  Sing me a song of the great Dominion! Soul-felt words for a patriot's ear! Ring out boldly the well-turned measure, Voicing your notes that the world may hear; Here is no starveling—Heaven-forsaken— Shrinking aside where the Nations throng; Proud as the proudest moves she among them— Worthy is she of a noble song! Sing me the might of her giant mountains, Baring their brows in the dazzling blue; Changeless alone, where all else changes, Emblems of all that is grand and true: Free, as the eagles around them soaring; Fair, as they rose from their Maker's hand: Shout, till the snow-caps catch the chorus— The white-topp'd peaks of our mountain land. Sing me the calm of her tranquil forests, Silence eternal, and peace profound, In whose great heart's deep recesses Breaks no tempest, and comes no sound; Face to face with the deathlike stillness, Here, if at all, man's soul might quail: Nay! 'tis the love of that great peace leads us Thither, where solace will never fail! Sing me the pride of her stately rivers, Cleaving their way to the far-off sea; Glory of strength in their deep-mouth'd music— Glory of mirth in their tameless glee. Hark! 'tis the roar of the tumbling rapids; Deep unto deep through the dead night calls; Truly, I hear but the voice of Freedom Shouting her name from her fortress walls! Sing me the joy of her fertile prairies, League upon league of the golden grain: Comfort, housed in the smiling homestead— Plenty, throned on the lumbering wain. Land of Contentment! May no strife vex you, Never war's flag on your plains be unfurl'd; Only the blessings of mankind reach you— Finding the food for a hungry world! Sing me the charm of her blazing camp fires; Sing me the quiet of her happy homes, Whether afar 'neath the forest arches, Or in the shade of the city's domes; Sing me her life, her loves, her labours; All of a mother a son would hear; For when a lov'd one's praise is sounding, Sweet are the strains to the lover's ear. Sing me the worth of each Canadian, Roamer in wilderness—toiler in town— Search earth over you'll find none stancher, Whether his hands be white or brown; Come of a right good stock to start with, Best of the world's blood in each vein; Lords of ourselves, and slaves to no one, For us or from us, you'll find we're—MEN! Sing me the song, then; sing it bravely; Put your soul in the words you sing; Sing me the praise of this glorious country— Clear on the ear let the deep notes ring. Here is no starveling—Heaven-forsaken— Crouching apart where the Nations throng; Proud as the proudest moves she among them— Well is she worthy a noble song! Robert Reid |
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