The Voyageur and Other Poems

by William Henry Drummond

The Voyageur and Other Poems

The Voyageur

Dere's somet'ing stirrin' ma blood tonight,
On de night of de young new year,
Wile de camp is warm an' de fire is bright,
An' de bottle is close at han'—
Out on de reever de nort' win' blow,
Down on de valley is pile de snow,
But w'at do we care so long we know
We 're safe on de log cabane?

Drink to de healt' of your wife an' girl,
Anoder wan for your frien',
Den geev' me a chance, for on all de worl'
I 've not many frien' to spare—
I 'm born, w'ere de mountain scrape de sky,
An' bone of ma fader an' moder lie,
So I fill de glass an' I raise it high
An' drink to de Voyageur.

For dis is de night of de jour de l'an,[1]
W'en de man of de Grand Nor' Wes'
T'ink of hees home on de St. Laurent,
An' frien' he may never see—
Gone he is now, an' de beeg canoe
No more you 'll see wit' de red-shirt crew,
But long as he leev' he was alway true,
So we 'll drink to hees memory.

Ax' heem de nort' win' w'at he see
Of de Voyageur long ago,
An' he 'll say to you w'at he say to me,
So lissen hees story well—
"I see de track of hees botte sau-vage[2]
On many a hill an' long portage
Far far away from hees own vill-age
An' soun' of de parish bell—