"Faintly as toll the evening chime
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon, as the woods on the shore grow dim,
We'll sing at Saint Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight past.
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon, as the woods on the shore grow dim,
We'll sing at Saint Ann's our parting hymn.
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight past.
Why should we yet our sail unfurl,
There is not a breath, the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast;
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.
There is not a breath, the blue wave to curl;
But when the wind blows off the shore,
Sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast;
The rapids are near and the daylight's past.
Ottawa's tide this trembling moon
Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast;
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past."
Shall see us float o'er thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers,
Oh! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast;
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past."
A Gaelic Canadian boat song, sung on the St. Lawrence by a crew of Scotch Canadians, and taken by a retiring Hud- son's Bay Company's officer to Scotland in 1824 and translated by John Wilson. The crew were six pullers and captain steerer:
Listen to me as when we heard our fathers
Sing long ago the songs of other shores.
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
All your strong voices, as you pull the oars.
Fair these broad meads, these hoary woods are grand,
But we are exiles from our Fatherland.
Sing long ago the songs of other shores.
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
All your strong voices, as you pull the oars.
Fair these broad meads, these hoary woods are grand,
But we are exiles from our Fatherland.
From the lone Skeilin, on the misty island,
Mountains divide us, and a width of seas,
But still our hearts are true, our hearts are highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.
Ne'er shall we see the fancy haunted valley
Where twixt the dark hills flows the pure, clear stream,
Nor e'er around our chieftain's banner rally,
Nor see the moon from loyal tombstones gleam.
Mountains divide us, and a width of seas,
But still our hearts are true, our hearts are highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.
Ne'er shall we see the fancy haunted valley
Where twixt the dark hills flows the pure, clear stream,
Nor e'er around our chieftain's banner rally,
Nor see the moon from loyal tombstones gleam.
