The Native Born

HERE'S a thing we love to think of when the summer days are long,

And the summer winds are blowing, and the summer sun is strong,

When the orchards and the meadows throw

their fragrance in the air,

When the grain-fields flaunt their riches, and the glow is everywhere.

Something sings it all the day,

Canada, fair Canada,

And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

There's a thing we love to think of when the frost and ice and snow

Hold high carnival together, and the biting north winds

blow.

There's a thing we love to think of through the bitter winter hours,

For it stirs a warmth within us-'t is this fair young land of ours.

Something sings it all the day,

Canada, fair Canada,

And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Ours with all her youth and promise, ours with all her strength and might,

Ours with all her mighty waters, and her forests deep as night.

Other lands may far outshine her, boast more charms than she can claim,

But this young land is our own land, and we love her very name.

Something sings it all the day,

Canada, fair Canada,

And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Let the man born in old England love the dear old land the most,

For what spot a man is born in, of that spot he's fain

to boast;

Let the Scot look back towards Scotland with a longing

in his eyes,

And the exile from old Erin think her green shores paradise,

Native born are we, are we,

Canada, fair Canada,

And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Well we love that sea-girt island, and we strive to understand

All the greatness, all the grandeur, of the glorious Mother Land;

And we cheer her to the skies, cheer her till the echoes start,

For the old land holds our homage, but the new land holds our heart!

Native born are we, are we,

Canada, fair Canada!

And the pride thrills through and through us,

'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Jean Blewett.

(B 838)

7

The Habitant's Summer

WHO can blame de winter, never min' de hard he's blowin',

'Cos w'en de tam is comin' for passin' on

hees roun'

De firse t'ing he was doin' is start de sky a-snowin',

An' mak' de nice w'ite blanket, for cover up de groun'.

An' de groun' she go a' sleepin' t'roo all de stormy

season,

Restin' from her work las' summer, till she's waken by de rain

Dat le bon Dieu sen' some mornin', an' of course dat be de reason

Ev'ry year de groun' she's lookin' jus' as fresh an' young again.

Den you geev her leetle sunshine, w'en de snow go off an' leave her

Let de sout' win' blow upon her, an' you see beeg changes now

Wit' de steam arisin' from her jus' de sam' she got de fever,

An' not many day is passin' w'en she's ready for de plow.

W'en de grosbec on de pine-tree wak' you early wit' hees singin',

W'en you lissen to de pa'tridge a-beetin' on hees drum,

W'en de w'ole place roun' about you wit' musique is a-ringin',

Den you know de winter 's over, an' de summer day is come.

See de apple blossom showin', see de clover how it's

growin',

Watch de trout, an' way dey're playin' on de reever down below,

Ah! de cunning leetle feller, easy see how well dey're knowin'

We're too busy now for ketch dem, an' dat's w'y dey 're jumpin' so.

For de mos' fine summer season don't las' too long, an' we know it,

So we're workin' ev'rybody, w'ile de sun is warm an' clear,

Dat's de tam for plant de barley, an' de injun corn we sow it,

W'en de leaf upon de maple's jus' de size of squirrel's ear.

Now de ole sheep's takin' young wan up de hillside, an' dey feed dem

W'ere de nice short grass is growin' sweeter dan it grow below,

Ev'ry mornin' off dey're goin' an' it's pleasan' t'ing to see dem

Lookin' jus' lak leetle snow-ball all along de green

coteau.

Dat's about de way we're leevin', dat's a few t'ing we're seein',

W'en de nice warm summer sun is shinin' down on Canadaw,

An' no matter w'at I'm hearin', still I never feel lak bein'

No oder stranger feller, me, but only habitant.

For dere's no place lak our own place, don't care de far you're goin';

Dat's w'at de w'ole worl' 's sayin', w'enever dey come here,

'Cos we got de fines' contree, an' de beeges' reever flowin',

An' le bon Dieu sen' de sunshine nearly twelve mont' ev'ry year.

W. H. Drummond.

A Song of the Settlement

SING a song of the West land,
Though how shall a song but fail
To capture the blue horizons

That swallow the prairie trail?

And how shall letters and paper
Imprison the breadth of life,
They know, who travel the prairie,
Who hear the song of its strife-

The shouting nights, when the blizzard
Is reeling across the plain,

The lazy laugh of the west wind

At play with the gleaming grain,

The sigh of the sleeping grassland
To the low-hung golden moon,
The song of the waving wheat-tops
Ablaze with the crown of noon,

The low hoarse voice of the hunter,

His eyes, and their warning gleam,