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I've tried to waken with a loving care
Some echo of the joyance of these lays,
Which sound as sweetly on Canadian air,
As 'neath the skies of France in olden days.
How often has each song been lightly sung
By lips that now are silent for all time!
How often has each tender cadence flung
O'er distant seas the magic of its chime!
Oblivion's self was softened by their grace
And stored them safe within a people's heart,
To share the fortunes of a songful race,
And charm us with the artlessness of Art.
