The Voyageur and Other Poems

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, 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 On many a hill an' long portage Far far away from hees own vill-age An' soun' of de parish bell— "Far, far away from hees own vill-age
An' soun' of de parish bell." "Far, far away from hees own vill-age An' soun' of de parish bell