An Acadian Monarch.
THE MOOSE.
Hail! gallant roamer of the boundless woods, Where thou dost reign a veritable king,Whose castles are the forest solitudes,To thee I sing.
When striding o'er the springy heath or moss In some lone glade, how stately dost thou tread,And, scenting danger, bravely sniff, and tossThy massive head.
Far from the cities' turmoil, grime and din, Thou'rt prone thy early morning baths to take,And gaily splash, and dash, and gambol, inSome placid lake.
Thy regal looks are not cast wholly off— It even tends to heighten thy renown—When in the winter Nature bids thee doffThy antler crown.
Around thy sylvan haunts the sachem swart, To win thy scalp in watchful ambush lies,And paleface sportsmen know too well thou artA royal prize.
Like human monarchs, thou hast cause to dread Those wanton slayers' deadly craft and skill,Who, with their blades of steel or cones of lead,Are proud to kill.
Then gallant roamer of the boundless woods, Brilliant of eye, alert, and strong of frame,Thou art amongst our forest solitudesThe king of game.
St. John, 1901.
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