| |
| THERE is rain upon the window, | |
| There is wind upon the tree; | |
| The rain is slowly sobbing, | |
| The wind is blowing free: | |
| It bears my weary heart | 5 |
| To my own country. | |
| |
| I hear the whitethroat calling, | |
| Hid in the hazel ring; | |
| Deep in the misty hollows | |
| I hear the sparrows sing; | 10 |
| I see the bloodroot starting, | |
| All silvered with the spring. | |
| |
| I skirt the buried reed-beds, | |
| In the starry solitude: | |
| My snowshoes creak and whisper, | 15 |
| I have my ready blood. | |
| I hear the lynx-club yelling | |
| In the gaunt and shaggy wood. | |
| |
| I hear the wolf-tongued rapid | |
| Howl in the rocky break; | 20 |
| Beyond the vines at the portage | |
| I hear the trapper wake | |
| His En roulant ma boulé | |
| From the clear gloom of the lake. | |
| |
| O! take me back to the homestead, | 25 |
| To the great rooms warm and low, | |
| Where the frost creeps on the casement, | |
| When the year comes in with snow. | |
| Give me, give me the old folk | |
| Of the dear long ago. | 30 |
| |
| Oh, land of the dusky balsam, | |
| And the darling maple tree, | |
| Where the cedar buds and berries, | |
| And the pine grows strong and free! | |
| My heart is weary and weary | 35 |
| For my own country. | |
| |
