Heard them drill at combinations,Learn to multiply and add,Now subtracting, now dividing,—Doing as the master bade;Saw them on the map locatingChiefest places of the earth;Heard them give events in History,’Fore and since our Saviour’s birth.
Heard them drill at combinations,Learn to multiply and add,Now subtracting, now dividing,—Doing as the master bade;Saw them on the map locatingChiefest places of the earth;Heard them give events in History,’Fore and since our Saviour’s birth.
Heard them drill at combinations,Learn to multiply and add,Now subtracting, now dividing,—Doing as the master bade;Saw them on the map locatingChiefest places of the earth;Heard them give events in History,’Fore and since our Saviour’s birth.
Heard them, too, at Nature lessons,Saw the card within their hands,With the Flora and the FaunaOf our own and other lands;Heard the master talk on Civics,And our duties to the State,And on Etiquette and Hygiene,Heard him, too, at length dilate.
Heard them, too, at Nature lessons,Saw the card within their hands,With the Flora and the FaunaOf our own and other lands;Heard the master talk on Civics,And our duties to the State,And on Etiquette and Hygiene,Heard him, too, at length dilate.
Heard them, too, at Nature lessons,Saw the card within their hands,With the Flora and the FaunaOf our own and other lands;Heard the master talk on Civics,And our duties to the State,And on Etiquette and Hygiene,Heard him, too, at length dilate.
Not an incident was missingOf those school days long since fled,Though so many of its membersNow were numbered with the dead.And too swiftly passed the visionRetrospective of the past,And upon my soul its settingFleeting specks of sadness cast.
Not an incident was missingOf those school days long since fled,Though so many of its membersNow were numbered with the dead.And too swiftly passed the visionRetrospective of the past,And upon my soul its settingFleeting specks of sadness cast.
Not an incident was missingOf those school days long since fled,Though so many of its membersNow were numbered with the dead.And too swiftly passed the visionRetrospective of the past,And upon my soul its settingFleeting specks of sadness cast.
It was a clear and cool December dawn,And bright the Sun in all his glory roseAnd shed his radiant rays in plenty onThe lovely arm which by our city flows,And on the hills and dales and distant treesBy Nature robed in early winter mien:All Labour was awake; the docks and quaysWere all astir and formed a busy scene;The flag flung to the breeze o’er CitadelGave heart to all: last night the sentry cried,As o’er his beat he trod, that all was well,And old and young thought but of Christmas-tide.“Lord God of Hosts,” what is that awful roarUpon all ears rolls from the Richmond shore;
It was a clear and cool December dawn,And bright the Sun in all his glory roseAnd shed his radiant rays in plenty onThe lovely arm which by our city flows,And on the hills and dales and distant treesBy Nature robed in early winter mien:All Labour was awake; the docks and quaysWere all astir and formed a busy scene;The flag flung to the breeze o’er CitadelGave heart to all: last night the sentry cried,As o’er his beat he trod, that all was well,And old and young thought but of Christmas-tide.“Lord God of Hosts,” what is that awful roarUpon all ears rolls from the Richmond shore;
It was a clear and cool December dawn,And bright the Sun in all his glory roseAnd shed his radiant rays in plenty onThe lovely arm which by our city flows,And on the hills and dales and distant treesBy Nature robed in early winter mien:All Labour was awake; the docks and quaysWere all astir and formed a busy scene;The flag flung to the breeze o’er CitadelGave heart to all: last night the sentry cried,As o’er his beat he trod, that all was well,And old and young thought but of Christmas-tide.“Lord God of Hosts,” what is that awful roarUpon all ears rolls from the Richmond shore;
I’ll ever hear that death-portending soundAnd see the dead as side by side they lie,And see the desolation wrought aroundAnd hear the dying’s dissolution cry;And see the houses bursting into flameAnd those within consumed in tongues of fire,And that long line of young, and old, and lameMove slowly on when ordered to retireFrom their wrecked homes to seek some safe retreat.With falt’ring step and slow and wearied gait;And see the motor cars whirl down the streetFull laden with their bloody, human freight:For not, till in my breast the spirit diesWill these sad scenes evanish from my eyes.
I’ll ever hear that death-portending soundAnd see the dead as side by side they lie,And see the desolation wrought aroundAnd hear the dying’s dissolution cry;And see the houses bursting into flameAnd those within consumed in tongues of fire,And that long line of young, and old, and lameMove slowly on when ordered to retireFrom their wrecked homes to seek some safe retreat.With falt’ring step and slow and wearied gait;And see the motor cars whirl down the streetFull laden with their bloody, human freight:For not, till in my breast the spirit diesWill these sad scenes evanish from my eyes.
I’ll ever hear that death-portending soundAnd see the dead as side by side they lie,And see the desolation wrought aroundAnd hear the dying’s dissolution cry;And see the houses bursting into flameAnd those within consumed in tongues of fire,And that long line of young, and old, and lameMove slowly on when ordered to retireFrom their wrecked homes to seek some safe retreat.With falt’ring step and slow and wearied gait;And see the motor cars whirl down the streetFull laden with their bloody, human freight:For not, till in my breast the spirit diesWill these sad scenes evanish from my eyes.
And ever see the op’ning hour of school,And hear the bell sound on the morning air,And see each little one with reticuleAnd well-trained poise and step assembling there,And each pale-faced teacher in her placeAnd all the children there on bended knees,With innocence imprinted on each face,And hear their prayer borne on the morning breeze,And hear the glass and falling timbers crash,And see the children through the windows leapWith blood fast flowing from each gaping gashUpon their heads and faces, long and deep;And fain am I to fall into despairThat scenes so sad should follow children’s prayer.
And ever see the op’ning hour of school,And hear the bell sound on the morning air,And see each little one with reticuleAnd well-trained poise and step assembling there,And each pale-faced teacher in her placeAnd all the children there on bended knees,With innocence imprinted on each face,And hear their prayer borne on the morning breeze,And hear the glass and falling timbers crash,And see the children through the windows leapWith blood fast flowing from each gaping gashUpon their heads and faces, long and deep;And fain am I to fall into despairThat scenes so sad should follow children’s prayer.
And ever see the op’ning hour of school,And hear the bell sound on the morning air,And see each little one with reticuleAnd well-trained poise and step assembling there,And each pale-faced teacher in her placeAnd all the children there on bended knees,With innocence imprinted on each face,And hear their prayer borne on the morning breeze,And hear the glass and falling timbers crash,And see the children through the windows leapWith blood fast flowing from each gaping gashUpon their heads and faces, long and deep;And fain am I to fall into despairThat scenes so sad should follow children’s prayer.
And ever see the blinded lying lowAt Bellevue, Camp Hill, and College Hall;And ever see the corpses, row on row,Their mangled faces covered with a pall:And curses such as tongue could never speakRise in my heart and flutter through my mindUpon the man who did such ruin wreakAnd leave such grief and misery behind;And then a change comes o’er my angry thoughtAnd I can see outlined upon the CrossThe Man of Sorrows, and I think of whatHe did that Death be not our loss;And bowing down I cry on bended kneeMy Lord, my God, I yet have faith in Thee.
And ever see the blinded lying lowAt Bellevue, Camp Hill, and College Hall;And ever see the corpses, row on row,Their mangled faces covered with a pall:And curses such as tongue could never speakRise in my heart and flutter through my mindUpon the man who did such ruin wreakAnd leave such grief and misery behind;And then a change comes o’er my angry thoughtAnd I can see outlined upon the CrossThe Man of Sorrows, and I think of whatHe did that Death be not our loss;And bowing down I cry on bended kneeMy Lord, my God, I yet have faith in Thee.
And ever see the blinded lying lowAt Bellevue, Camp Hill, and College Hall;And ever see the corpses, row on row,Their mangled faces covered with a pall:And curses such as tongue could never speakRise in my heart and flutter through my mindUpon the man who did such ruin wreakAnd leave such grief and misery behind;And then a change comes o’er my angry thoughtAnd I can see outlined upon the CrossThe Man of Sorrows, and I think of whatHe did that Death be not our loss;And bowing down I cry on bended kneeMy Lord, my God, I yet have faith in Thee.
Whether in childhood or when you grow older,Whether in summer or when it grows colder,Whether in sunshine or lightning and thunder,Be it on land or sea over or under,Whether winter frosts freeze you or summer heat smother,This you will find until life’s cord will sunder,Life is but one darn thing after another.
Whether in childhood or when you grow older,Whether in summer or when it grows colder,Whether in sunshine or lightning and thunder,Be it on land or sea over or under,Whether winter frosts freeze you or summer heat smother,This you will find until life’s cord will sunder,Life is but one darn thing after another.
Whether in childhood or when you grow older,Whether in summer or when it grows colder,Whether in sunshine or lightning and thunder,Be it on land or sea over or under,Whether winter frosts freeze you or summer heat smother,This you will find until life’s cord will sunder,Life is but one darn thing after another.
Whether you cry from grief or smile with laughter,Think of the present or past or hereafter,Whether you’re rooming or whether house-keeping,Sewing or darning or dusting or sweeping,Dreaming of yours or some other girl’s brother,This you will find whether waking or sleeping,Life is but one darn thing after another.
Whether you cry from grief or smile with laughter,Think of the present or past or hereafter,Whether you’re rooming or whether house-keeping,Sewing or darning or dusting or sweeping,Dreaming of yours or some other girl’s brother,This you will find whether waking or sleeping,Life is but one darn thing after another.
Whether you cry from grief or smile with laughter,Think of the present or past or hereafter,Whether you’re rooming or whether house-keeping,Sewing or darning or dusting or sweeping,Dreaming of yours or some other girl’s brother,This you will find whether waking or sleeping,Life is but one darn thing after another.
If you have peace of mind or if you worry,If things move slowly or if in a hurry,If you make hasty steps or if you tarry,If you stay single or if you marry,Whether you barren be, whether a mother,This you will find whate’er hap or miscarry,Life is but one darn thing after another.
If you have peace of mind or if you worry,If things move slowly or if in a hurry,If you make hasty steps or if you tarry,If you stay single or if you marry,Whether you barren be, whether a mother,This you will find whate’er hap or miscarry,Life is but one darn thing after another.
If you have peace of mind or if you worry,If things move slowly or if in a hurry,If you make hasty steps or if you tarry,If you stay single or if you marry,Whether you barren be, whether a mother,This you will find whate’er hap or miscarry,Life is but one darn thing after another.
Early on an autumn morning,Facing famous Courcellette,Lay the Twenty-fifth battalion,In the trenches damp and wet;Far away from home and kindred,Near the far-famed river Somme,Here and there a man lay dying,Stricken by a shell or bomb.Men of every trade and calling,Of each company formed a part,Downy youth and bearded manhoodFrom the farm and from the mart,Miners, farmers, sailors, tradesmen,From each hamlet, town and glen,Born of Nova Scotian mothersFrom the breed of manly men.All alert and ever watching,On the guard both day and night,Each one ever his part doing,In the struggle for the right;Thinking always of the homelandFar away in Acadie,Of a mother, wife, or sisterWhom they never more might see.On the high hills overlooking,All the country down below,In their deep concreted dugouts,Lay the ever watchful foe;With artillery commandingAll the hills for miles around,Through which, like a thread of silver,River Somme its free way wound.There were Saxons and BavariansIn the Hun’s embattled host,And the fierce and bloody UhlansWhom the Kaiser loves to toast;Where they stood in close formationLike a solid human blockFronted by the famous fightersCalled the troops of battle shock.When upon the morn in question,Just about the break of day,Word the Twenty-fifth was givenTo make ready for the fray;And they sprang up from their trenchesLike the wild lynx with a bound,And they rushed without a falterRight across the barrage ground;And they fell upon the GermansLike an avalanche of hail,And the Teutons bent before themLike the grain before the gale.And with irresisting furyThey assailed the faltering Hun,And before the day was overFamous Courcellette was won.Then let mothers tell their babiesWhom they nurse upon their breasts,And the teachers tell the childrenIn our schools from east to west,How at Courcellette’s fierce battle,An undying name was madeBy the Twenty-fifth battalionOf the fighting fifth brigade.
Early on an autumn morning,Facing famous Courcellette,Lay the Twenty-fifth battalion,In the trenches damp and wet;Far away from home and kindred,Near the far-famed river Somme,Here and there a man lay dying,Stricken by a shell or bomb.Men of every trade and calling,Of each company formed a part,Downy youth and bearded manhoodFrom the farm and from the mart,Miners, farmers, sailors, tradesmen,From each hamlet, town and glen,Born of Nova Scotian mothersFrom the breed of manly men.All alert and ever watching,On the guard both day and night,Each one ever his part doing,In the struggle for the right;Thinking always of the homelandFar away in Acadie,Of a mother, wife, or sisterWhom they never more might see.On the high hills overlooking,All the country down below,In their deep concreted dugouts,Lay the ever watchful foe;With artillery commandingAll the hills for miles around,Through which, like a thread of silver,River Somme its free way wound.There were Saxons and BavariansIn the Hun’s embattled host,And the fierce and bloody UhlansWhom the Kaiser loves to toast;Where they stood in close formationLike a solid human blockFronted by the famous fightersCalled the troops of battle shock.When upon the morn in question,Just about the break of day,Word the Twenty-fifth was givenTo make ready for the fray;And they sprang up from their trenchesLike the wild lynx with a bound,And they rushed without a falterRight across the barrage ground;And they fell upon the GermansLike an avalanche of hail,And the Teutons bent before themLike the grain before the gale.And with irresisting furyThey assailed the faltering Hun,And before the day was overFamous Courcellette was won.Then let mothers tell their babiesWhom they nurse upon their breasts,And the teachers tell the childrenIn our schools from east to west,How at Courcellette’s fierce battle,An undying name was madeBy the Twenty-fifth battalionOf the fighting fifth brigade.
Early on an autumn morning,Facing famous Courcellette,Lay the Twenty-fifth battalion,In the trenches damp and wet;Far away from home and kindred,Near the far-famed river Somme,Here and there a man lay dying,Stricken by a shell or bomb.
Men of every trade and calling,Of each company formed a part,Downy youth and bearded manhoodFrom the farm and from the mart,Miners, farmers, sailors, tradesmen,From each hamlet, town and glen,Born of Nova Scotian mothersFrom the breed of manly men.
All alert and ever watching,On the guard both day and night,Each one ever his part doing,In the struggle for the right;Thinking always of the homelandFar away in Acadie,Of a mother, wife, or sisterWhom they never more might see.
On the high hills overlooking,All the country down below,In their deep concreted dugouts,Lay the ever watchful foe;With artillery commandingAll the hills for miles around,Through which, like a thread of silver,River Somme its free way wound.
There were Saxons and BavariansIn the Hun’s embattled host,And the fierce and bloody UhlansWhom the Kaiser loves to toast;Where they stood in close formationLike a solid human blockFronted by the famous fightersCalled the troops of battle shock.
When upon the morn in question,Just about the break of day,Word the Twenty-fifth was givenTo make ready for the fray;And they sprang up from their trenchesLike the wild lynx with a bound,And they rushed without a falterRight across the barrage ground;
And they fell upon the GermansLike an avalanche of hail,And the Teutons bent before themLike the grain before the gale.And with irresisting furyThey assailed the faltering Hun,And before the day was overFamous Courcellette was won.
Then let mothers tell their babiesWhom they nurse upon their breasts,And the teachers tell the childrenIn our schools from east to west,How at Courcellette’s fierce battle,An undying name was madeBy the Twenty-fifth battalionOf the fighting fifth brigade.
For days the cannon roaringWith loud incessant peal,The terrane and the trenchesHad torn with lead and steel;Which told the boys in khakiOf fighting near at hand,And eagerly all waitedThe long wished for command.Within the first line trenches,The highland laddies lay,Their thoughts were of their mothersOr sweethearts far away;Each one of them was thinkingOf home and native sod,And like a Christian soldierHad made his peace with God.The morn broke dark and stormyWith hail and snow and sleet,Which made for many soldiersEre night, their winding sheet;The shrapnel bits were flying,Like swarms of summer midge,When Borden’s highland laddiesCharged up the Vimy Ridge.On the top of this famed mountain,Nearby the city Lens,The enemy in dugoutsLay like lions in their dens;The mountain strong by nature,The Germans stronger madeWith cannon and with mortar,On concrete bases laid.And thousands of machine guns,In their allotted place,And thousands of their snipers,With rifle and with brace;And lines of barbed wire fencingOf every strength and size,And aught else which their scienceOr cunning could devise.Their seeming sense of safety,The Teutons did elate,And all were glibly chantingThe Kaiser’s hymn of hate,When, lo! the pibroch’s skirlingTheir first line did astoundAnd Donald, Rod and AngusCame on them with a bound.And ere they had recoveredFrom their astonishmentThe foremost of their gleemenTo sing elsewhere were sent;And midst the cry of Kam’radeIn broken English spoke,Both Prussian and BavarianWent down from bayonet stroke.And furious was the struggle,’Twixt Highlander and Hun,For hand to hand the fightingOn Vimy Ridge was done.The shock troops of the Kaiser,And all his proud array,Fled fast before the BluenoseOn that eventful day.And when the war is over,And peace again is come,We’ll give our gallant laddiesA highland welcome home;With flags and banners waving,With singing and with cheer,We’ll celebrate the gloryOf Vimy day each year.
For days the cannon roaringWith loud incessant peal,The terrane and the trenchesHad torn with lead and steel;Which told the boys in khakiOf fighting near at hand,And eagerly all waitedThe long wished for command.Within the first line trenches,The highland laddies lay,Their thoughts were of their mothersOr sweethearts far away;Each one of them was thinkingOf home and native sod,And like a Christian soldierHad made his peace with God.The morn broke dark and stormyWith hail and snow and sleet,Which made for many soldiersEre night, their winding sheet;The shrapnel bits were flying,Like swarms of summer midge,When Borden’s highland laddiesCharged up the Vimy Ridge.On the top of this famed mountain,Nearby the city Lens,The enemy in dugoutsLay like lions in their dens;The mountain strong by nature,The Germans stronger madeWith cannon and with mortar,On concrete bases laid.And thousands of machine guns,In their allotted place,And thousands of their snipers,With rifle and with brace;And lines of barbed wire fencingOf every strength and size,And aught else which their scienceOr cunning could devise.Their seeming sense of safety,The Teutons did elate,And all were glibly chantingThe Kaiser’s hymn of hate,When, lo! the pibroch’s skirlingTheir first line did astoundAnd Donald, Rod and AngusCame on them with a bound.And ere they had recoveredFrom their astonishmentThe foremost of their gleemenTo sing elsewhere were sent;And midst the cry of Kam’radeIn broken English spoke,Both Prussian and BavarianWent down from bayonet stroke.And furious was the struggle,’Twixt Highlander and Hun,For hand to hand the fightingOn Vimy Ridge was done.The shock troops of the Kaiser,And all his proud array,Fled fast before the BluenoseOn that eventful day.And when the war is over,And peace again is come,We’ll give our gallant laddiesA highland welcome home;With flags and banners waving,With singing and with cheer,We’ll celebrate the gloryOf Vimy day each year.
For days the cannon roaringWith loud incessant peal,The terrane and the trenchesHad torn with lead and steel;Which told the boys in khakiOf fighting near at hand,And eagerly all waitedThe long wished for command.
Within the first line trenches,The highland laddies lay,Their thoughts were of their mothersOr sweethearts far away;Each one of them was thinkingOf home and native sod,And like a Christian soldierHad made his peace with God.
The morn broke dark and stormyWith hail and snow and sleet,Which made for many soldiersEre night, their winding sheet;The shrapnel bits were flying,Like swarms of summer midge,When Borden’s highland laddiesCharged up the Vimy Ridge.
On the top of this famed mountain,Nearby the city Lens,The enemy in dugoutsLay like lions in their dens;The mountain strong by nature,The Germans stronger madeWith cannon and with mortar,On concrete bases laid.
And thousands of machine guns,In their allotted place,And thousands of their snipers,With rifle and with brace;And lines of barbed wire fencingOf every strength and size,And aught else which their scienceOr cunning could devise.
Their seeming sense of safety,The Teutons did elate,And all were glibly chantingThe Kaiser’s hymn of hate,When, lo! the pibroch’s skirlingTheir first line did astoundAnd Donald, Rod and AngusCame on them with a bound.
And ere they had recoveredFrom their astonishmentThe foremost of their gleemenTo sing elsewhere were sent;And midst the cry of Kam’radeIn broken English spoke,Both Prussian and BavarianWent down from bayonet stroke.
And furious was the struggle,’Twixt Highlander and Hun,For hand to hand the fightingOn Vimy Ridge was done.The shock troops of the Kaiser,And all his proud array,Fled fast before the BluenoseOn that eventful day.
And when the war is over,And peace again is come,We’ll give our gallant laddiesA highland welcome home;With flags and banners waving,With singing and with cheer,We’ll celebrate the gloryOf Vimy day each year.
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God save our empire great,And to her board of state,Wise Counsel bring;May we in union free,Mother and daughters be,Ever one family:God save the king.Grant that there will arise,Beneath Canadian skies,Freedom’s offspring;May we be always free,From hate and bigotry,Co-heirs of liberty:God save the king.
God save our empire great,And to her board of state,Wise Counsel bring;May we in union free,Mother and daughters be,Ever one family:God save the king.Grant that there will arise,Beneath Canadian skies,Freedom’s offspring;May we be always free,From hate and bigotry,Co-heirs of liberty:God save the king.
God save our empire great,And to her board of state,Wise Counsel bring;May we in union free,Mother and daughters be,Ever one family:God save the king.Grant that there will arise,Beneath Canadian skies,Freedom’s offspring;May we be always free,From hate and bigotry,Co-heirs of liberty:God save the king.
A veteran too was there with shoulders broadAs is the marsh in Amherst’s neighborhood;Of stature high and of a kingly stride,And in his face there shone a noble pride.His eyes bespoke a soul to never yieldIn fair fought fight at home or battle field.A civic man before the war beganAnd since its end again a civic man.Beloved by all his comrades, young and old,For wise decisions and for action bold;His head was cool but kindly was his heart,In every act of war he did his part—In digging in to use the lowly spade,In battle field to wield the bloody blade,In trench, in rest, to eat the soldiers’ fare,A man of manly breed, his wounds to bear.Three years he served where colored poppies growBetween the wooden “crosses, row on row,”Observing all, so well could tell a taleof Bourlon Wood or bloody Pachendaele.
A veteran too was there with shoulders broadAs is the marsh in Amherst’s neighborhood;Of stature high and of a kingly stride,And in his face there shone a noble pride.His eyes bespoke a soul to never yieldIn fair fought fight at home or battle field.A civic man before the war beganAnd since its end again a civic man.Beloved by all his comrades, young and old,For wise decisions and for action bold;His head was cool but kindly was his heart,In every act of war he did his part—In digging in to use the lowly spade,In battle field to wield the bloody blade,In trench, in rest, to eat the soldiers’ fare,A man of manly breed, his wounds to bear.Three years he served where colored poppies growBetween the wooden “crosses, row on row,”Observing all, so well could tell a taleof Bourlon Wood or bloody Pachendaele.
A veteran too was there with shoulders broadAs is the marsh in Amherst’s neighborhood;Of stature high and of a kingly stride,And in his face there shone a noble pride.His eyes bespoke a soul to never yieldIn fair fought fight at home or battle field.A civic man before the war beganAnd since its end again a civic man.Beloved by all his comrades, young and old,For wise decisions and for action bold;His head was cool but kindly was his heart,In every act of war he did his part—In digging in to use the lowly spade,In battle field to wield the bloody blade,In trench, in rest, to eat the soldiers’ fare,A man of manly breed, his wounds to bear.Three years he served where colored poppies growBetween the wooden “crosses, row on row,”Observing all, so well could tell a taleof Bourlon Wood or bloody Pachendaele.