Of jeering renegade? at best a son
His mother blushes for—shall he, bold rebel
Entwine its glories in defiant wreath
Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in
Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!
This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown,
And grace its setting with a ray more pure
For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart.
Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain
The ancient honour of their British blood,