Quebec, the gray old city on the hill, Lies, with a golden glory on her head, Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still, Of other days and her belovèd dead. The doves are nesting in the cannons grim, The flowers bloom where once did run a tide Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim Above a field of battle stretching wide. Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past, The strife, the valor of the long ago Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace, A wondrous softness on her gray old face.
MEN O' THE FOREST MARK.
What we most need is men of worth, Men o' the forest mark, Of lofty height and mighty girth And green, unbroken bark.
Not men whom circumstances Have stunted, wasted, sapped, Men fearful of fighting chances, Clinging to by-paths mapped.
Holding honor and truth below Promotion, place and pelf; Weaklings that change as winds do blow, Lost in their love of self.
Tricksters playing a game unfair (Count them, sirs, at this hour), Ready to dance to maddest air Piped by the man in power.
The need, sore need, of this young land Is honest men, good sirs, Men as her oak trees tall and grand, Staunch as her stalwart firs.
Steadfast, unswerving, first and last, Fearless of front and strong, Meeting the challenge of the blast With high, clear battle song.