[A]Newfoundland is proud to be
England’s oldest colony!
Loving her dear motherland,
By her side she takes her stand,
Devon, Scotch and Irish stock,
Sturdy as their seagirt rock,
Leave their homes and leave their boats,
Don the khaki-coloured coats.
Newfoundland has fought and bled,
Far and wide her fame has spread,
Newfoundland is proud to be
England’s oldest colony!
Nine fair sisters in one home,
With the North Pole on its dome,
Facing both the East and West,
And a friendly State abreast,
Smile upon the lonely one.
They have done as she has done,
Fought and bled in freedom’s cause,
Won like her the world’s applause.
Will she join her home to theirs?
No, her head in scorn she rears,
Newfoundland is proud to be
England’s oldest colony!
But the offer’s most sincere;
And the offer’s always there;
Newfoundland may change her mind,
And in time she too may find,
Burdens shared are light to bear,
Triumphs shared are doubly dear,
She may gladly join the sheaf
Bound around by maple leaf,
Knowing well she still may boast,
Answering her sisters’ toast:
“Newfoundland is proud to be
England’s oldest colony!”
[A] The name of “Newfoundland” is never pronounced by its inhabitants or their neighbors of the Maritime Provinces with the accent on the middle syllable, as is the usage elsewhere. It is pronounced as though written “Newf’n’land,” with the principal stress on the last syllable.
IN FORT-BOUND METZ.
July 26th, 1914.
Neat uniformed, with close cropped head and fierce moustache,
Near us they dined one July day in fort-bound Metz.
We could not catch their words; but we could see and feel
Their strong excitement, breaking forth, then held in check,
Then breaking forth afresh as some new health was drunk.
The joy, imprinted on their faces, spread to ours.
We laughed in turn as they; but knew not why we laughed.
It was indeed a merry meal in which we shared,
That July day, in fort-bound Metz.
Next day, in France, we were to know at what we laughed
With those large built, full blooded German men of rank,
For when we asked a grieving woman why she wept,
She sobbed: “Because the Germans will make war on France!”
THE CALM THAT COMES WITH YEARS.
I cannot write of turmoil, I cannot write of strife,
Long since has gone the passion, I used to think was life.
A calmness rests upon me, a calm I cannot break,
Though worlds are trembling round me and freedom is at stake.
Because I have no sorrows, because my heart’s at rest,
I cannot weep with others, whose hearts are not so blest;
I tremble for no hero upon the fields of France,
I cannot curse the Nero who planned this gory dance.