Of Poutrincourt and D'Iberville.
And thou far tide, whose plains now beat
With march of myriad westering feet,
Saskatchewan, whose virgin sod
So late Canadian blood made sweet?
Your bulwark hills, your valleys broad,
Streams where De Salaberry trod,
Where Wolfe achieved, where Brock was slain,
Their voices are the voice of God!
O sacred waters! not in vain,