Redlythe October sun shone that dayO’er the golden landscape stretching awayTo the Laurentian Hills, o’er vale and streamAs lovely as ever a poet’s dream.O’er the land of the Maple Leaf so fairStole the wandering breeze, caressing thereWith light, soft fingers, and murmuring lowThrough the fading foliage, dying slow.’Twas the peace of nature, touchingly grand,Brooding over this fair Canadian land.But another scene draws our thoughts awayTo the far-famed field of the Chateauguay.There beside it War’s trumpets fiercely blare;And marshalling foemen are forming there!The invader dares to pollute our soil;But brave, true men will his purpose foil.Noble de Salaberry, knowing no fear,Dreads not the foe, who by thousands draw near.Gallantly those Frenchmen stand by his side,Sharpshooters, every one, true and tried;And they coolly wait the oncoming foe,And the river goes by in gentle flow.“They come! they come! Voltigeurs, steady!Aim low, aim low,—be calm now and ready;Ye fight for your homes, and country so fair—Yield not an inch, nor ever despair.”Their rifles they raised, aimed steady and well,Fired low, and hundreds before them fell!The foe now open with thunderous roar;Shot and shell from their guns they hotly pour.Unflinching, the Voltigeurs firmly stand,Though storm’d at by masses on every hand.Swift volleys they hurl on the assaulting foe,Sure and deadly by the river’s flow.Checked in their advance by the Voltigeurs,Who heroically the storm endure;Patiently, though suffering loss and pain,Their position they proudly, sternly maintain.By sheer numbers being nearly surrounded,Though the foe are stunned and confounded,’Tis a critical time at Chateauguay.Will de Salaberry in despair give way?No! in sterner mould is the hero cast,And will bar the way of the foe to the last.Ah! a clever ruse he’s adopting now,And a smile flits over his noble brow.He extends his buglers widely in rear,To sound the charge and lustily cheer.’Twas a clever thought, and a master-stroke;On the startled ear of the foe it broke,And, frightened, they everywhere give way—Lost is the field, and lost is the day.Breaking into instant, headlong retreat,From humiliating and sore defeat,Over the border they swiftly fly,And the “Red Cross Banner” still floats on high.All hail, de Salaberry! hail, Voltigeurs!Thy fame still lives, it forever endures;Ye sternly barred there the foe that day,By the far-famed stream of the Chateauguay.And redly the October sun sank low,Flooding the world with its crimsoning glow;And the shadows fell on the golden sceneAs beautiful as e’er a poet’s dream.And the pale, dead faces were laid awayBy the murmuring stream of the Chateauguay!And white-winged peace hovered there once moreIn the fading light by the river’s shore.
Redlythe October sun shone that dayO’er the golden landscape stretching awayTo the Laurentian Hills, o’er vale and streamAs lovely as ever a poet’s dream.O’er the land of the Maple Leaf so fairStole the wandering breeze, caressing thereWith light, soft fingers, and murmuring lowThrough the fading foliage, dying slow.’Twas the peace of nature, touchingly grand,Brooding over this fair Canadian land.But another scene draws our thoughts awayTo the far-famed field of the Chateauguay.There beside it War’s trumpets fiercely blare;And marshalling foemen are forming there!The invader dares to pollute our soil;But brave, true men will his purpose foil.Noble de Salaberry, knowing no fear,Dreads not the foe, who by thousands draw near.Gallantly those Frenchmen stand by his side,Sharpshooters, every one, true and tried;And they coolly wait the oncoming foe,And the river goes by in gentle flow.“They come! they come! Voltigeurs, steady!Aim low, aim low,—be calm now and ready;Ye fight for your homes, and country so fair—Yield not an inch, nor ever despair.”Their rifles they raised, aimed steady and well,Fired low, and hundreds before them fell!The foe now open with thunderous roar;Shot and shell from their guns they hotly pour.Unflinching, the Voltigeurs firmly stand,Though storm’d at by masses on every hand.Swift volleys they hurl on the assaulting foe,Sure and deadly by the river’s flow.Checked in their advance by the Voltigeurs,Who heroically the storm endure;Patiently, though suffering loss and pain,Their position they proudly, sternly maintain.By sheer numbers being nearly surrounded,Though the foe are stunned and confounded,’Tis a critical time at Chateauguay.Will de Salaberry in despair give way?No! in sterner mould is the hero cast,And will bar the way of the foe to the last.Ah! a clever ruse he’s adopting now,And a smile flits over his noble brow.He extends his buglers widely in rear,To sound the charge and lustily cheer.’Twas a clever thought, and a master-stroke;On the startled ear of the foe it broke,And, frightened, they everywhere give way—Lost is the field, and lost is the day.Breaking into instant, headlong retreat,From humiliating and sore defeat,Over the border they swiftly fly,And the “Red Cross Banner” still floats on high.All hail, de Salaberry! hail, Voltigeurs!Thy fame still lives, it forever endures;Ye sternly barred there the foe that day,By the far-famed stream of the Chateauguay.And redly the October sun sank low,Flooding the world with its crimsoning glow;And the shadows fell on the golden sceneAs beautiful as e’er a poet’s dream.And the pale, dead faces were laid awayBy the murmuring stream of the Chateauguay!And white-winged peace hovered there once moreIn the fading light by the river’s shore.
Redlythe October sun shone that dayO’er the golden landscape stretching awayTo the Laurentian Hills, o’er vale and streamAs lovely as ever a poet’s dream.O’er the land of the Maple Leaf so fairStole the wandering breeze, caressing thereWith light, soft fingers, and murmuring lowThrough the fading foliage, dying slow.’Twas the peace of nature, touchingly grand,Brooding over this fair Canadian land.
But another scene draws our thoughts awayTo the far-famed field of the Chateauguay.There beside it War’s trumpets fiercely blare;And marshalling foemen are forming there!The invader dares to pollute our soil;But brave, true men will his purpose foil.Noble de Salaberry, knowing no fear,Dreads not the foe, who by thousands draw near.Gallantly those Frenchmen stand by his side,Sharpshooters, every one, true and tried;And they coolly wait the oncoming foe,And the river goes by in gentle flow.
“They come! they come! Voltigeurs, steady!Aim low, aim low,—be calm now and ready;Ye fight for your homes, and country so fair—Yield not an inch, nor ever despair.”Their rifles they raised, aimed steady and well,Fired low, and hundreds before them fell!
The foe now open with thunderous roar;Shot and shell from their guns they hotly pour.Unflinching, the Voltigeurs firmly stand,Though storm’d at by masses on every hand.Swift volleys they hurl on the assaulting foe,Sure and deadly by the river’s flow.
Checked in their advance by the Voltigeurs,Who heroically the storm endure;Patiently, though suffering loss and pain,Their position they proudly, sternly maintain.
By sheer numbers being nearly surrounded,Though the foe are stunned and confounded,’Tis a critical time at Chateauguay.Will de Salaberry in despair give way?No! in sterner mould is the hero cast,And will bar the way of the foe to the last.Ah! a clever ruse he’s adopting now,And a smile flits over his noble brow.
He extends his buglers widely in rear,To sound the charge and lustily cheer.’Twas a clever thought, and a master-stroke;On the startled ear of the foe it broke,And, frightened, they everywhere give way—Lost is the field, and lost is the day.Breaking into instant, headlong retreat,From humiliating and sore defeat,Over the border they swiftly fly,And the “Red Cross Banner” still floats on high.
All hail, de Salaberry! hail, Voltigeurs!Thy fame still lives, it forever endures;Ye sternly barred there the foe that day,By the far-famed stream of the Chateauguay.
And redly the October sun sank low,Flooding the world with its crimsoning glow;And the shadows fell on the golden sceneAs beautiful as e’er a poet’s dream.And the pale, dead faces were laid awayBy the murmuring stream of the Chateauguay!And white-winged peace hovered there once moreIn the fading light by the river’s shore.
Delvedown in the deep mines, O restless man!Wrest from the deep mines the red, red gold;Seize the diamonds and the precious gems;In the deep, vast mines lies wealth untold.Win from the deep sea, from the uttermost sea,The hoarded treasures of Neptune’s realm.Command thou thine own staunch, dauntless barque;Hold the chart, and thyself guide the helm.Quaff thou from the deep things of life, O man,The things that make life more broad and great.Revere the good, the noble, and true;Grasp destiny from the hand of fate;Chain the elements to thy chariot wheels;Count all things subservient to thy will—The things that ennoble assimilate,Pure as the cool, sparkling mountain rill.Drink thou of the deep wells of love, O man!For life is empty without its sway;The love of friends, and e’en our fellowman,Make darkest night seem bright as the day.Be kind, considerate of thy brother;Smooth somewhat if thou canst his rugged way;Bear each other’s burdens, battle side by side—United ye shall surely win the day.Delve deep in thine own bosom, O man!Pluck gems of thought that dormant lie;Let thy fiery energy and deathless zealMove the hearts of men, lift their souls on high.If thou canst not o’er the mountain go,Penetrate it to the vale beyond;Look upward and onward, brave, pure soul,And Fortune may touch thee with her wand.But if o’ertaken by an adverse fate,And thy dreams of greatness fade away,Front thou the storm and battle’s fiery rage;Yield but to death—death’s lurid, fatal day!If all thy years should lead by lowly ways,Where wealth and fame ne’er ope their shining wings,Be comforted, do thy humble duty well,In heaven thou mayst be honored more than kings.
Delvedown in the deep mines, O restless man!Wrest from the deep mines the red, red gold;Seize the diamonds and the precious gems;In the deep, vast mines lies wealth untold.Win from the deep sea, from the uttermost sea,The hoarded treasures of Neptune’s realm.Command thou thine own staunch, dauntless barque;Hold the chart, and thyself guide the helm.Quaff thou from the deep things of life, O man,The things that make life more broad and great.Revere the good, the noble, and true;Grasp destiny from the hand of fate;Chain the elements to thy chariot wheels;Count all things subservient to thy will—The things that ennoble assimilate,Pure as the cool, sparkling mountain rill.Drink thou of the deep wells of love, O man!For life is empty without its sway;The love of friends, and e’en our fellowman,Make darkest night seem bright as the day.Be kind, considerate of thy brother;Smooth somewhat if thou canst his rugged way;Bear each other’s burdens, battle side by side—United ye shall surely win the day.Delve deep in thine own bosom, O man!Pluck gems of thought that dormant lie;Let thy fiery energy and deathless zealMove the hearts of men, lift their souls on high.If thou canst not o’er the mountain go,Penetrate it to the vale beyond;Look upward and onward, brave, pure soul,And Fortune may touch thee with her wand.But if o’ertaken by an adverse fate,And thy dreams of greatness fade away,Front thou the storm and battle’s fiery rage;Yield but to death—death’s lurid, fatal day!If all thy years should lead by lowly ways,Where wealth and fame ne’er ope their shining wings,Be comforted, do thy humble duty well,In heaven thou mayst be honored more than kings.
Delvedown in the deep mines, O restless man!Wrest from the deep mines the red, red gold;Seize the diamonds and the precious gems;In the deep, vast mines lies wealth untold.Win from the deep sea, from the uttermost sea,The hoarded treasures of Neptune’s realm.Command thou thine own staunch, dauntless barque;Hold the chart, and thyself guide the helm.
Quaff thou from the deep things of life, O man,The things that make life more broad and great.Revere the good, the noble, and true;Grasp destiny from the hand of fate;Chain the elements to thy chariot wheels;Count all things subservient to thy will—The things that ennoble assimilate,Pure as the cool, sparkling mountain rill.
Drink thou of the deep wells of love, O man!For life is empty without its sway;The love of friends, and e’en our fellowman,Make darkest night seem bright as the day.Be kind, considerate of thy brother;Smooth somewhat if thou canst his rugged way;Bear each other’s burdens, battle side by side—United ye shall surely win the day.
Delve deep in thine own bosom, O man!Pluck gems of thought that dormant lie;Let thy fiery energy and deathless zealMove the hearts of men, lift their souls on high.If thou canst not o’er the mountain go,Penetrate it to the vale beyond;Look upward and onward, brave, pure soul,And Fortune may touch thee with her wand.
But if o’ertaken by an adverse fate,And thy dreams of greatness fade away,Front thou the storm and battle’s fiery rage;Yield but to death—death’s lurid, fatal day!If all thy years should lead by lowly ways,Where wealth and fame ne’er ope their shining wings,Be comforted, do thy humble duty well,In heaven thou mayst be honored more than kings.
Fought June 24th, 1813. British, 47 Regulars and 200 Indians Americans, 570, with 50 Cavalry and 2 Guns.
Sheknew, and her heart beat faster,The foe would march that day;And resolved, though only a woman,To silently steal awayAnd warn the outpost at Beaver Dams;Alone, and on foot, to goThrough the dim and awesome forest,To evade the vigilant foe.No one thought of a woman,And she gained a path she knewIn the lonesome, stately forest,And over the dark way flew.On and on with a beating heart,And never a pause for rest;Twenty miles of dim and distance,And the sun low down the west.Startled sometimes to terrorBy the blood-curdling cryOf wolves from the faint far distance,And sometimes nearer by;And hollow sounds and whispersThat rose from the forest deep;Ghostly and phantom voicesThat caused her nerves to creep.But she pauses not, nor falters,But presses along the way;Noiselessly through the distance,Through the shadows weird and gray.In time must the warning be given,She must not, must not fail;Though rough is the path and toilsome,Her courage must prevail.“To arms! to arms, FitzGibbon!”Came a woman’s thrilling cry;“Lose not a precious moment—The foe! the foe is nigh!”And a woman pale and wearyBurst on the startled sight;Out from the dark awesome forest,Out of the shadowy night.“They come! they come, six hundred strong,Stealing upon you here!But I, a weak woman, tell you,Prepare and have no fear.”The handful of British heroesResolve the outpost to save,With the aid of two hundred Indians,Allies cunning and brave.Still as death the line is waitingThe onset of the foe;And the summer winds make whisperIn the foliage soft and low.“Ready!” and each heart beat faster;“Fire low, and without fear.”And they fired a crashing volley,And gave a defiant cheer.Staggered by the deadly missiles,That like a mighty blow,Fell swift on the line advancing,Fell on the astonished foe.And for two long, desperate hoursThe furious fight raged there;Till the foemen, foiled and beaten,Surrendered in despair.Well done, gallant FitzGibbon!Thy name shall live in story;Thy daring feat of arms that dayIs wreathed with fadeless glory.One other name my song would praise,A patriot soul so brave,That dared the forest’s lonely wildsFitzGibbon’s post to save.Noble woman! heroic soul!We would honor thee to-day;Thou canst not, shall not be forgot.More lustrous is the rayTime reflects upon thy deed.Thy talismanic name—Canadians, sound it through the land,Perpetuate her fadeless fame!
Sheknew, and her heart beat faster,The foe would march that day;And resolved, though only a woman,To silently steal awayAnd warn the outpost at Beaver Dams;Alone, and on foot, to goThrough the dim and awesome forest,To evade the vigilant foe.No one thought of a woman,And she gained a path she knewIn the lonesome, stately forest,And over the dark way flew.On and on with a beating heart,And never a pause for rest;Twenty miles of dim and distance,And the sun low down the west.Startled sometimes to terrorBy the blood-curdling cryOf wolves from the faint far distance,And sometimes nearer by;And hollow sounds and whispersThat rose from the forest deep;Ghostly and phantom voicesThat caused her nerves to creep.But she pauses not, nor falters,But presses along the way;Noiselessly through the distance,Through the shadows weird and gray.In time must the warning be given,She must not, must not fail;Though rough is the path and toilsome,Her courage must prevail.“To arms! to arms, FitzGibbon!”Came a woman’s thrilling cry;“Lose not a precious moment—The foe! the foe is nigh!”And a woman pale and wearyBurst on the startled sight;Out from the dark awesome forest,Out of the shadowy night.“They come! they come, six hundred strong,Stealing upon you here!But I, a weak woman, tell you,Prepare and have no fear.”The handful of British heroesResolve the outpost to save,With the aid of two hundred Indians,Allies cunning and brave.Still as death the line is waitingThe onset of the foe;And the summer winds make whisperIn the foliage soft and low.“Ready!” and each heart beat faster;“Fire low, and without fear.”And they fired a crashing volley,And gave a defiant cheer.Staggered by the deadly missiles,That like a mighty blow,Fell swift on the line advancing,Fell on the astonished foe.And for two long, desperate hoursThe furious fight raged there;Till the foemen, foiled and beaten,Surrendered in despair.Well done, gallant FitzGibbon!Thy name shall live in story;Thy daring feat of arms that dayIs wreathed with fadeless glory.One other name my song would praise,A patriot soul so brave,That dared the forest’s lonely wildsFitzGibbon’s post to save.Noble woman! heroic soul!We would honor thee to-day;Thou canst not, shall not be forgot.More lustrous is the rayTime reflects upon thy deed.Thy talismanic name—Canadians, sound it through the land,Perpetuate her fadeless fame!
Sheknew, and her heart beat faster,The foe would march that day;And resolved, though only a woman,To silently steal awayAnd warn the outpost at Beaver Dams;Alone, and on foot, to goThrough the dim and awesome forest,To evade the vigilant foe.
No one thought of a woman,And she gained a path she knewIn the lonesome, stately forest,And over the dark way flew.On and on with a beating heart,And never a pause for rest;Twenty miles of dim and distance,And the sun low down the west.
Startled sometimes to terrorBy the blood-curdling cryOf wolves from the faint far distance,And sometimes nearer by;And hollow sounds and whispersThat rose from the forest deep;Ghostly and phantom voicesThat caused her nerves to creep.
But she pauses not, nor falters,But presses along the way;Noiselessly through the distance,Through the shadows weird and gray.In time must the warning be given,She must not, must not fail;Though rough is the path and toilsome,Her courage must prevail.
“To arms! to arms, FitzGibbon!”Came a woman’s thrilling cry;“Lose not a precious moment—The foe! the foe is nigh!”And a woman pale and wearyBurst on the startled sight;Out from the dark awesome forest,Out of the shadowy night.
“They come! they come, six hundred strong,Stealing upon you here!But I, a weak woman, tell you,Prepare and have no fear.”The handful of British heroesResolve the outpost to save,With the aid of two hundred Indians,Allies cunning and brave.
Still as death the line is waitingThe onset of the foe;And the summer winds make whisperIn the foliage soft and low.“Ready!” and each heart beat faster;“Fire low, and without fear.”And they fired a crashing volley,And gave a defiant cheer.
Staggered by the deadly missiles,That like a mighty blow,Fell swift on the line advancing,Fell on the astonished foe.And for two long, desperate hoursThe furious fight raged there;Till the foemen, foiled and beaten,Surrendered in despair.
Well done, gallant FitzGibbon!Thy name shall live in story;Thy daring feat of arms that dayIs wreathed with fadeless glory.One other name my song would praise,A patriot soul so brave,That dared the forest’s lonely wildsFitzGibbon’s post to save.
Noble woman! heroic soul!We would honor thee to-day;Thou canst not, shall not be forgot.More lustrous is the rayTime reflects upon thy deed.Thy talismanic name—Canadians, sound it through the land,Perpetuate her fadeless fame!
Oh, the sea! the sea! how it stirs my soul,As its bright bounding billows onward roll;Unfettered they toss their crests on high,As if to assault the far vaulted sky.Oh, the sea! the sea! when it murmurs sweet,And its silver waves fall down at my feet;And it flashes and ripples in sunny smiles,Far away by a thousand happy isles.Oh, the sea! the sea! when the wild winds roar,And its thunderous waves rush on the shore;And the dread tempest sweeps the storm-torn sky,And the world is drown’d in its madden’d cry.Oh, the sea! the sea! when the stars’ pale lightTwinkle afar through the realms of night;And the silver moon looks down on the tide,O’er its undulating bosom far and wide.Oh, the sea! the sea! unchained and free;A limitless, typical mysteryOf eternity; how it rolls, it rolls,And its awesome voice is warning men’s souls!Oh, the sea! the sea! what of the lone gravesOf the lov’d and lost in thy unknown caves?Where are the ships of a thousand stern years?Man’s buried hopes, and his million tears?But the sea! the sea! ’tis my glowing theme,And I love to ponder beside it and dream,With the lights and shadows falling between,The weird phantom land of the might have been.Oh, the sea! the sea! when I yearn for rest,And the sun falls down in the purple west,I seek thy shadowed and wave-worn shore,And restful repose my bosom steals o’er.
Oh, the sea! the sea! how it stirs my soul,As its bright bounding billows onward roll;Unfettered they toss their crests on high,As if to assault the far vaulted sky.Oh, the sea! the sea! when it murmurs sweet,And its silver waves fall down at my feet;And it flashes and ripples in sunny smiles,Far away by a thousand happy isles.Oh, the sea! the sea! when the wild winds roar,And its thunderous waves rush on the shore;And the dread tempest sweeps the storm-torn sky,And the world is drown’d in its madden’d cry.Oh, the sea! the sea! when the stars’ pale lightTwinkle afar through the realms of night;And the silver moon looks down on the tide,O’er its undulating bosom far and wide.Oh, the sea! the sea! unchained and free;A limitless, typical mysteryOf eternity; how it rolls, it rolls,And its awesome voice is warning men’s souls!Oh, the sea! the sea! what of the lone gravesOf the lov’d and lost in thy unknown caves?Where are the ships of a thousand stern years?Man’s buried hopes, and his million tears?But the sea! the sea! ’tis my glowing theme,And I love to ponder beside it and dream,With the lights and shadows falling between,The weird phantom land of the might have been.Oh, the sea! the sea! when I yearn for rest,And the sun falls down in the purple west,I seek thy shadowed and wave-worn shore,And restful repose my bosom steals o’er.
Oh, the sea! the sea! how it stirs my soul,As its bright bounding billows onward roll;Unfettered they toss their crests on high,As if to assault the far vaulted sky.
Oh, the sea! the sea! when it murmurs sweet,And its silver waves fall down at my feet;And it flashes and ripples in sunny smiles,Far away by a thousand happy isles.
Oh, the sea! the sea! when the wild winds roar,And its thunderous waves rush on the shore;And the dread tempest sweeps the storm-torn sky,And the world is drown’d in its madden’d cry.
Oh, the sea! the sea! when the stars’ pale lightTwinkle afar through the realms of night;And the silver moon looks down on the tide,O’er its undulating bosom far and wide.
Oh, the sea! the sea! unchained and free;A limitless, typical mysteryOf eternity; how it rolls, it rolls,And its awesome voice is warning men’s souls!
Oh, the sea! the sea! what of the lone gravesOf the lov’d and lost in thy unknown caves?Where are the ships of a thousand stern years?Man’s buried hopes, and his million tears?
But the sea! the sea! ’tis my glowing theme,And I love to ponder beside it and dream,With the lights and shadows falling between,The weird phantom land of the might have been.
Oh, the sea! the sea! when I yearn for rest,And the sun falls down in the purple west,I seek thy shadowed and wave-worn shore,And restful repose my bosom steals o’er.
Fought July 25th, 1814. American Force, 5,000; British and Canadians, 2,800.
Thesummer sun down the sky fell low,And soft, cool winds more gently did blow,And the stream swept by with resistless flowOn that July eve of the long ago,—A lovely landscape as ever was seen,And nature’s serenity crowned the scene.A gold light shimmered o’er hill and stream,And the shadows lengthened softly between.Thus o’er this beautiful Canadian landFell the hush of nature, soothing and bland.But hark! on the startled ear there comesThe blare of trumpets and roll of drums,And war’s dread panoply bursts on the scene,With its rumbling roar and thunder between,As the bannered foe draws proudly nigh,And the outposts before them quickly fly.But Drummond draws up on the famous plain,On the undulations of Lundy’s Lane.On a rise in the centre his guns he placed,Deployed his infantry, and sternly facedThe menacing foe in battle-array,As the shades crept out on the dying day.Sixteen hundred dauntless, determined soulsThe heroic Drummond proudly controls.In contiguous lines the foe now comes,To the blare of trumpet and beat of drums,With supporting columns to reinforceAnd cheer the lines on their onward course.Drummond’s batteries open with deafening roar,Shaking the trembling river and shore;And hundreds go down in the deadly storm:Torn are their ranks, but again they re-form,Move forward once more with a rush and cry,Confident that Drummond will turn and fly.But he stands fast, and his battery flashes,And his sturdy infantry volleys and crashesOn the brave advancing lines of the foeRushing up from the slope below.Brown’s infantry charged to the battery’s side,But to capture the guns in vain they tried.They were met with the steel by Drummond’s menAnd hurled confused down the slope again.They tried it again—rushed forward once more,But broke like a wave on a rock-bound shore!Brown’s supports were brought up, and his cannon roared,All along the lines the infantry pouredA withering, ceaseless and consuming fire:And the rage of battle grew wilder, higher.The enemy charged and charged againTill their life-blood crimsoned the emerald plain,And the awful din and the carnage thereFilled wives’ and mothers’ hearts with despair.At length the long twilight closed aroundThe smoking cannon and death-strewn ground,And the pitying night drew o’er the sceneOf horror a mournful and sable screen.Still amid the darkness they fighting fell,And the surging ranks bore a fire of hell!Muzzle to muzzle the hot guns stormed,Rending the ranks that again re-formed,And rushed to the charge again and againThrough the infantry’s fire and batteries’ flame.The guns were won, and retaken againIn the revel of death, at Lundy’s Lane.Here Riall came up with twelve hundred more,To the help of Drummond, bleeding and sore:Twelve hundred Canadians and regulars to standTo the death for this proud Canadian land.The brave foe brought up reinforcements, too,Determined Drummond’s lines to pierce through;And they close in a mad, mad rush again,And the roar of the hot guns shake the plain.Lurid, red flashes illumine the night,Revealing a moment the dreadful sightOf the lines struggling there in the gloom,Where hundreds go down to a gory doom.But Drummond the foemen foiled everywhere,And disheartened, on the verge of despair,At the midnight hour they fled from the field,—Broken and beaten, they were forced to yield.Throwing their baggage in the stream, in frightThey fled away in a desperate plight.The moon had risen o’er the pitiful scene,Her lovely face, all mild and serene,Lighting up the horror of carnage there,Revealing the ghastly and upward stareOf pale, dead faces peering out of the gloom,Just touched by the silvery midnight moon.Lay them away on the hard-fought fieldWhere the musketry volleyed and cannon pealed!War’s tumult shall rouse them again no more,The heroic dead by the river’s shore.Slumber on, brave hearts! ye do battle no moreNear Niagara’s awesome, eternal roar!Oh, land of the Maple Leaf so fair,Breathe even to-day a fervent prayerFor those intrepid souls who, fighting, fellFor home and country they loved so well.Canadians! tell it—repeat it again—How our fathers stood there at Lundy’s Lane,With the regulars fearlessly side by side—Stood there as heroes, conquered and died.To rescue this land from the invader’s treadThat field was piled with immortal dead.
Thesummer sun down the sky fell low,And soft, cool winds more gently did blow,And the stream swept by with resistless flowOn that July eve of the long ago,—A lovely landscape as ever was seen,And nature’s serenity crowned the scene.A gold light shimmered o’er hill and stream,And the shadows lengthened softly between.Thus o’er this beautiful Canadian landFell the hush of nature, soothing and bland.But hark! on the startled ear there comesThe blare of trumpets and roll of drums,And war’s dread panoply bursts on the scene,With its rumbling roar and thunder between,As the bannered foe draws proudly nigh,And the outposts before them quickly fly.But Drummond draws up on the famous plain,On the undulations of Lundy’s Lane.On a rise in the centre his guns he placed,Deployed his infantry, and sternly facedThe menacing foe in battle-array,As the shades crept out on the dying day.Sixteen hundred dauntless, determined soulsThe heroic Drummond proudly controls.In contiguous lines the foe now comes,To the blare of trumpet and beat of drums,With supporting columns to reinforceAnd cheer the lines on their onward course.Drummond’s batteries open with deafening roar,Shaking the trembling river and shore;And hundreds go down in the deadly storm:Torn are their ranks, but again they re-form,Move forward once more with a rush and cry,Confident that Drummond will turn and fly.But he stands fast, and his battery flashes,And his sturdy infantry volleys and crashesOn the brave advancing lines of the foeRushing up from the slope below.Brown’s infantry charged to the battery’s side,But to capture the guns in vain they tried.They were met with the steel by Drummond’s menAnd hurled confused down the slope again.They tried it again—rushed forward once more,But broke like a wave on a rock-bound shore!Brown’s supports were brought up, and his cannon roared,All along the lines the infantry pouredA withering, ceaseless and consuming fire:And the rage of battle grew wilder, higher.The enemy charged and charged againTill their life-blood crimsoned the emerald plain,And the awful din and the carnage thereFilled wives’ and mothers’ hearts with despair.At length the long twilight closed aroundThe smoking cannon and death-strewn ground,And the pitying night drew o’er the sceneOf horror a mournful and sable screen.Still amid the darkness they fighting fell,And the surging ranks bore a fire of hell!Muzzle to muzzle the hot guns stormed,Rending the ranks that again re-formed,And rushed to the charge again and againThrough the infantry’s fire and batteries’ flame.The guns were won, and retaken againIn the revel of death, at Lundy’s Lane.Here Riall came up with twelve hundred more,To the help of Drummond, bleeding and sore:Twelve hundred Canadians and regulars to standTo the death for this proud Canadian land.The brave foe brought up reinforcements, too,Determined Drummond’s lines to pierce through;And they close in a mad, mad rush again,And the roar of the hot guns shake the plain.Lurid, red flashes illumine the night,Revealing a moment the dreadful sightOf the lines struggling there in the gloom,Where hundreds go down to a gory doom.But Drummond the foemen foiled everywhere,And disheartened, on the verge of despair,At the midnight hour they fled from the field,—Broken and beaten, they were forced to yield.Throwing their baggage in the stream, in frightThey fled away in a desperate plight.The moon had risen o’er the pitiful scene,Her lovely face, all mild and serene,Lighting up the horror of carnage there,Revealing the ghastly and upward stareOf pale, dead faces peering out of the gloom,Just touched by the silvery midnight moon.Lay them away on the hard-fought fieldWhere the musketry volleyed and cannon pealed!War’s tumult shall rouse them again no more,The heroic dead by the river’s shore.Slumber on, brave hearts! ye do battle no moreNear Niagara’s awesome, eternal roar!Oh, land of the Maple Leaf so fair,Breathe even to-day a fervent prayerFor those intrepid souls who, fighting, fellFor home and country they loved so well.Canadians! tell it—repeat it again—How our fathers stood there at Lundy’s Lane,With the regulars fearlessly side by side—Stood there as heroes, conquered and died.To rescue this land from the invader’s treadThat field was piled with immortal dead.
Thesummer sun down the sky fell low,And soft, cool winds more gently did blow,And the stream swept by with resistless flowOn that July eve of the long ago,—A lovely landscape as ever was seen,And nature’s serenity crowned the scene.A gold light shimmered o’er hill and stream,And the shadows lengthened softly between.Thus o’er this beautiful Canadian landFell the hush of nature, soothing and bland.
But hark! on the startled ear there comesThe blare of trumpets and roll of drums,And war’s dread panoply bursts on the scene,With its rumbling roar and thunder between,As the bannered foe draws proudly nigh,And the outposts before them quickly fly.But Drummond draws up on the famous plain,On the undulations of Lundy’s Lane.
On a rise in the centre his guns he placed,Deployed his infantry, and sternly facedThe menacing foe in battle-array,As the shades crept out on the dying day.Sixteen hundred dauntless, determined soulsThe heroic Drummond proudly controls.
In contiguous lines the foe now comes,To the blare of trumpet and beat of drums,With supporting columns to reinforceAnd cheer the lines on their onward course.Drummond’s batteries open with deafening roar,Shaking the trembling river and shore;And hundreds go down in the deadly storm:Torn are their ranks, but again they re-form,Move forward once more with a rush and cry,Confident that Drummond will turn and fly.But he stands fast, and his battery flashes,And his sturdy infantry volleys and crashesOn the brave advancing lines of the foeRushing up from the slope below.Brown’s infantry charged to the battery’s side,But to capture the guns in vain they tried.They were met with the steel by Drummond’s menAnd hurled confused down the slope again.They tried it again—rushed forward once more,But broke like a wave on a rock-bound shore!
Brown’s supports were brought up, and his cannon roared,All along the lines the infantry pouredA withering, ceaseless and consuming fire:And the rage of battle grew wilder, higher.The enemy charged and charged againTill their life-blood crimsoned the emerald plain,And the awful din and the carnage thereFilled wives’ and mothers’ hearts with despair.
At length the long twilight closed aroundThe smoking cannon and death-strewn ground,And the pitying night drew o’er the sceneOf horror a mournful and sable screen.Still amid the darkness they fighting fell,And the surging ranks bore a fire of hell!Muzzle to muzzle the hot guns stormed,Rending the ranks that again re-formed,And rushed to the charge again and againThrough the infantry’s fire and batteries’ flame.The guns were won, and retaken againIn the revel of death, at Lundy’s Lane.
Here Riall came up with twelve hundred more,To the help of Drummond, bleeding and sore:Twelve hundred Canadians and regulars to standTo the death for this proud Canadian land.The brave foe brought up reinforcements, too,Determined Drummond’s lines to pierce through;And they close in a mad, mad rush again,And the roar of the hot guns shake the plain.Lurid, red flashes illumine the night,Revealing a moment the dreadful sightOf the lines struggling there in the gloom,Where hundreds go down to a gory doom.
But Drummond the foemen foiled everywhere,And disheartened, on the verge of despair,At the midnight hour they fled from the field,—Broken and beaten, they were forced to yield.Throwing their baggage in the stream, in frightThey fled away in a desperate plight.
The moon had risen o’er the pitiful scene,Her lovely face, all mild and serene,Lighting up the horror of carnage there,Revealing the ghastly and upward stareOf pale, dead faces peering out of the gloom,Just touched by the silvery midnight moon.Lay them away on the hard-fought fieldWhere the musketry volleyed and cannon pealed!War’s tumult shall rouse them again no more,The heroic dead by the river’s shore.Slumber on, brave hearts! ye do battle no moreNear Niagara’s awesome, eternal roar!
Oh, land of the Maple Leaf so fair,Breathe even to-day a fervent prayerFor those intrepid souls who, fighting, fellFor home and country they loved so well.Canadians! tell it—repeat it again—How our fathers stood there at Lundy’s Lane,With the regulars fearlessly side by side—Stood there as heroes, conquered and died.To rescue this land from the invader’s treadThat field was piled with immortal dead.
I wanther woman’s kisses,I want her love and truthAnd e’er as kind and gentleAs in the days of youth.I want her e’er beside me,Not enslaved, but free;A help in time of trouble,And a comfort unto me.We’d share life’s joys together,Of its ills bear equal part;In storm, or sunny weather,Trust each other’s faithful heart.I’d have her loving counselWhen perplexed with care;When the clouds are lowering,And threatening everywhere.I’d hear her happy laughterRippling light and gay;And list her sweet voice singingTender songs, that drive awayThe petty irritationsThat fret life’s every day,And if not quickly banishedTurn the bluest skies to gray.I want her with the childrenTo guard their tender feet;To soothe and ever bless themWith her presence fair and sweet.’Tis mother’s subtle influenceThat makes or mars us all:By her early lessons givenWe either rise or fall.And when the skies are smilingO’er all the summer land,And nature is enraptured,I’d clasp her gentle hand,And list the songs that greet us,Hear the wind’s plaint and sigh,Wooing the summer’s beautyAs it softly treadeth by.I’d look when twilight fallethOn the world in dreamy rest,And golden rays still lingerIn glory in the west.In that rapt quiet hourWe’d watch the pale moon rise,And in the tender silenceDream of fadeless Paradise.When the shadow-land I enter,And fails life’s fleeting breath,I’d cross the stream beside her,The stream that we call death.Life’s years of light and shadow,Passed in sweet felicity,Should be but the beginningOf our day, eternity.
I wanther woman’s kisses,I want her love and truthAnd e’er as kind and gentleAs in the days of youth.I want her e’er beside me,Not enslaved, but free;A help in time of trouble,And a comfort unto me.We’d share life’s joys together,Of its ills bear equal part;In storm, or sunny weather,Trust each other’s faithful heart.I’d have her loving counselWhen perplexed with care;When the clouds are lowering,And threatening everywhere.I’d hear her happy laughterRippling light and gay;And list her sweet voice singingTender songs, that drive awayThe petty irritationsThat fret life’s every day,And if not quickly banishedTurn the bluest skies to gray.I want her with the childrenTo guard their tender feet;To soothe and ever bless themWith her presence fair and sweet.’Tis mother’s subtle influenceThat makes or mars us all:By her early lessons givenWe either rise or fall.And when the skies are smilingO’er all the summer land,And nature is enraptured,I’d clasp her gentle hand,And list the songs that greet us,Hear the wind’s plaint and sigh,Wooing the summer’s beautyAs it softly treadeth by.I’d look when twilight fallethOn the world in dreamy rest,And golden rays still lingerIn glory in the west.In that rapt quiet hourWe’d watch the pale moon rise,And in the tender silenceDream of fadeless Paradise.When the shadow-land I enter,And fails life’s fleeting breath,I’d cross the stream beside her,The stream that we call death.Life’s years of light and shadow,Passed in sweet felicity,Should be but the beginningOf our day, eternity.
I wanther woman’s kisses,I want her love and truthAnd e’er as kind and gentleAs in the days of youth.I want her e’er beside me,Not enslaved, but free;A help in time of trouble,And a comfort unto me.
We’d share life’s joys together,Of its ills bear equal part;In storm, or sunny weather,Trust each other’s faithful heart.I’d have her loving counselWhen perplexed with care;When the clouds are lowering,And threatening everywhere.
I’d hear her happy laughterRippling light and gay;And list her sweet voice singingTender songs, that drive awayThe petty irritationsThat fret life’s every day,And if not quickly banishedTurn the bluest skies to gray.
I want her with the childrenTo guard their tender feet;To soothe and ever bless themWith her presence fair and sweet.’Tis mother’s subtle influenceThat makes or mars us all:By her early lessons givenWe either rise or fall.
And when the skies are smilingO’er all the summer land,And nature is enraptured,I’d clasp her gentle hand,And list the songs that greet us,Hear the wind’s plaint and sigh,Wooing the summer’s beautyAs it softly treadeth by.
I’d look when twilight fallethOn the world in dreamy rest,And golden rays still lingerIn glory in the west.In that rapt quiet hourWe’d watch the pale moon rise,And in the tender silenceDream of fadeless Paradise.
When the shadow-land I enter,And fails life’s fleeting breath,I’d cross the stream beside her,The stream that we call death.Life’s years of light and shadow,Passed in sweet felicity,Should be but the beginningOf our day, eternity.
I wasrapt in unutterable amazeAs I looked upon its awful front,And saw the terrific roll of watersAs down the deadly mesmeric gorge they fellIn power irresistible, tremendous,As if the wrath of God would rend the world asunderFor the sin and wrong that man hath done!And the earth trembled as one in fear—And the thunderous roar of its awesome voiceMade all else seem silent as the dead!Yet, majestic and supremely beautiful art thouWhen the god of day pours o’er thy front his wondrous light,Or when the golden stars and dreaming, silvery moonLighteth up the slumb’rous shadows of the night.Aye, thou art sublime, though terrible, Niagara!How diminutive are man’s works compared to thee!Thou awe-inspiring, terrific world-wide wonder—Marvellous work of the Deity!And thou hast rolled and rolled, Niagara;Adown the ages of the dim, mysterious pastThou hast thundered in derision of the flight of time,And mocked when nations to the grave were cast!But the Creator holds thee in the hollow of His hand,And when the sea shall render up its ghastly deadThou shalt be shorn of thy stupendous power,And bow thy cruel and imperious head.
I wasrapt in unutterable amazeAs I looked upon its awful front,And saw the terrific roll of watersAs down the deadly mesmeric gorge they fellIn power irresistible, tremendous,As if the wrath of God would rend the world asunderFor the sin and wrong that man hath done!And the earth trembled as one in fear—And the thunderous roar of its awesome voiceMade all else seem silent as the dead!Yet, majestic and supremely beautiful art thouWhen the god of day pours o’er thy front his wondrous light,Or when the golden stars and dreaming, silvery moonLighteth up the slumb’rous shadows of the night.Aye, thou art sublime, though terrible, Niagara!How diminutive are man’s works compared to thee!Thou awe-inspiring, terrific world-wide wonder—Marvellous work of the Deity!And thou hast rolled and rolled, Niagara;Adown the ages of the dim, mysterious pastThou hast thundered in derision of the flight of time,And mocked when nations to the grave were cast!But the Creator holds thee in the hollow of His hand,And when the sea shall render up its ghastly deadThou shalt be shorn of thy stupendous power,And bow thy cruel and imperious head.
I wasrapt in unutterable amazeAs I looked upon its awful front,And saw the terrific roll of watersAs down the deadly mesmeric gorge they fellIn power irresistible, tremendous,As if the wrath of God would rend the world asunderFor the sin and wrong that man hath done!And the earth trembled as one in fear—And the thunderous roar of its awesome voiceMade all else seem silent as the dead!
Yet, majestic and supremely beautiful art thouWhen the god of day pours o’er thy front his wondrous light,Or when the golden stars and dreaming, silvery moonLighteth up the slumb’rous shadows of the night.Aye, thou art sublime, though terrible, Niagara!How diminutive are man’s works compared to thee!Thou awe-inspiring, terrific world-wide wonder—Marvellous work of the Deity!
And thou hast rolled and rolled, Niagara;Adown the ages of the dim, mysterious pastThou hast thundered in derision of the flight of time,And mocked when nations to the grave were cast!But the Creator holds thee in the hollow of His hand,And when the sea shall render up its ghastly deadThou shalt be shorn of thy stupendous power,And bow thy cruel and imperious head.
Alongthe shores of Point Pelee,Three hundred years ago,The summer sun in rapture shone,And pure winds soft did blow.The laughing waters rose and fellIn soft caressing lave;And flashing sea-birds dipt their wings,And white gulls skimmed the wave.The mallard ducks in thousands flewAlong the rippling tide,And eagles soared in heaven’s blueIn freedom far and wide;And gay kingfishers watched the surf,And divers cleaved the deep.Across the waters far awayStole murmurs strange and sweet.The finny tribes in schools did glideAlong the sandy bars;The splendor of their jewelled sidesFlashed up like silver stars.The sturgeon floundered in their glee,Mud pouts and cats at play—A subtle gladness brooded thereThroughout the fair sweet day.The warm south winds stole o’er the lakeAlong the shifting bars;The bright waves met in dashing foam,Flashing like crystal stars.And skies serene, divinely blue,Met the enraptured gaze;On the horizon far awayHung a delicious haze.Ashore! ashore! let’s leap ashore,And glide ’neath cedar shade,Where pine trees raise their fronded crestsO’er many a sylvan glade;Where juniper in clusters grow,And twining vines wreathe o’erThe nooks and winding velvet waysThat reach from shore to shore.The walnut and the oak tree, too,Their sturdy forms uprear;The haunts of squirrel and raccoon,Wild-cat and savage bear,And mink and otter haunt these shades.Their wants are all supplied;Sleek creatures, how they frisk and playIn all their graceful pride!Oft, too, is heard the howl of wolf,When night-time closes down;The sylvan glades, lost in the shades,With their fierce cries resound.The bounding deer and graceful fawnHere, too, have made their home;Untamed, unfettered, and all free,These lovely haunts they roam.Hark to that wave of melody,That here so sweetly thrills;It flows from all the nooks and glens,And from the sunlit hills!O wrens, and redbirds fair and sweet,Jays, robins, join the song,And bluebirds with the azure wing,A blithe and happy throng!The whippoorwill, and catbird, too,Whose song steals on the night,The chatter of the festive owlThat shouts in weird delight!A thousand voices join the lay,And rhythmic fluttering wingsOf every hue play interludeTo the hymn that nature sings.See, the flowers of every hue—Wild roses like a dream—Breathe out their incense on the air,Odorous and serene!The lily and the violet sweetPeep up on every side,And buttercups and wild bluebellsIn all their native pride.
Alongthe shores of Point Pelee,Three hundred years ago,The summer sun in rapture shone,And pure winds soft did blow.The laughing waters rose and fellIn soft caressing lave;And flashing sea-birds dipt their wings,And white gulls skimmed the wave.The mallard ducks in thousands flewAlong the rippling tide,And eagles soared in heaven’s blueIn freedom far and wide;And gay kingfishers watched the surf,And divers cleaved the deep.Across the waters far awayStole murmurs strange and sweet.The finny tribes in schools did glideAlong the sandy bars;The splendor of their jewelled sidesFlashed up like silver stars.The sturgeon floundered in their glee,Mud pouts and cats at play—A subtle gladness brooded thereThroughout the fair sweet day.The warm south winds stole o’er the lakeAlong the shifting bars;The bright waves met in dashing foam,Flashing like crystal stars.And skies serene, divinely blue,Met the enraptured gaze;On the horizon far awayHung a delicious haze.Ashore! ashore! let’s leap ashore,And glide ’neath cedar shade,Where pine trees raise their fronded crestsO’er many a sylvan glade;Where juniper in clusters grow,And twining vines wreathe o’erThe nooks and winding velvet waysThat reach from shore to shore.The walnut and the oak tree, too,Their sturdy forms uprear;The haunts of squirrel and raccoon,Wild-cat and savage bear,And mink and otter haunt these shades.Their wants are all supplied;Sleek creatures, how they frisk and playIn all their graceful pride!Oft, too, is heard the howl of wolf,When night-time closes down;The sylvan glades, lost in the shades,With their fierce cries resound.The bounding deer and graceful fawnHere, too, have made their home;Untamed, unfettered, and all free,These lovely haunts they roam.Hark to that wave of melody,That here so sweetly thrills;It flows from all the nooks and glens,And from the sunlit hills!O wrens, and redbirds fair and sweet,Jays, robins, join the song,And bluebirds with the azure wing,A blithe and happy throng!The whippoorwill, and catbird, too,Whose song steals on the night,The chatter of the festive owlThat shouts in weird delight!A thousand voices join the lay,And rhythmic fluttering wingsOf every hue play interludeTo the hymn that nature sings.See, the flowers of every hue—Wild roses like a dream—Breathe out their incense on the air,Odorous and serene!The lily and the violet sweetPeep up on every side,And buttercups and wild bluebellsIn all their native pride.
Alongthe shores of Point Pelee,Three hundred years ago,The summer sun in rapture shone,And pure winds soft did blow.The laughing waters rose and fellIn soft caressing lave;And flashing sea-birds dipt their wings,And white gulls skimmed the wave.
The mallard ducks in thousands flewAlong the rippling tide,And eagles soared in heaven’s blueIn freedom far and wide;And gay kingfishers watched the surf,And divers cleaved the deep.Across the waters far awayStole murmurs strange and sweet.
The finny tribes in schools did glideAlong the sandy bars;The splendor of their jewelled sidesFlashed up like silver stars.The sturgeon floundered in their glee,Mud pouts and cats at play—A subtle gladness brooded thereThroughout the fair sweet day.
The warm south winds stole o’er the lakeAlong the shifting bars;The bright waves met in dashing foam,Flashing like crystal stars.And skies serene, divinely blue,Met the enraptured gaze;On the horizon far awayHung a delicious haze.
Ashore! ashore! let’s leap ashore,And glide ’neath cedar shade,Where pine trees raise their fronded crestsO’er many a sylvan glade;Where juniper in clusters grow,And twining vines wreathe o’erThe nooks and winding velvet waysThat reach from shore to shore.
The walnut and the oak tree, too,Their sturdy forms uprear;The haunts of squirrel and raccoon,Wild-cat and savage bear,And mink and otter haunt these shades.Their wants are all supplied;Sleek creatures, how they frisk and playIn all their graceful pride!
Oft, too, is heard the howl of wolf,When night-time closes down;The sylvan glades, lost in the shades,With their fierce cries resound.The bounding deer and graceful fawnHere, too, have made their home;Untamed, unfettered, and all free,These lovely haunts they roam.
Hark to that wave of melody,That here so sweetly thrills;It flows from all the nooks and glens,And from the sunlit hills!O wrens, and redbirds fair and sweet,Jays, robins, join the song,And bluebirds with the azure wing,A blithe and happy throng!
The whippoorwill, and catbird, too,Whose song steals on the night,The chatter of the festive owlThat shouts in weird delight!A thousand voices join the lay,And rhythmic fluttering wingsOf every hue play interludeTo the hymn that nature sings.
See, the flowers of every hue—Wild roses like a dream—Breathe out their incense on the air,Odorous and serene!The lily and the violet sweetPeep up on every side,And buttercups and wild bluebellsIn all their native pride.
Ah! Nature with a lavish handHath here her treasures strewn,All undisturbed by ruthless manThat scathes and mars too soon.Back o’er the silent phantom past,Three hundred years ago,Fair Point Pelee in rapture layWhere laughing waters flow.’Twas here the red man made his home,Beneath the cedar shade;The wigwams rose so quaint and queerBy quiet nook and glade.This, the home of the Ojibways,Fierce, untamed, and free;They dwelt in peace and plenteousnessBeside this inland sea.And Manitou had blest them soWith fish and luscious game;The hunting grounds were so repleteBefore the white man came!Where now are termed the “Indian fields”They grew the Indian corn,And laugh and song with sweet contentRoused up the summer morn.Far on the north the marshlands lay,And pond, and wide lagoon;The home of snipe and mallard ducks,Geese, teal, and lonely loon.Among the reeds, and rushes, too,The muskrats built their homes;They dotted o’er the wide expanseWith quaint, ingenious domes.And Willow Island far away,Stirred by the toying breezeThat makes the rice and grass fields waveLike tossing emerald seas.From east to west, from shore to shore,The teeming marshlands lay;The Narrows, by the western shore,A picturesque causeway.The pass that leads by Sturgeon Creek,And circles Pigeon Bay,By which are reached fair Seacliff Heights,And regions far away;And looking southward, where the sunIn golden splendor smilesOn Pelee Island, fitly crownedThe queen of Erie’s isles.Aye, here it was, the red man’s home,Three hundred years ago;And peace and plenty blest his lotBy the bright water’s flow.He had the teeming forest gladesFor every kind of game;And Erie’s fulness rendered upFine fish of every name.He drew on all the wide marshlandsFor furs both soft and warm;The bear and wild wolf tribute gave;And when the winter’s stormWhitened upon the sleeping hills,Prepared, and safe from harm,The wigwams all with plenty stored,He knew no fell alarm.Ah! oft these shores resoundedTo his children’s sport so gay,And the songs of Indian maidens,Graceful as fawns at play;And the shout and free, wild laughterOf youths at game by day;Or as o’er the laughing watersIn canoes they bore away.Sometimes to the distant islands,Or over Pigeon Bay,They went in bold adventureBy sun, or star’s pale ray.But the chiefs and older huntsmenSmoked in serene content;Many moons had taught them wisdom,Calmness they with pleasure blent.Thus in the summer’s raptureLife was a peaceful dream;And when winter fell upon themThe wigwams were sereneWith warmth, good cheer and comfort:The red man loved his home;From his kindred and his nationHis heart would never roam.He believed in the Great Spirit;His subtle soul would thrillTo the voices heard in nature,That taught the Great Spirit’s will.Strange, mysterious people!Who can thy origin trace?Are ye one of the lost ten tribesOf Israel’s wandering race?
Ah! Nature with a lavish handHath here her treasures strewn,All undisturbed by ruthless manThat scathes and mars too soon.Back o’er the silent phantom past,Three hundred years ago,Fair Point Pelee in rapture layWhere laughing waters flow.’Twas here the red man made his home,Beneath the cedar shade;The wigwams rose so quaint and queerBy quiet nook and glade.This, the home of the Ojibways,Fierce, untamed, and free;They dwelt in peace and plenteousnessBeside this inland sea.And Manitou had blest them soWith fish and luscious game;The hunting grounds were so repleteBefore the white man came!Where now are termed the “Indian fields”They grew the Indian corn,And laugh and song with sweet contentRoused up the summer morn.Far on the north the marshlands lay,And pond, and wide lagoon;The home of snipe and mallard ducks,Geese, teal, and lonely loon.Among the reeds, and rushes, too,The muskrats built their homes;They dotted o’er the wide expanseWith quaint, ingenious domes.And Willow Island far away,Stirred by the toying breezeThat makes the rice and grass fields waveLike tossing emerald seas.From east to west, from shore to shore,The teeming marshlands lay;The Narrows, by the western shore,A picturesque causeway.The pass that leads by Sturgeon Creek,And circles Pigeon Bay,By which are reached fair Seacliff Heights,And regions far away;And looking southward, where the sunIn golden splendor smilesOn Pelee Island, fitly crownedThe queen of Erie’s isles.Aye, here it was, the red man’s home,Three hundred years ago;And peace and plenty blest his lotBy the bright water’s flow.He had the teeming forest gladesFor every kind of game;And Erie’s fulness rendered upFine fish of every name.He drew on all the wide marshlandsFor furs both soft and warm;The bear and wild wolf tribute gave;And when the winter’s stormWhitened upon the sleeping hills,Prepared, and safe from harm,The wigwams all with plenty stored,He knew no fell alarm.Ah! oft these shores resoundedTo his children’s sport so gay,And the songs of Indian maidens,Graceful as fawns at play;And the shout and free, wild laughterOf youths at game by day;Or as o’er the laughing watersIn canoes they bore away.Sometimes to the distant islands,Or over Pigeon Bay,They went in bold adventureBy sun, or star’s pale ray.But the chiefs and older huntsmenSmoked in serene content;Many moons had taught them wisdom,Calmness they with pleasure blent.Thus in the summer’s raptureLife was a peaceful dream;And when winter fell upon themThe wigwams were sereneWith warmth, good cheer and comfort:The red man loved his home;From his kindred and his nationHis heart would never roam.He believed in the Great Spirit;His subtle soul would thrillTo the voices heard in nature,That taught the Great Spirit’s will.Strange, mysterious people!Who can thy origin trace?Are ye one of the lost ten tribesOf Israel’s wandering race?
Ah! Nature with a lavish handHath here her treasures strewn,All undisturbed by ruthless manThat scathes and mars too soon.Back o’er the silent phantom past,Three hundred years ago,Fair Point Pelee in rapture layWhere laughing waters flow.
’Twas here the red man made his home,Beneath the cedar shade;The wigwams rose so quaint and queerBy quiet nook and glade.This, the home of the Ojibways,Fierce, untamed, and free;They dwelt in peace and plenteousnessBeside this inland sea.
And Manitou had blest them soWith fish and luscious game;The hunting grounds were so repleteBefore the white man came!Where now are termed the “Indian fields”They grew the Indian corn,And laugh and song with sweet contentRoused up the summer morn.
Far on the north the marshlands lay,And pond, and wide lagoon;The home of snipe and mallard ducks,Geese, teal, and lonely loon.Among the reeds, and rushes, too,The muskrats built their homes;They dotted o’er the wide expanseWith quaint, ingenious domes.
And Willow Island far away,Stirred by the toying breezeThat makes the rice and grass fields waveLike tossing emerald seas.From east to west, from shore to shore,The teeming marshlands lay;The Narrows, by the western shore,A picturesque causeway.
The pass that leads by Sturgeon Creek,And circles Pigeon Bay,By which are reached fair Seacliff Heights,And regions far away;And looking southward, where the sunIn golden splendor smilesOn Pelee Island, fitly crownedThe queen of Erie’s isles.
Aye, here it was, the red man’s home,Three hundred years ago;And peace and plenty blest his lotBy the bright water’s flow.He had the teeming forest gladesFor every kind of game;And Erie’s fulness rendered upFine fish of every name.
He drew on all the wide marshlandsFor furs both soft and warm;The bear and wild wolf tribute gave;And when the winter’s stormWhitened upon the sleeping hills,Prepared, and safe from harm,The wigwams all with plenty stored,He knew no fell alarm.
Ah! oft these shores resoundedTo his children’s sport so gay,And the songs of Indian maidens,Graceful as fawns at play;And the shout and free, wild laughterOf youths at game by day;Or as o’er the laughing watersIn canoes they bore away.
Sometimes to the distant islands,Or over Pigeon Bay,They went in bold adventureBy sun, or star’s pale ray.But the chiefs and older huntsmenSmoked in serene content;Many moons had taught them wisdom,Calmness they with pleasure blent.
Thus in the summer’s raptureLife was a peaceful dream;And when winter fell upon themThe wigwams were sereneWith warmth, good cheer and comfort:The red man loved his home;From his kindred and his nationHis heart would never roam.
He believed in the Great Spirit;His subtle soul would thrillTo the voices heard in nature,That taught the Great Spirit’s will.Strange, mysterious people!Who can thy origin trace?Are ye one of the lost ten tribesOf Israel’s wandering race?
Awake! awake, Ojibways!To dream in peace no more,For there comes a bold invaderFrom eastward by the shore.Rowing in swift, strong bateaux,With strokes both strong and long,To the cadence of fearless voicesIn a gay boatman’s song,Come full two hundred singers,In boats, a score or more,Far o’er the laughing waters,Skirting the eastern shore.Who are they, these fearless strangers,Armed with sword and lance,With arquebuse and musketoon?They are fiery sons of France,Exploring the boundless forests,Locating rivers and seas;Ignoring the red man’s title,Coming his rights to seize.Ha! they spy the eastern outletThat leads to the lagoon,Far across the teeming marshlands,The domain of teal and loon.They enter with eager spiritsThis strange tract to explore;And halting not, they discoverPoint Pelee’s western shore.A causeway of cedar and hillock,From lagoon to lake they trace;And their bateaux quickly transportBy way of the Carrying Place.And they gaze on the expansion,And cheerily launch away,And disappear in the distance,Across wide Pigeon Bay.The Ojibways in amazementSaw this strange concourse pass by;A foreboding premonitionWhispered of danger nigh.Mitwaos in council assembledHis chiefs and warriors brave;Many scores of fiery stalwarts,Of countenance stern and brave.And calmly they deliberated,Counselling for peace or war;Should they allow these daring strangersTheir sacred rights to mar?After the chiefs had spokenOf the pending dangers nigh,It was finally decidedThe strangers might pass byIn peace, and unmolested,If they did not interfereWith the vast teeming hunting groundsOf the nation, far and near.When three moons had waxed and waned,The voyageurs, returning, cameFrom over the western waters,Lit by the sunset’s flame.And they drew up at the Narrows,The Carrying Place again,A “cut” in the cedar hillocksAglow with autumn’s flame.De Orville, their gallant leader,And Pontgravé and Le Jeune,Knew their followers were weary,And made decision soonTo bivouac near the marshlandsFor a day of needed rest,And to replenish their commissariatWith fish and game the best.The camp-fires were all alightedAt the eve’s afterglow,And the pines and cedars quivered,And the waves made murmur low.The scene was worthy a Rembrandt,So rich the light and shade,And the starry vault above them,And the winds that whisper made.“A song! a song!” de Orville cried,“The night is rife with glory.Let’s while a merry hour awayIn singing and in story.”“A song! a song!” as one they cry,“Life hath enough of sorrow;Sing while we may with hearts so gay,Care cometh with the morrow.”“Le Jeune! Le Jeune! lead on, lead on,The stars are laughing o’er us;Give us thy latest and thy best,And we will join the chorus.”Le Jeune had a poetic soul,And voice of wondrous sweetness;He reached men’s better, nobler part,And won them to completeness.And the groups about the camp-fires,A picturesque, gay throng,Heard many a quaint old story,Pun, laugh, and ringing song;And thus ’mid the wilds of naturePassed the joyous hours away.Light-hearted, merry Voyageurs,Ever gallant and gay,Beside the deep glowing embers,Passed the night in calm repose,And in the soft early dawningRefreshened they uprose;And with arquebuse and musketoon,Spear, trap, and fishing-line,They scattered o’er the marshlandsAnd ’neath the haunts of pine.And from the Narrows and the shore,Marshlands and wide lagoons,There burst the crash of arquebuseAnd roar of musketoons.And all day long the sport went on;At eve they counted o’erA tempting hoard of luscious game,Right welcome to their store.
Awake! awake, Ojibways!To dream in peace no more,For there comes a bold invaderFrom eastward by the shore.Rowing in swift, strong bateaux,With strokes both strong and long,To the cadence of fearless voicesIn a gay boatman’s song,Come full two hundred singers,In boats, a score or more,Far o’er the laughing waters,Skirting the eastern shore.Who are they, these fearless strangers,Armed with sword and lance,With arquebuse and musketoon?They are fiery sons of France,Exploring the boundless forests,Locating rivers and seas;Ignoring the red man’s title,Coming his rights to seize.Ha! they spy the eastern outletThat leads to the lagoon,Far across the teeming marshlands,The domain of teal and loon.They enter with eager spiritsThis strange tract to explore;And halting not, they discoverPoint Pelee’s western shore.A causeway of cedar and hillock,From lagoon to lake they trace;And their bateaux quickly transportBy way of the Carrying Place.And they gaze on the expansion,And cheerily launch away,And disappear in the distance,Across wide Pigeon Bay.The Ojibways in amazementSaw this strange concourse pass by;A foreboding premonitionWhispered of danger nigh.Mitwaos in council assembledHis chiefs and warriors brave;Many scores of fiery stalwarts,Of countenance stern and brave.And calmly they deliberated,Counselling for peace or war;Should they allow these daring strangersTheir sacred rights to mar?After the chiefs had spokenOf the pending dangers nigh,It was finally decidedThe strangers might pass byIn peace, and unmolested,If they did not interfereWith the vast teeming hunting groundsOf the nation, far and near.When three moons had waxed and waned,The voyageurs, returning, cameFrom over the western waters,Lit by the sunset’s flame.And they drew up at the Narrows,The Carrying Place again,A “cut” in the cedar hillocksAglow with autumn’s flame.De Orville, their gallant leader,And Pontgravé and Le Jeune,Knew their followers were weary,And made decision soonTo bivouac near the marshlandsFor a day of needed rest,And to replenish their commissariatWith fish and game the best.The camp-fires were all alightedAt the eve’s afterglow,And the pines and cedars quivered,And the waves made murmur low.The scene was worthy a Rembrandt,So rich the light and shade,And the starry vault above them,And the winds that whisper made.“A song! a song!” de Orville cried,“The night is rife with glory.Let’s while a merry hour awayIn singing and in story.”“A song! a song!” as one they cry,“Life hath enough of sorrow;Sing while we may with hearts so gay,Care cometh with the morrow.”“Le Jeune! Le Jeune! lead on, lead on,The stars are laughing o’er us;Give us thy latest and thy best,And we will join the chorus.”Le Jeune had a poetic soul,And voice of wondrous sweetness;He reached men’s better, nobler part,And won them to completeness.And the groups about the camp-fires,A picturesque, gay throng,Heard many a quaint old story,Pun, laugh, and ringing song;And thus ’mid the wilds of naturePassed the joyous hours away.Light-hearted, merry Voyageurs,Ever gallant and gay,Beside the deep glowing embers,Passed the night in calm repose,And in the soft early dawningRefreshened they uprose;And with arquebuse and musketoon,Spear, trap, and fishing-line,They scattered o’er the marshlandsAnd ’neath the haunts of pine.And from the Narrows and the shore,Marshlands and wide lagoons,There burst the crash of arquebuseAnd roar of musketoons.And all day long the sport went on;At eve they counted o’erA tempting hoard of luscious game,Right welcome to their store.
Awake! awake, Ojibways!To dream in peace no more,For there comes a bold invaderFrom eastward by the shore.Rowing in swift, strong bateaux,With strokes both strong and long,To the cadence of fearless voicesIn a gay boatman’s song,
Come full two hundred singers,In boats, a score or more,Far o’er the laughing waters,Skirting the eastern shore.Who are they, these fearless strangers,Armed with sword and lance,With arquebuse and musketoon?They are fiery sons of France,
Exploring the boundless forests,Locating rivers and seas;Ignoring the red man’s title,Coming his rights to seize.Ha! they spy the eastern outletThat leads to the lagoon,Far across the teeming marshlands,The domain of teal and loon.
They enter with eager spiritsThis strange tract to explore;And halting not, they discoverPoint Pelee’s western shore.A causeway of cedar and hillock,From lagoon to lake they trace;And their bateaux quickly transportBy way of the Carrying Place.
And they gaze on the expansion,And cheerily launch away,And disappear in the distance,Across wide Pigeon Bay.The Ojibways in amazementSaw this strange concourse pass by;A foreboding premonitionWhispered of danger nigh.
Mitwaos in council assembledHis chiefs and warriors brave;Many scores of fiery stalwarts,Of countenance stern and brave.And calmly they deliberated,Counselling for peace or war;Should they allow these daring strangersTheir sacred rights to mar?
After the chiefs had spokenOf the pending dangers nigh,It was finally decidedThe strangers might pass byIn peace, and unmolested,If they did not interfereWith the vast teeming hunting groundsOf the nation, far and near.
When three moons had waxed and waned,The voyageurs, returning, cameFrom over the western waters,Lit by the sunset’s flame.And they drew up at the Narrows,The Carrying Place again,A “cut” in the cedar hillocksAglow with autumn’s flame.
De Orville, their gallant leader,And Pontgravé and Le Jeune,Knew their followers were weary,And made decision soonTo bivouac near the marshlandsFor a day of needed rest,And to replenish their commissariatWith fish and game the best.
The camp-fires were all alightedAt the eve’s afterglow,And the pines and cedars quivered,And the waves made murmur low.The scene was worthy a Rembrandt,So rich the light and shade,And the starry vault above them,And the winds that whisper made.
“A song! a song!” de Orville cried,“The night is rife with glory.Let’s while a merry hour awayIn singing and in story.”“A song! a song!” as one they cry,“Life hath enough of sorrow;Sing while we may with hearts so gay,Care cometh with the morrow.”
“Le Jeune! Le Jeune! lead on, lead on,The stars are laughing o’er us;Give us thy latest and thy best,And we will join the chorus.”Le Jeune had a poetic soul,And voice of wondrous sweetness;He reached men’s better, nobler part,And won them to completeness.
And the groups about the camp-fires,A picturesque, gay throng,Heard many a quaint old story,Pun, laugh, and ringing song;And thus ’mid the wilds of naturePassed the joyous hours away.Light-hearted, merry Voyageurs,Ever gallant and gay,
Beside the deep glowing embers,Passed the night in calm repose,And in the soft early dawningRefreshened they uprose;And with arquebuse and musketoon,Spear, trap, and fishing-line,They scattered o’er the marshlandsAnd ’neath the haunts of pine.
And from the Narrows and the shore,Marshlands and wide lagoons,There burst the crash of arquebuseAnd roar of musketoons.And all day long the sport went on;At eve they counted o’erA tempting hoard of luscious game,Right welcome to their store.