VIII. There are some—oh, how few!—in the bloom of their years, Who have listened and pledged him, and trampled their fears; With hot hearts as brave as their sabres are keen, They are mustered around him—his gallant Sixteen.
IX. Kind Priest and sad Nuns their last blessing bestow, And kindred are weeping, for well do they know That never again, till they meet in the skies, Will the faces so dear to them gladden their eyes.
X. They are gone! they have wafted their final adieu, And the cross on Mount Royal soon fades from their view; Now westward, now northward they paddle and plod— Their trust in the piloting hand of their God!
XI. In a ready redoubt, as by Providence meant, They hastily fashion their evergreen tent. And here in the forest, where Ottawa flows, They prepare for the speedy descent of their foes.
XII. Oh! rest—weary soldiers, oh! sleep—while the stars Are shining above you through leaf-fretted bars; But fail not to rouse with the glimmer of day, For already the Mohawks have scented their prey.
XIII. One last happy dream of the loved ones at home,— One matinal prayer ere the cannibals come,— One sigh for their sweethearts in young Ville-Marie,— And a cheer for old France and her proud fleur-de-lis.
XIV. The song of the bobolink welcomes the morn, And scents that are sweetest, of wild flowers born, And pine-lavished odors, are borne by the breeze That kisses, at random, the newly-robed trees.
XV. Full-crowned with proud antlers, the stag at the brink Of the far-sounding rapid has halted to drink; He starts, blows a signal of danger and dread, And his mate with her fawn seeking safety has fled.
XVI. Hark! near and still nearer, yell answers to yell, All the forest seems peopled with spectres of hell! Not a tree but now looks as if changed to a fiend, Not a rock but behind it a demon is screened.
XVII. “Thank God,” Daulac said, “for this moment supreme, The reply to my prayer,—vivid truth of my dream;— Now steady, all ready, my men,—let them dance To the glory of Canada, glory of France.”