Upon his bed of clay,

Wasting away,

Day after day,

A sick and suffering Indian lay:

No lordly Chieftain he,

Of boasted pedigree,

Or famed for bravery

In battle, or for cruelty;

He was of low degree,

The child of poverty,

And from his infancy,

Inured to hardship, toil and pains;

He was a Hunter, bold and free,

Of famed Acadia’s plains.

He’d roamed at will,

O’er rock and hill,

And every spot he knew,

Of forest wide,

Of mountain side,

Of bush and brake,

Of stream and lake,

Of sunny pool and alder shade,

Where the trout and the salmon played,

Where the weeping willow wept,

Where the whistling wood-cock kept,

Where the mink and the martin crept,

Where the wolf and the wild-cat stept,

Where the bear and the beaver slept,

Where the roaring torrent swept,

Where the wandering woodman strayed,

Where the hunter’s lodge was made,

Where his weary form was laid;

Where the fish and the game abound,

Where the various kinds are found,

Every month the Seasons round:

Where beetling bluffs o’er hang the deep,

Where laughing cascades foam and leap,

Dancing away from steep to steep:

Where the ash and the maple grew,

Where the hawk and the eagle flew,

Sailing in the azure blue.

With matchless skill,

He could hunt and kill,

The moose and the carriboo,

And smoothly ride

On the rolling tide,

In the light and frail canoe;

Though in angry gusts the tempest blew,

Though the thunders roared,

And the torrents poured,

And the vivid lightnings flew;

With a noble pride,

Which fear defied,

With steady hand and true,

The fragile skiff

By the frowning cliff,

He could steadily guide,

And safely glide,

In joyful glee,

Triumphantly,

The roaring surges through.