  Our mother is the good green earth, Our rest her bosom broad; And sure, in plenty and in dearth, Of our six feet of sod, We welcome Fate with careless mirth And dangerous paths have trod, Holding our lives of little worth And fearing none but God. Where, ankle deep, bright streamlets slide Above the fretted sand, Our frail canoes, like shadows, glide Swift through the silent land; Nor should, broad-shouldered, in some tide Rocks rise on every hand, Our path will we confess denied, Nor cowardly seek the strand. The foam may leap like frightened cloud That hears the tempest scream, The waves may fold their whitened shroud Where ghastly ledges gleam; And poles that breaking seem, We shoot the sault, whose torrent proud Itself our lord did deem. The broad traverse is cold and deep, And treacherous smiles it hath, And with its sickle of death doth reap, With woe for aftermath; But though the wind-vext waves may leap, Like cougars, in our path, Still forward on our way we keep, Nor heed their futile wrath. Where glitter trackless wastes of snow Beneath the northern light, On netted shoes we noiseless go, Nor heed though keen winds bite. The shaggy bears our prowess know, The white fox fears our might, And wolves, when warm our camp fires glow, With angry snarls take flight. Where forest fastnesses extend, Ne’er trod by man before, Where cries of loon and wild duck blend With some dark torrent’s roar, And timid deer, unawed, descend Along the lake’s still shore, We blaze the trees and onward wend To ravish nature’s store. Leve, leve and couche, at morn and eve These calls the echoes wake. We rise and forward fare, nor grieve Though long portage we make, Until the sky the sun gleams leave And shadows cowl the lake; And then we rest and fancies weave For wife or sweetheart’s sake. |
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