Taught them how to like each other, true to Him who is above.
So they journey, while the forest echoes with the psalm of Death,
So they journey, sad and lonely, ’midst the balsam’s balmy breath.
Then, at last, they reach the Mission, here sad rites they chant for him
Who has led them gently onward, through the glades of ignorance dim.
Trappers, soldiers, priests and redskins, bare their heads at St. Ignace,
Weeping, sobbing, bid him “Farewell!” he, the leader of their race.
Weeping, sobbing, cry out: “Vale!” While the heron wings away,
Croaking: “Good night, good night, Father! Sad the scene and sad the day!”