By Canada’s backwoodsman aye the narrow axe is borne,
Fit emblem of his wooded home—no theme for jest or scorn,
Right well her darksome forests know the sway of its fateful stroke,
As in answering crash comes thundering down tall pine or stately oak.
We may not scorn the narrow axe, the bold backwoodsman’s pride,
But we’ll shout ha! ha! for our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide,
But we’ll shout ha! ha! for our wagon whip, with its lash of sea-cow hide.
Then here’s to the tree our gardens yield, the tapering light bamboo,
And here’s to the hand that can wield it well, gin his heart be leal and true,
And here’s to the slow and steady team that all the livelong day,