"Beside the woodpile, which was hauled across last winter's snow,
Sat the owner of the homestead, but his head was bending low.
"He had flung aside his hatchet and tired and care-oppressed,
Sat down to muse and vex his mind, while he gave his body rest.
"His heart yearned o'er the byegone hours, on Scotia's bonny braes,
When he chased among the yellow broom, or plucked the juicy slaes.
"He hears the plashing of the wave upon the sea-beat shore;
He hears his mother's gentle step, as music on the floor.
"He sees the ivy-mantled church on yonder green hill side
Where, in his earlier manhood, he claimed his girlish bride.
"But the past is passed forever, and in its place doth stand
The certain fate of pioneer in our Canadian land.
"A match 'twixt strength of arm and will, of labor tough and keen,
Affording slightest intervals for idleness, I ween,
"And nature in repellant mood; in roughest, homeliest guise;
Of frowning features, fit to thwart the purpose from the prize.
"He conjured up his hardships in this new land of the West,
And reasoned of returning to the land he loved the best.
"But within the cot was wanted fresh fuel for the flame;
Impatient to the woodstack a trim young matron came.