No friendly fleet to shield her smouldering homes,
And Stadacona's walls crumbling in sun and storm.
Such was New France;—but in her bosom glowed
That patriot fire that burned while life was there;
Not Vandreuil's iron rule could cool her love,
Nor Bigot's vile Friponne hound her to mad despair.
To arms! Grandsire and striplings seek the field;
The Censitaires obey their Seigneurs' call;
Both high and low together ply the spade,
And dainty hands weave gabions for the battered wall.