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diff --git a/37155.txt b/37155.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f70fed --- /dev/null +++ b/37155.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2106 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Canada, My Land, by W. M. MacKeracher + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Canada, My Land + and Other Compositions in Verse + +Author: W. M. MacKeracher + +Release Date: August 21, 2011 [EBook #37155] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CANADA, MY LAND *** + + + + +Produced by Al Haines + + + + + + + + + + +CANADA, MY LAND + +AND OTHER COMPOSITIONS IN VERSE + + + +BY + +W. M. MacKERACHER + + + + +TORONTO + +WILLIAM BRIGGS + +1908 + + + + +Copyright, Canada, 1908, by W. M. MacKeracher + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +CANADA, MY LAND + There may be more enchanting climes + +FORWARD, CANADA! + Northland of our birth and rearing + +CANADIAN-BORN + Although I'm not unduly proud + +KNOW'ST THOU THE LAND! + Know'st thou the land where the pious and bold + +O MAPLE LEAF! + Thee best of leaves I love + +DOMINION DAY + Where the purple-vestured mountains + +CANADA'S EIGHTEEN + At Paardeberg they fell + +DOMINION DAY, 1900 + Rejoice, O Canada, rejoice + +O CANADA, MON PAYS, MES AMOURS + O Canada, my country and my love + +SOL CANADIEN, TERRE CHERIE + O soil Canadian, cherished earth + +MY OWN CANADIAN GIRL + The demoiselles of sunny France + +THE ST. LAWRENCE + Though like Ulysses, fam'd of old + +ST. LAWRENCE AND THE COMING SHIPS + I cannot loiter on my way + +THE QUEBEC EXODUS + Why should we leave the soil our fathers cleared + +HEAT + The fickle sun that had the earth caress'd + +INVOCATION TO SUMMER + Come, Summer, come, nor in the south delay + +SIR SUMMER + When conquering Summer stalks the street + +THE NIGHT + A tremor, a quiver, through her ran + +TO BEAUTY + Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts + +THE DOCTOR + He bent above our darling's bed + +MY VALENTINE + O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy + +MY FRIENDS + Some to and fro for converse flit + +NOTHING TOO GOOD FOR THE IRISH + It's the Emerald Isle is the beautiful land + +AN ENGLISH TOAST + The English soil!--'tis hallowed ground + +THE SCOT + That no Scotsman is perfect, we freely confess + +THE ROARIN' GAME + The roarin' game, the roarin' game + +THE OLD SCOTTISH MINISTER + A man he was of Scottish race + +THE MACS + There's a race, or a part of a race, if you will + +THE PARSON AT THE HOCKEY MATCH + It's very disagreeable to sit here in the cold + + + + + CANADA, MY LAND. + + There may be more enchanting climes + Within a southern zone; + There may be eastern Edens deckt + With charms to thee unknown; + But thou art fairest unto me, + Because thou art mine own, + Canada, my land. + + More spacious plains and loftier heights + In other realms may be, + And mightier streams than those which bear + Thy waters to the sea; + But thou, great handiwork of God, + Art grandest unto me, + Canada, my land. + + More glorious records may adorn + The annals of the past + Than those which tell the rise and growth + Of thy dominion vast; + But I am proudest of the land + In which my lot is cast, + Canada, my land. + + Beneath thy green or snow-clad sod + My fathers' ashes lie; + Thou hast my all, to thee I'm bound + By every dearest tie; + For thee I'll gladly live, for thee + I cheerfully would die, + Canada, my land. + + + + + FORWARD, CANADA! + + Northland of our birth and rearing, + Bound to us by ties endearing,-- + Forward ever, nothing fearing! + Forward, Canada! + + Hear thy children's acclamations! + Vanquish trials and vexations! + Higher rise among the nations! + Forward, Canada! + + Not by battles fierce and gory, + Not by conquest's hollow glory, + Need'st thou live in deathless story: + Forward, Canada! + + Not by might and not by power,--- + Truth shall be thy fortress tower; + Arts of peace shall be thy flower: + Forward, Canada! + + Yet if tyrant foe should ever + 'Gainst thee come with base endeavor, + Strike, and yield thy freedom never: + Forward, Canada! + + + + + CANADIAN-BORN. + + Although I'm not unduly proud, + Inordinately vain, + But humble, as will be allowed, + And modest in the main; + I must confess to pride of birth, + And all detractors warn + To let alone one land on earth: + I am Canadian-born. + + In one respect I fill the bill + As well as any man + Between Vancouver and Brazil, + Morocco and Japan. + From Hobart Town to Hammerfest, + From Greenland to the Horn, + My native land is much the best: + I am Canadian-born. + + The Greeks beside their Hellespont + Thought all but they were scum; + The Latins loved the classic vaunt, + "Civis Romanus sum." + I'm not so impudent as they + To hold the world in scorn, + But have a better boast to-day, + "I am Canadian-born." + + My land is beauty's flag unfurled, + A garden of increase, + The crowning wonder of the world, + Creation's masterpiece; + And deathless deed and kingly name + Her chronicles adorn; + I'm pardonably proud to claim + I am Canadian-born. + + I love her cities old and new, + Her crested mountain-chains, + Her lakes and rivers fair to view, + Her meadows and her plains, + Her tented fields of yellow sheaves, + Her spears of towering corn, + Her forests with their maple leaves: + I am Canadian-born. + + I love her verdant springtime sweet, + Her autumn red and gold; + I love her summer's tropic heat, + Her winter's arctic cold, + The splendor of her evening glow, + The glory of her morn; + And day and night I love to know + I am Canadian-born. + + All honor to her pioneers, + The gallant sons of France; + All honor to their British peers, + Who aided her advance; + To workers like the great Champlain, + And Dufferin and Lorne, + And those who could take up the strain, + "I am Canadian-born." + + Here my allotted time I'd live + And play my little part, + My service here to Nature give, + To Industry and Art; + Here pluck life's roses when I may, + And when I feel the thorn + Look up with fortitude and say, + "I am Canadian-born." + + And should unfriendly circumstance + (Which Providence forbid!) + Decree that from my latest glance + My country should be hid, + Ah, then 'twill ease my parting sigh + And cheer my heart forlorn, + To think, wherever I may die, + I am Canadian-born. + + + + + KNOW'ST THOU THE LAND? + + Know'st thou the land where the pious and bold + Beared Christianity's emblem of old, + And civilization's beneficent reign + Extended o'er anarchy's savage domain? + The land of the dauntless explorers who prest + Upstream, through the wilderness, into the West? + Know'st thou the land of the soldier and knight, + The land of adventure and toil and delight? + Know'st thou the land? + Know'st thou the land? + 'Tis the land of my home, my beloved native land. + + Know'st thou the land where the Briton and Gaul, + In courage and prowess supreme over all, + Contending for lordship and vying for place, + Collided and locked in a mighty embrace + So bravely that fame has awarded the palm + Of deathless renown to both Wolfe and Montcalm? + Know'st thou the land for which heroes have died, + The land of the strong and the true and the tried? + + Know'st thou the land of the broad maple tree? + The noblest and best of his fellows is he: + He grows in the meadow, the grove and the wood; + His trunk is for timber, his sap is for food; + His boughs are for fire in the cold winter days; + His leaves are for shade from the summer sun's blaze. + Know'st thou the land of the maple benign, + The land of the elm and the oak and the pine? + + Know'st thou the land where the great inland seas + Are tossed by the tempest or fanned by the breeze; + The land of Superior's crystalline tide, + Of Huron's exuberant vigor and pride, + Of Erie's alluring voluptuous glance, + Ontario's laughing Elysian expanse? + Know'st thou the land that is praised evermore + By the chant of their surge and Niagara's roar? + + Know'st thou the land of the clear-flowing streams + That mirror the stars and reflect the sun's beams? + Through the woods and the farmland they wander at large, + And the deer and the kine come to drink at their marge; + They flash in the distance like ribands of white; + Their trout-haunted pools are the angler's delight. + Know'st thou the land of the rivers and rills, + The boon of the lowlands, the joy of the hills? + + Know'st thou the land where St. Lawrence proceeds + By cities and hamlets and blossoming meads + And islands and waters of lesser degree, + With his tribute to pour in the lap of the sea? + His shining battalions he halts to deploy, + Or leaps through the rapid with turbulent joy. + Know'st thou the land that he laves in his flow, + Where deep-laden argosies royally go? + + Know'st thou the land of the mountains that rise + Till their summits are lost in the depths of the skies? + Their granite foundations are far underground, + Where the gold and the coal and the iron abound; + And the sun on their white-headed majesty flings + The radiance of crowns and the purple of kings. + Know'st thou the land of these citadels tall, + With their ramparts and battlements, wall upon wall? + + Know'st thou the land where the ice and the snow + On all things a magical beauty bestow? + Then the earth is a bride and the tingling air wine, + The frosty sky sparkles, the Pleiades shine, + And the bright "merry dancers" in gorgeous array, + Like ghosts of dead sunbeams, come forth to their play. + Know'st thou the land of the sleigh-bells, the land + Of the warm fireside and the welcoming hand? + + Know'st thou the land where kind Nature has given + In earth's beauty and grandeur a foretaste of heaven; + Where History lingers, enthralled with the view + Of as splendid exploits as the world ever knew; + Where Industry reaps the rewards of her toil + In the wealth of the cities, the fruits of the soil? + Know'st thou the land which the Muses regard, + The land of the sculptor, the singer, the bard? + + Know'st thou the land where the spell of the past + Is over the mind irresistibly cast; + Where the present fulfills the fond hopes of the years, + The dreams of romancers, the visions of seers, + Where the future inspires with a prospect sublime, + Maturing the fairest fruition of time? + Know'st thou this land of Heaven's favor possest, + The fortunate land of a destiny blest? + Know'st thou the land? + Know'st thou the land? + 'Tis the land of my home, my belov'd native land. + + + + + O MAPLE LEAF! + + Thee best of leaves I love, + In forest or in grove, + O Maple Leaf; + O thou which art the sign + Of this dear land of mine, + What loveliness is thine, + O Maple Leaf! + + Naught can with thee compare, + On earth or in the air, + O Maple Leaf; + Wondrous thy beauties are; + Thy form is like a star, + But thou art not afar, + O Maple Leaf. + + When drops of dew adorn + Thy surface in the morn, + O Maple Leaf, + No hue so fair is seen, + In silk or satin's sheen, + As thy rich shade of green, + O Maple Leaf. + + No music in my ear + Is half so sweet to hear, + O Maple Leaf, + As that which thou dost make + When winds of summer shake + The branches of the brake, + O Maple Leaf. + + Most beautiful in pain, + When suns begin to wane, + O Maple Leaf, + Thou never growest old, + But in the time of cold + Thou turnest but to gold, + O Maple Leaf. + + And when the earth expires, + And mute are all her choirs, + O Maple Leaf, + Thy dower thou dost shed + Of tribute, richest red, + Upon her sombre bed, + O Maple Leaf. + + May heaven bless thy land, + And make it strong to stand, + O Maple Leaf; + For it we humbly pray + That God will be its stay, + Now, henceforth, and for aye, + O Maple Leaf. + + + + + DOMINION DAY. + + Where the purple-vestured mountains + Bear their summits crowned with snow, + Haughty lords of all the riches + In the rocks and streams below; + Tow'ring to the azure heavens, + Frowning on the sapphire sea: + There to-day, O wide Dominion, + Thine own children honor thee. + + Where the shadeless, open prairie + Spreads its lone expanse unstirred + By a sound of living creature, + Save the lowing of the herd, + And the half-grown wheat in verdure + Reaches thickly to the knee, + There to-day, O fair Dominion, + Thine own children honor thee. + + Where the south wind from the bushes + The large, luscious berry shakes, + And the commerce of the cities + Meets the traffic of the lakes, + And the thunderous Niag'ra + Sings the paean of the free: + There to-day, O strong Dominion, + Thine own children honor thee. + + Where the deep, majestic river + Bears upon its solemn tide, + By the haunts of ancient story + And the seats of former pride, + Ocean argosies to markets + Where the world is held in fee: + There to-day, O great Dominion, + Thine own children honor thee. + + Where the stalwart sea-girt peoples + Keep the gateway of the land; + In the meadows of New Brunswick, + On the Nova Scotian strand, + In the Gulf's fair island garden, + Sheltered by the maple tree: + There to-day, O blest Dominion, + Thine own children honor thee. + + In thy cherished mother country, + In thy sister lands afar, + On the burning eastern desert, + Underneath the southern star, + 'Midst the speech of alien races, + Wheresoe'er thy children be, + There to-day, O dear Dominion, + Loyal hearts remember thee. + + + + + CANADA'S EIGHTEEN. + + At Paardeberg they fell, + Within the Orange State; + They did their duty well; + They bravely met their fate. + + A stubborn fight they made + Upon the level plain, + While from the barricade + The bullets poured like rain. + + They fiercely charged the trench; + They took the outer line; + Who saw a visage blench? + Who heard a voice repine? + + They bore the ruthless fire; + But deadly was the cost: + They lived not to retire, + Nor saw their capture lost. + + No lustrous deed they wrought + To prompt the epic pen: + They only bravely fought, + And gave their lives like men. + + And yet no hero's fame + That rings across the seas, + Shall e'er eclipse the name + And memory of these. + + While suns shall rise and set + Upon the fatal scene, + We never shall forget + Our Canada's Eighteen. + + And now, as Britain weaves + The garland of her grief, + We place among the leaves + A blood-red maple leaf. + + + + + DOMINION DAY, 1900. + + Rejoice, O Canada, rejoice, + On this thy natal day; + In East and West lift up thy voice, + And to thy children say: + "Behold me now to stature sprung; + Acclaim my second birth; + A Nation now I stand among + My sisters of the earth." + + The wrath of man doth praise the Lord; + And, glorious be His name, + An Empire, fashioned by the sword + And welded in the flame, + Hath risen o'er the battle-smoke, + And near and far unfurled + Its righteous standard to evoke + Heaven's blessings on the world. + + + + + O CANADA, MON PAYS, MES AMOURS. + + (Title of a French-Canadian song.) + + O Canada, my country and my love, + Held in my heart all other lands above; + To thee to whom my homage should belong + I pay the cheerful tribute of my song, + And swear allegiance as on bended knee, + And vow undying fealty to thee, + O Canada, my country and my love. + + I crave no land of epic story cast + In giant shadows on the misty past; + No land illustrious in former time, + Which has outlived the vigor of its prime; + No lordlier land renowned across the sea, + Nor any other land on earth but thee, + O Canada, my country and my love. + + Past is thy night of darkness and of tears; + Thy radiant dawn hath driv'n away our fears; + Thy sun in morning splendor mounts the sky; + Thy hopes, thy aims, thy destinies are high. + God make thee great, as thou art fair and free, + And give thee sons and daughters worthy thee, + O Canada, my country and my love. + + Eternal blessing rest upon thy head! + Abounding Plenty heap thy board with bread! + Justice and Peace upon thy steps attend, + And Virtue be thy guardian and thy friend! + And Righteousness, like thine own maple tree, + Flourish and rear her shelter over thee, + O Canada, my country and my love. + + + + + SOL CANADIEN, TERRE CHERIE. + + (From the French of Isidore Bedard.) + + O soil Canadian, cherished earth, + The brave, the noble, peopled thee; + They left the country of their birth, + And sought a land of liberty. + It was from glorious France they came: + They were the pick of warriors, they; + The shining lustre of their fame + Is kept untarnished till to-day. + + How beautiful thy fields appear! + How much thou hast to give content! + All hail, ye mountains that uprear + Your lordly heights magnificent! + All hail, St. Lawrence' noble tide! + Hail, land by Nature richly deckt! + Thy children's hearts should throb with pride, + Thy sons should walk with head erect. + + Still honor the protecting hand + Of Albion, friend of the opprest; + And harbor no malicious band + Of traitors nourished in thy breast. + Yield never in the storm, be brave; + Thine only masters are thy laws; + Thou wast not made to be a slave; + Fear not, thy rights are Britain's cause. + + If that belov'd, protecting hand + Should ever fail thee, undismay'd + Stand by thyself, alone, my land, + Rejecting, scorning foreign aid. + From glorious France thy founders came; + They were the pick of warriors, they: + The shining lustre of their fame + Unsullied shall be kept for aye. + + + + + MY OWN CANADIAN GIRL. + + The demoiselles of sunny France + Have gaiety and grace; + Britannia's maids a tender glance, + A sweet and gentle face; + Columbia's virgins bring to knee + Full many a duke and earl; + But there is none can equal thee, + My own Canadian girl. + + Thy hair is finer than the floss + That tufts the ears of corn; + Its tresses have a silken gloss, + A glory like the morn; + I prize the rich, luxuriant mass, + And each endearing curl + A special grace and beauty has, + My own Canadian girl. + + Thy brow is like the silver moon + That sails in summer skies, + The mirror of a mind immune + From care, serene and wise, + Thy nose is sculptured ivory; + Thine ears are lobes of pearl; + Thy lips are corals from the sea, + My own Canadian girl. + + Thine eyes are limpid pools of light, + The windows of thy soul; + The stars are not so clear and bright + That shine around the pole. + The crimson banners of thy cheeks + To sun and wind unfurl; + Thy tongue makes music when it speaks, + My own Canadian girl. + + God keep thee fair and bright and good + As in thy morning hour, + And make thy gracious womanhood + A still unfolding flow'r. + And stay thy thoughts from trifles vain, + Thy feet from folly's whirl, + And guard thy life from every stain, + My own Canadian girl! + + + + + THE ST. LAWRENCE. + + Though like Ulysses, fam'd of old, + I travell'd, or the wandering Jew, + No nobler sight could I behold + Than one which daily meets my view, + This mighty stream, my country's pride, + St. Lawrence' broad, majestic tide. + + By Babylonia's waters, 'mong + Unwonted scenes, disconsolate, + Their harps upon the willows hung, + The Jewish exiles weeping sate, + Recall'd the river of their land, + And yearn'd to tread its winding strand. + + When stern Elisha bade him lave + Seven times in Jordan and be clean, + His Syrian upland's flashing wave + Seem'd better to the Damascene. + "Albana, Pharpar far excel," + He said, "the streams of Israel." + + In India Ganges was rever'd, + In Egypt worshipp'd was the Nile, + To Romans Tiber was endear'd + From Apennine to Sacred Isle; + And Rhine and Danube, Thames and Rhone + A people's votive love have known. + + And we to this imposing flood + A cordial homage needs must pay, + Who in the solemn night have stood + Upon its banks, and day by day + Been fill'd with gladness to behold + Its floor of silver flush'd with gold. + + It brings the nations to our marts, + It bears our commerce to the sea, + Has virtue, too, to cleanse our hearts, + And make our spirits strong and free; + It flows, our struggling lives to bless, + With volume, grace and cheerfulness. + + + + + ST. LAWRENCE AND THE COMING SHIPS. + + I cannot loiter on my way, + The ice is drifting through Belle Isle, + And far to seaward by Cape Ray + Broad leagues of open water smile. + Unheeded now, the inland barge + Creeps heavily, the fisher dips + His meshes in my brimming marge; + I go to meet the coming ships. + + They steam from Thames by Dover Strait, + They cleave the Bristol Channel's tide, + They pass the Mersey's thronging gate, + And issue from the crowded Clyde. + Out past the homing craft they sheer, + The Irish coastline by them slips; + Ere many days they will be here: + I go to meet the coming ships. + + Full-fraught with wealth of merchandise, + They plough the main with furrows deep; + Upon the waves they sink and rise, + But onward, onward ever keep. + And some a viewless message send, + Whose airy flight their speed outstrips; + And all their yearnings hither tend: + I go to meet the coming ships. + + I tarry not by fortress old, + Nor pause by any pleasant shore, + But hasten, eager to behold + Those brave leviathans once more, + To welcome them with parted banks, + And kiss their prows with loving lips, + And soothingly caress their flanks; + I go to meet the coming ships. + + + + + THE QUEBEC EXODUS. + + Why should we leave the soil our fathers cleared, + And lifelong tilled with patient, loving hands? + Why should we leave the homes our fathers reared, + And seek strange dwellings in unhallowed lands? + Why should we leave the shrines where they revered + Their guardian God, and break the golden bands + That bind us to the ashes of our sires, + Their haunts, their hearthstones and their altar-fires? + + Is it that now no longer from our doors + The forest stretches with its gloom profound? + That they who first set foot upon these shores + Increase and multiply and hedge us round, + Co-heritors of the exhaustless stores + Of natural wealth that more and more abound?-- + Because of brethren of a differing speech, + From whom we learn, and whom perhaps we teach? + + It was not thus our conquering race arose; + It was not thus our copious language grew: + The Saxon mingled with his Celtic foes, + The Norman brought to both a spirit new. + Not thus we read th' heroic tale of those + Who built the younger Britains o'er the blue: + 'Twas here and there a handful in the earth, + Prevailing, not by numbers, but by worth. + + + + + HEAT. + + The fickle sun that had the earth caress'd + And quickened all her amorous desire, + And brought fresh roses to adorn her breast, + Now spurned her in the madness of his ire; + A haze of heat half hid the mountain's crest; + The very river seemed of liquid fire; + The air was flame, the town a stifling pale, + And all the land was like a Hinnom's Vale. + + I thought of Hagar and what she endured, + Faint in the desert, driv'n from Sara's sight; + Of angry Jonah underneath his gourd, + Grown in a night and withered in a night; + Of the sun-stricken lad Elisha cured + For the good, hospitable Shunammite; + And of the fiery furnace made to glow + For Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. + + I called to mind Boccaccio's tale of her + Left on a sun-scorched roof, and like to die; + And I beheld the Ancient Mariner + Becalmed beneath his hot and copper sky; + And heard a long-forgotten traveller + Speak from a page which made my childhood sigh, + And tell of horrid climes by God accurst, + And men and horses perishing of thirst. + + And to myself I said, Is this the land + Where freezing cold claims sometimes half the year? + Is this the region where the streams are spanned + With floors of azure crystal, hard and clear, + And all the snow-enveloped mountains stand + Like hoary chiefs, majestic and austere? + Was't here we saw so late King Winter stern? + And will he shortly here again return? + + + + + INVOCATION TO SUMMER. + + Come, Summer, come, nor in the south delay; + We do thee honor with a longer day; + We prize thee more, we better know thy worth; + We hold thee dearer in the truer north: + Come, Summer, come. + + Come, Summer, come, and in the early dawn + Find sparkling dewdrops on the fragrant lawn; + Hush all before thy majesty at noon, + And hallow the long evening hours; come soon, + Come, Summer, come. + + Come, Summer, come, make meadow grasses long; + Make all the groves exuberant with song, + The pasture corners canopy with shades, + And thickly roof the silent forest glades: + Come, Summer, come. + + Come, Summer, come, and with thy magic breath + Make consummation of the death of death; + Complete the work of thy sweet sister, Spring; + Life more abundantly give everything: + Come, Summer, come. + + + + + SIR SUMMER. + + When conquering Summer stalks the street, + His eyes are eyes of fire, + The pavement burns beneath his feet, + Men droop before his ire; + But yonder, out upon the land, + His manners are not these: + He is a courtier mild and bland + Beneath the maple trees. + + He throws his buckler on the grass, + Unclasps his sheathed blade; + He doffs his helmet and cuirass, + And lounges in the shade; + His pennon, fastened to a bough, + Is fluttering in the breeze: + He is at home and happy now + Beneath the maple trees. + + No furious rage disturbs his breast, + No fever heats his brain; + Right cheerily he takes his rest, + And views his glad domain; + His lady seated by his side, + His children on his knees, + His heart expands with joy and pride + Beneath the maple trees. + + He hears the happy farmer folk + Who toss the fragrant hay; + Blessings upon him they invoke, + And beg of him to stay. + The music of the feathered choirs, + The murmur of the bees, + Are sounds of which he never tires + Beneath the maple trees. + + He hums a sweet, melodious tune, + His hand a garland weaves, + He talks the while he feasts at noon, + His laughter shakes the leaves. + He tells of conquests in the south, + Of triumphs overseas, + Of realms redeemed and deeds of drouth, + Beneath the maple trees. + + He shouts and holds his jolly sides, + And strikes his lusty thigh, + To think of how Sir Winter hides + His face when he is nigh, + Or how with city exquisites + His swagger disagrees: + Thus glad Sir Summer gaily sits + Beneath the maple trees. + + I know where I can find his bower + Upon a wooded hill, + Where I can pluck his favorite flower, + And bathe within his rill; + And thither I will take my flight, + And loiter at my ease, + And pay my homage to the Knight + Beneath the maple trees. + + + + + THE NIGHT. + + A tremor, a quiver, + Through her ran + As over the river + The dawn began. + She drew her veil + Over her eyes, + And her face grew pale, + As she watched the sun rise. + She faded, turned + To a ghost, was gone, + As the morning burned + And the day came on. + With veiled, sad eye, + And face still wan, + She waited nigh + When the dusk began. + With her tears of bliss + The earth was wet, + And soothed with her kiss, + When the sun had set. + And with stately pride + She sat on the throne + Of her empire wide + When the day had gone; + And her robes she spread + With their sable hem, + And crowned her head + With her diadem. + And the mute earth saw + That a Queen was she, + And gazed with awe + On her majesty. + + + + + TO BEAUTY. + + Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts + And pure, and cherished of the gifted tribe + Whose skill to canvas and even stone imparts + Such things as words are powerless to describe. + And bards, who woo thee in the silent shade + And dote upon thee under moonlit skies, + And lovers, who behold thee new-array'd, + As our first parents did in Paradise! + + These all have been thy priests. In times remote, + In Athens and the cool Thessalian dells, + They sung thy liturgy with dulcet note, + And quaff'd thy chalice from the sacred wells + Of leafy Helicon. Beneath the brows + Of fam'd Olympus and among the isles + Of the Aegean sea they paid their vows, + And read thy lore in Nature's frowns and smiles. + + Nor strange to Zion's sanctuaried hill + Wast thou, embalmer of the holy page; + Ambrosial odors from thy garments fill + The garden where the amorous royal sage + Walk'd and discours'd with his beloved; there + Alluring in thy soft and sumptuous dress: + And to his kinglier sire supremely fair, + Companion sweet of meek-ey'd Holiness. + + Thou hast no local temple, no set shrine; + Thou art diffus'd o'er earth and sky and sea; + In every land a thousand haunts are thine, + Spirits of every race respond to thee. + Here thy Olympus and thy Zion hill, + Thy silvery Aegean, I survey; + Thy majesty and loveliness at will + I view, and own thy tranquilizing sway. + + + + + THE DOCTOR. + + He bent above our darling's bed + When her life was ebbing low, + And in his serious look we read + The truth we feared to know. + + We knew a slender thread was all + That held her now; we saw + The dark, portentous shadow fall, + And near and nearer draw. + + Our hopes were centred all in him; + We stood with bated breath + As, pitiful and calm and grim, + He fought and fought with Death. + + We hung upon the desperate fight, + And saw in him combined + The tiger's stealth, the lion's might, + The man's superior mind. + + We saw the fearful hate he bore + His old, relentless foe, + His beautiful compassion for + The one we cherished so. + + No mortal ever waged alone + A conflict so severe; + The high-souled, stainless champion + Finds heavenly succor near. + + Legions of angels to his aid + His pure devotion brought; + Celestial strength his spirit swayed; + 'Twas Life that in him fought. + + The awful stillness of the night! + The long and bitter hours!-- + It seemed that Time had stayed his flight + To watch the battling pow'rs. + + And ere the ghastly night had fled + He conquered in the strife, + And gently took the slender thread, + And drew her back to life. + + + + + MY VALENTINE. + + O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy, + You make my heart rejoice; + Your presence is like Arcady, + There's music in your voice; + Heaven's purity is on your brow, + Its light is in your eyne; + I love you, and I ask you now + To be my Valentine. + + Your face is like the lily in + The morning's ruddy light; + Your dimpled cheeks and tiny chin + Are blessings to my sight; + Your lips are fairer than the rose + And redder far than wine; + Your teeth are whiter than the snows: + You'll be my Valentine! + + You are not quite so old as I, + You've seen but summers three; + And that's no doubt the reason why + You are not coy with me. + I'll come to you to-morrow, + And on chocolates we'll dine; + And you'll have no thought of sorrow + When you are my Valentine. + + + + + MY FRIENDS. + + "My never-failing friends are they, + With whom I converse day by day." + --_Southey_. + + + Some to and fro for converse flit + And on their friends intrude, + Or shun society and sit + In cheerless solitude; + But I can sit, when night descends, + At home among a thousand friends. + + The garish day is left behind, + The scurry and the din; + The hours of toil are out of mind, + As if they had not been. + No thought of morrow that impends + Comes in between me and my friends. + + We reck not of the flight of time, + To them a subject strange; + They pass their days in a sublime + Indifference to change: + Theirs is the life that never ends; + Immortal beings are my friends. + + They toil not, neither do they spin; + Yet none is meanly drest; + And some are clad in costly skin, + And some in silken vest; + And everyone who sees commends + The decent habits of my friends. + + And some are short, and some are tall; + Some portly, and some spare; + Here is a group of pygmies small, + A Tom Thumb family; there + A Brobdingnagian row extends, + The best-informed among my friends. + + Wot one among them all is low, + A fellow to be spurned; + And none is ever rude, although + Their backs are often turned. + No observation that offends + Is dropped by any of my friends. + + And some are steeped in classic lore; + Some brim with wisdom sage; + And some can trace a far-off shore, + Or paint a former age; + And each his talent freely lends, + For talented are all my friends. + + Some tell of deeds and lives sublime + And triumphs over foes; + Some weave a spell of lofty rhyme, + Some charm with stately prose; + And here and there a mind unbends + Familiarly among my friends. + + In diction antiquated, quaint, + Or with a modern sound, + They speak their thoughts without restraint, + Although they're mostly bound; + And cease to speak when none attends, + A valued feature of my friends. + + Although they shun the thoughtless crowd, + The frivolous disdain, + Their titles have not made them proud, + Nor all their pages vain; + No common mortal less pretends, + None can be opener than my friends. + + They care not that they've all been cut, + A number by myself, + And often taken down, and put + As often on the shelf; + My estimation makes amends + For such ill-treatment of my friends. + + An ever-fresh, unfailing source + Of thought and sympathy, + What hours of goodly intercourse + They have afforded me! + I cannot doubt that heaven still sends + Us angels while I have my friends. + + If he who sits at home in gloom, + Or rushes here and there, + Will put a bookshelf in his room + And furnish it with care, + He'll bless the evenings that he spends + With such companions as my friends. + + + + + NOTHING TOO GOOD FOR THE IRISH. + + It's the Emerald Isle is the beautiful land: + There's nothing too good for the Irish. + O'er the whole of it, Nature, at heaven's command, + Has scattered her charms with a prodigal hand + From Skibbereen town to the Donegal strand; + For there's nothing too good for the Irish. + + And it's many a hero the Irish can claim: + There's nothing too good for the Irish. + "Red Hugh" put his country's invaders to shame; + Owen Roe was a fighter they never could tame; + As a nation the Irish have glory and fame; + For there's nothing too good for the Irish. + + And the Irish are noted for piety, too: + There's nothing too good for the Irish. + In the far-away time before Brian Boru, + The faith by Saint Patrick was planted and grew, + And the "Island of Saints" has had saints not a few: + For there's nothing too good for the Irish. + + And the best of all orators Irishmen are: + There's nothing too good for the Irish. + The voice of Columba was heard from afar, + Burke's eloquence rolled like a conquering car, + And the name of O'Connell's a radiant star; + For there's nothing too good for the Irish. + + And the Irishman always is witty, of course; + There's nothing too good for the Irish. + And his wit is as genial and kind as its source; + It never leaves anyone feeling the worse; + He makes bulls, but a good Irish bull's a white horse; + For there's nothing too good for the Irish. + + You are thinking, no doubt, to the race I belong: + There's nothing too good for the Irish. + You think I am Irish, but that's where you're wrong; + I am Scotch, but our love for the Irish is strong; + We gave them a saint and we'll give them a song; + For there's nothing too good for the Irish. + + + + + AN ENGLISH TOAST. + + The English soil!--'tis hallowed ground: + Its restless children roam + The world, but they have never found + So dear a land as home; + Their passion for its hills and downs + Nor space nor time can spoil; + A golden mist of memory crowns + The good old English soil. + + The English race!--its pluck and pith, + Its power to stay and win,-- + Wise Alfred's, dauntless Harold's kith, + And Coeur de Lion's kin! + Sir Philip Sidney, Hampden, Noll, + Who sat in kingly place! + Wolfe, Nelson, Wellington and all + The good old English race! + + The English speech!--the copious tongue, + Terse, vivid, plastic, fit, + Which Chaucer, Spenser loved and sung, + Which gave us Holy Writ; + Which Shakespeare, Milton used, to write, + Which Taylor used, to preach, + And Pitt, to speak, as we to-night-- + The good old English speech! + + "St. George and Merrie England!"--still + The stirring phrase imparts + Warmth to the blood, and sends a thrill + Through more than English hearts. + God save Old England by His grace! + We all alike beseech, + Who know the English soil or race + And speak the English speech. + + + + + THE SCOT. + + That no Scotsman is perfect, we freely confess, + Nor has been since the time of the fall; + Yet we think, notwithstanding and nevertheless, + He is "nae sheep-shank bane," after all. + "Sic excellent pairts" as he has will atone + For the lack of a tittle or jot; + And, although we don't boast, it is very well known + For some things you must go to a Scot. + + If you want a sweet song that comes straight from the heart + Of a man who had few for his peers, + An approved son of genius and master of art. + And a lover, with laughter and tears; + A song that gives honor to personal worth, + And ennobles the lowliest lot, + And makes brothers of all who inhabit the earth; + You must go "for a' that" to a Scot. + + If you want a good story, entrancingly told, + By a genuine king of the pen, + A right royal dispenser of things new and old, + And a faithful portrayer of men; + A tale that will brighten your work and your play, + And will do what some others do not,-- + Give you knowledge and wisdom and heart for the fray; + You will go to Sir Walter, the Scot. + + If you want the high spirit that scorns to make truce + With a foeman on suppliant knee, + The untameable will of a Wallace or Bruce, + Or the dash of a Bonnie Dundee; + Fierce courage that nothing on earth can subdue, + Sense of honor that shrinks from a blot, + Inexhaustible loyalty, loving and true, + You will find them to-day in a Scot. + + If you want an intense love of country and kin, + An attachment as tender as strong, + That can gar the blood leap when the pipers begin, + And the tear start at sound of a song; + A grand patriotic devotion and pride, + That makes sanctified ground of the spot + Where a Scotsman for freedom has suffered and died; + You will find what you want in a Scot. + + If you want a hale-bodied and clear-headed chiel, + Independent and honest and good, + With a hand that can do and a heart that can feel, + And tenacious of purpose--and shrewd; + Whose thrift makes the face of prosperity smile, + Who's contented with what he has got, + But is ready and careful to add to his pile; + You may find what you want in a Scot. + + Gin ye wush a douce body, auldfarrant and gash, + Unco' waukrife and couthie and braw, + Ower eydent wi' daft clishmaclavers to fash, + Or to thole whigmaleeries ava; + Mak's nae collieshangie wad fley a bit flee, + But is siccer and dour as a stot; + Tak's the scone and the kebbuck and carries the gree; + Ye'll be spierin', gude faith! for a Scot. + + +GLOSSARY.--"Nae sheep-shank bane" (Burns), no unimportant person; +"gars," makes; "chiel," fellow; "gin," if; "wush," wish; "douce," +sober; "auldfarrant," wise; "gash," sagacious; "unco," uncommonly; +"waukrife," wideawake; "couthie," kindly; "braw," handsome; "ower," +over; "eydent," busy; "daft," foolish; "clishmaclavers," idle talk; +"fash," trouble; "thole," bear; "whigmaleeries," crotchets; "ava," at +all; "collieshangie," commotion; "fley," disturb; "siccer," steady; +"dour," stubborn; "stot," ox; "scone," a cake; "kebbuck," a cheese; +"carries the gree" (Burns), has the pre-eminence; "spierin'," inquiring. + + + + + THE ROARIN' GAME. + + The roarin' game, the roarin' game, + From Scotland's bonnie land it came, + The land of loch and firth and ben, + And comely dames and stalwart men; + It crossed the broad Atlantic tide + With Scots who came to dwell this side, + And bring our country wealth and fame, + The roarin' game, the roarin' game. + + The roarin' game, the roarin' game + Makes every land to Scotsmen "hame"; + Where'er the winter's breath congeals + The water, see the sturdy "chiels" + With "stane" and besom play and sweep, + Intently gaze, and shout and leap, + With genial fervor all aflame:-- + The roarin' game, the roarin' game. + + The roarin' game, the roarin' game, + Though stupid folk may think it tame, + Affect the smile that wisdom casts + On rattle-brained enthusiasts, + And jest in condescending tones + Of boys and marbles, men and stones; + 'Tis fine enjoyment just the same, + The roarin' game, the roarin' game. + + The roarin' game, the roarin' game + Its meed of praise may justly claim: + As firm as ice upon the pond + It is of hearts a brother bond; + It trains us to be wise and true + In all we undertake to do, + And fits for every higher aim, + The roarin' game, the roarin' game, + + The roarin' game, the roarin' game + Will never give us cause for shame, + No shattered nerves and aching heads, + Bad consciences and nameless dreads, + But health and strength and minds serene + And kindly hearts and friendly mien: + No honest tongue will e'er defame + The roarin' game, the roarin' game. + + + + + THE OLD SCOTTISH MINISTER. + + A man he was of Scottish race, + And ancient Scottish name; + Of common mould, but lofty mien, + That dignified his frame. + And he lived a humble, quiet life, + Obscure, unknown to fame; + God's glory and the good of man + His constant, only aim: + Like a fine old Scottish minister, + All of the olden time. + + He dearly loved his gentle wife, + As everyone could tell; + And watched his children as they grew, + Lest any ill befell; + And as he looked upon his boys + His bosom oft would swell; + For he reared them in the fear of God, + And ruled his household well: + Like a true old Scottish minister, + All of the olden time. + + A father, too, he was to all + His congregation there: + To all he felt a father's love, + And showed a father's care: + He wisely counselled them with speech, + And pled for them in prayer; + And ever for the needy ones + He something had to spare: + Like a kind old Scottish minister, + All of the olden time. + + The servant of the Lord he was, + In hovel and in hall,-- + The high ambassador of heaven + Whom earth could not enthrall; + Like Christ among the wedding guests, + Or by the funeral pall; + And he made his daily life sublime, + A pattern unto all: + Like a grand old Scottish minister, + All of the olden time. + + For truth and righteousness and love + His voice was ever heard; + And minds were kindled into thought, + And consciences were stirred, + And weary, heavy-laden hearts + To faith and hope were spurred, + As from the pulpit he proclaimed + The everlasting Word: + Like a faithful Scottish minister, + All of the olden time. + + And when, amid his elders grave, + Extended in a line + Beside the table of the Lord, + He kept the rite divine, + His face with a rapt, unearthly look + Was seen to strangely shine, + As he broke the white, symbolic bread, + And passed the sacred wine: + Like a saintly Scottish minister, + All of the olden time. + + His lot was hard, his task severe; + He found the burden light: + When darkly o'er his pathway hung + The shadows of the night, + His heart was steadfast, for he walked + By faith, and not by sight; + And ran triumphantly his course, + And fought a goodly fight: + Like a brave old Scottish minister, + All of the olden time. + + And when upon a summer's day + He laid him down to die, + He called his household to his side + Without a moan or sigh, + And blessed his children each in turn, + And said a fond good-bye, + And then consigned his soul to God, + And went to live on high: + Like a good old Scottish minister, + All of the olden time. + + + + + THE MACS. + + There's a race, or a part of a race, if you will, + Of renown prehistoric, and vigorous still, + Who back from their fastnesses scornfully hurl'd + The redoubtable legions that trampled the world; + They repelled, and they only, the Roman attacks, + The stalwart, courageous, impetuous Macs. + + When the red-bearded pirates, the Saxons and Danes + And Angles, came swarming across the sea plains, + And the old British stock to exterminate tried, + Caledonia and Erin their efforts defied; + And the conquering Normans were glad to make tracks + From the Macs and the Mics (who are properly Macs). + + Their proud patronymics, they rightfully hold, + Proclaim them descended from heroes of old.-- + Illustrious titles that throw in the shade + The dukedoms and earldoms but yesterday made; + And even the King with his royalty lacks + A lineage as ancient as that of the Macs. + + They are old and yet young, with a spirit possest + By the dream of the East and the hope of the West; + The earth is their country, the race is their kin; + In populous cities their guerdon they win, + And in gold miners' cabins and lumbermen's shacks + You will find the ubiquitous, venturesome Macs. + + Distinguished they've been with the sword and the pen; + In pulpit and parliament, leaders of men; + Prime ministers, presidents, merchants, viziers, + They have manag'd the business of both hemispheres; + And the Dago day-laborers laying the tracks + Are boss'd by the Macs or the Mics (who are Macs). + + 'Twas thought by the ancients that Atlas upbore + The sphere on his shoulders--'tis thought so no more; + Prometheus and Atlas and all of their kith, + The Titans, are now but a fable, a myth. + The men who are bearing the world on their backs + Are the Macs and the Mics (who are mixed with the Macs). + + + + + THE PARSON AT THE HOCKEY MATCH. + + It's very disagreeable to sit here in the cold, + And a sinful waste of time--ah, well, it's too late now to scold; + I'll think about my sermon and my prayers for Sunday next, + And the young folks may be happy--let me see--what was my text? + But what a throng of people--an immortal soul in each: + With such an audience this would be a splendid place to preach. + I'd have the pulpit half-way down--what ice! without a smirch! + Here are the men--I wonder if they ever go to church. + "The teams?" Ah, yes, "the forwards, point, and cover-point and goal"; + Thank you, my dear, I understand--is that a lump of coal? + "Rubber?" Ah, yes, "The puck?" just so! One's holding it, I see-- + That fellow with his clothes all on--ah, that's the referee. + What was he whistling for--his dog? Why, they've begun to play; + Well, well, that's rough; I really think we're doing wrong to stay. + It's sickening, deafening; dear! I wish this uproar could be stilled. + I do sincerely trust there'll not be anybody killed. + + It's a wondrous exhibition of alertness, speed, and strength. + I suppose there's not much danger--there's a fellow at full length. + He's up again; that's plucky. Well, the little lad has pluck-- + And now he's master of the ice, possessor of the puck. + He dodges two opponents, but collides with one at last, + A Philistine Goliath--David baffles him and fast + Darts onward o'er the whitening sheet, while from each crowded row + The crazed spectators cheer him on--Look!--has he lost it? No! + He's clear again. Played, played, my boy. I'd like to see him score:-- + (I'll have no voice for Sunday if I shout like this much more)-- + But there his ruthless enemies o'erwhelm him in a shoal-- + Well played, you hero, safely passed. Now for a shot on goal. + Shoot, shoot, you duffer; shoot, you goose, you ass, you great galoot, + You addle-pated idiot, you nincompoop, you--shoot! + You've lost it! Never mind--well tried--that other dash was grand. + Why do they stop? "Off side," you say? I don't quite understand. + That's puzzling. I suppose it's right. I wish they'd not delay. + This is a most provoking interruption to the play. + + "Cold?" Nothing of the sort. I was--I'm heated with the game. + I'm really enjoying it; indeed, I'm glad I came. + I'd like to see both ends at once; I can't from where we sit. + They've scored one yonder--What's the row? A player has been hit? + Such things are bound to happen in a rapid game like this; + They'll soon resume the play, my dear; there's nothing much amiss,-- + Some trifling accident received in a rough body check, + A shoulder dislocated or a fracture of the neck. + Oh, no, it's nothing serious--the game begins again. + They're here, a writhing, struggling mass of half a dozen men + Battling and groaning with the strife, and breathing hard and fast, + Swayed back and forth and stooping low like elms before the blast, + Changing their places like a fleet of vessels tempest-driven + That blindly meet within the waves and part with timbers riven, + Waving their sticks with frantic zeal--But isn't this a sight? + My goodness! I could sit and watch a game like this all night. + There, dirty trousers, there's your chance. Muffed it! Why weren't + you quick? + This is a sight to make the sad rejoice, to heal the sick, + To rouse the drones and give them life to last them half a year-- + Hit him again!--I wish I had my congregation here. + + My stars! and this is hockey. Hockey's the king of sports. + This is the thing to come to when you're feeling out of sorts. + This is the greatest holiday I've had for many weeks. + This helps one to appreciate the feeling of the Greeks. + I understand my Homer now--O Hercules, behold + Yon Trojan giant, he that's cast in an Olympian mould, + Ye gods, he more than doubled up that other stalwart cove-- + Here comes swift-footed Mercury, the messenger of Jove. + Adown the blue, outstripping all, he speeds. Oh, what a spurt! + His shoulders have no wings, but see, he has them on his shirt. + He's broken through the forward line, baffled the cover-point, + Thrown down the other man and knocked their game all out of joint. + And now he rushes on the goal--this makes the senses reel-- + Goal! goal! hurrah! hurrah! well done, men of the winged wheel! + + At last--how soon!--the game is done; I've scarcely drawn a breath. + This getting out is difficult; I'm almost crushed to death. + The cars are packed; how we'll get home I'm sure I do not know. + Here's room for you; get up, my dears; I'll walk; away you go. + + My sermon's gone, but as I walk I cannot help but think + That, after all, perhaps I've found a sermon in the rink. + + This world is an arena with a slippery sheet of ice, + And all have skates and hockey sticks and enter without price. + And seats are round for those who rest--the idle and the old; + But those who are not in the game are apt to find it cold. + Some play defence, some forward, with terrific speed and stress. + The puck keeps flying 'twixt the goals of failure and success, + Now up, now down, across and back, here, there, and everywhere. + + The grit of skates, the crack of sticks, the shouting, fill the air. + Some slip and fall a thousand times and spring up in a trice; + Some go to pieces on their feet and have to leave the ice; + Some play offside, kick, tackle, trip, try every kind of foul; + Some players are forever cheered, some only get a howl. + We seldom hear the whistle of the watchful Referee, + Who mostly lets the game go on as if He didn't see. + No gong rings out half-time to let the players get their breath-- + To most full time comes only with the solemn stroke of death. + The winners are not always those who make the biggest score: + The vanquished oft are victors when the stubborn game is o'er; + For many things are added to make up the grand amount, + And everything is taken at the last into account-- + The sort of sticks we played with, and the way our feet were shod, + For the trophy is Salvation and the Referee is God. + + God prosper our Canadian sports and keep them clean and pure, + Whole-hearted, manly, generous, and let them long endure! + Long live each honest winter sport, each good Canadian game, + To train the youth in lusty health and iron strength of frame, + To make them noble, vigorous, straightforward, ardent, bold, + Nearer a perfect standard than the grandest knights of old. + + Keep in the path of rectitude the young throughout the land, + And guide them ever on their way by thine unerring hand, + Along the slippery path of life in safety toward the goal, + And keep their bodies holy as the temples of the soul: + For the river of the future from the present's fountain runs, + And a nation's hope is founded on the virtue of her sons. + + The glory of a man is strength, Thy wisdom hath declared: + Let strength increase, and strength of frame with strength of will + be paired, + And let these twain go hand in hand with strength of heart and mind, + And strength of character present all forms of strength combined. + Oh, make out strength the strength of men to perfect stature grown, + And use it for thine ends and turn man's glory to thine own. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Canada, My Land, by W. 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