we noiseless go,
Nor heed though keen winds bite.
The shaggy bears our prowess know,
The white fox fears our might,
And wolves, when warm our camp-fires glow,
With angry snarls take flight.
Where forest fastnesses extend,Ne'er trod by man before,Where cries of loon and wild duck blendWith some dark torrent's roar,And timid deer, unawed, descendAlong the lake's still shore,We blaze the trees and onward wendTo ravish nature's store.
Where forest fastnesses extend,
Ne'er trod by man before,
Where cries of loon and wild duck blend
With some dark torrent's roar,
And timid deer, unawed, descend
Along the lake's still shore,
We blaze the trees and onward wend
To ravish nature's store.
Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eveThese calls the echoes wake.We rise and forward fare, nor grieveThough long portage we make,Until the sky the sun-gleams leaveAnd shadows cowl the lake;And then we rest and fancies weaveFor wife or sweetheart's sake.
Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve
These calls the echoes wake.
We rise and forward fare, nor grieve
Though long portage we make,
Until the sky the sun-gleams leave
And shadows cowl the lake;
And then we rest and fancies weave
For wife or sweetheart's sake.