| William Wilfred Campbell, comp. The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse. 1913. | | | | The Song My Paddle Sings | | By Emily Pauline Johnson (1861–1913) |
| | | WEST wind, blow from your prairie nest, | |
| Blow from the mountains, blow from the west. | |
| The sail is idle, the sailor too; | |
| Oh! wind of the west, we wait for you. | |
| Blow, blow! | 5 |
| I have wooed you so, | |
| But never a favour you bestow. | |
| You rock your cradle the hills between,— | |
| But scorn to notice my white lateen. | |
| |
| I stow the sail and unship the mast; | 10 |
| I wooed you long, but my wooing ’s past; | |
| My paddle will lull you into rest; | |
| O drowsy wind of the drowsy west, | |
| Sleep, sleep! | |
| By your mountains steep, | 15 |
| Or down where the prairie grasses sweep, | |
| Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, | |
| For soft is the song my paddle sings. | |
| |
| August is laughing across the sky, | |
| Laughing while paddle, canoe and I | 20 |
| Drift, drift, | |
| Where the hills uplift | |
| On either side of the current swift. | |
| |
| The river rolls in its rocky bed, | |
| My paddle is plying its way ahead, | 25 |
| Dip, dip, | |
| When the waters flip | |
| In foam as over their breast we slip. | |
| |
| And oh, the river runs swifter now; | |
| The eddies circle about my bow; | 30 |
| Swirl, swirl, | |
| How the ripples curl | |
| In many a dangerous pool awhirl! | |
| |
| And far to forward the rapids roar, | |
| Fretting their margin for evermore; | 35 |
| Dash, dash, | |
| With a mighty crash, | |
| They seethe and boil and bound and splash. | |
| |
| Be strong, O Paddle! be brave, Canoe! | |
| The reckless waves you must plunge into. | 40 |
| Reel, reel, | |
| On your trembling keel, | |
| But never a fear my craft will feel. | |
| |
| We’ve raced the rapids; we’re far ahead; | |
| The river slips through its silent bed. | 45 |
| Sway, sway, | |
| As the bubbles spray | |
| And fall in tinkling tunes away. | |
| |
| And up on the hills against the sky, | |
| A fir-tree rocking its lullaby | 50 |
| Swings, swings, | |
| Its emerald wings, | |
| Swelling the song that my paddle sings. | | | | |
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