Far rolls the battle’s din, and leaves its dead, As when a cyclone thro’ the forest cleaves;-- And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain, As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves.
The Fleur de Lys lies trodden on the ground,-- The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,-- ‘All’s well’ resounds from tower and battlement, And England’s banners proudly o’er the ramparts wave.
Slowly the mighty warships sail away, To tell their country of an empire won; But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain, And all that mortal is of Britain’s noblest son.
With bowèd head they lay their hero down, And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;-- Loud salvoes sing the soldier’s lullaby, And weeping millions bathe with tears his honoured grave.
Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion’s hills,-- And rends the very sky a people’s joy;-- And even when grief broods o’er the vacant chair, The mother’s heart still nobly gives her gallant boy.
And while broad England gleams with glorious light, And merry peals from every belfry ring;-- One little village lies all dark and still, No fires are lighted there--no battle songs they sing.
There in her lonely cot, in widow’s weeds, A mother mourns--the silent tear-drops fall;-- She too had given to swell proud England’s fame, But, ah! she gave the widow’s mite--she gave her all!
O ye, who with your blood and sweat Watered the furrows of this land,-- See where upon a nation’s brow, In honour’s front, ye proudly stand
Who for her pride abased your own, And gladly on her altar laid All bounty of the outer world, All memories that your glory made.
And to her service bowed your strength, Took labour for your shield and crest; See where upon a nation’s brow, Her diadem ye proudly rest!
Shy bird of the silver arrows of song, That cleave our Northern air so clear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, I listen, I hear-- ‘I love--dear--Canada, Canada, Canada!’
O plumes of the pointed dusky fir, Screen of a swelling patriot heart, The copse is all astir And echoes thy part!...
Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes As the noise of the day dies down; And silence strings her lutes, The Whitethroat to crown....
O bird of the silver arrows of song, Shy poet of Canada dear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, We listen, we hear-- ‘I--love--dear--Canada, Canada, Canada!’