Kanawaki—­“By the Rapid,”—­
  How the sun amidst thee burns! 
Village of the Praying Nation,
  Thy dark child to thee returns. 
All day through the pale-face city,
  Silent, selling beaded wares,
I have wandered with my basket,
  Lone, excepting for their stares!

They are white men; we are Indians;
  What a gulf their stares proclaim! 
They are mounting; we are dying;
  All our heritage they claim. 
We are dying, dwindling, dying,
  Strait and smaller grows our bound;
They are mounting up to heaven
  And are pressing all around.

Thou art ours,—­little remnant,
  Ours through countless thousand years—­
Part of the old Indian world,
  Thy breath from far the Indian cheers. 
Back to thee, O Kanawaki! 
  Let the rapids dash between
Indian homes and white men’s manners—­
  Kanawaki and Lachine!

O my dear!—­O Knife-and-Arrows! 
  Thou art bronzed, thy limbs are lithe;
How I laugh as through the crosse-game,
  Slipst thou like red elder withe. 
Thou art none of these pale-faces! 
  When with thee I’ll happy feel,
For thou art the Mohawk warrior
  From thy scalp-lock to thy heel.

Sweet the Konoronkwa chorus
  Floats across the current strong;
Clear behold the parish steeple
  Rise the ancient walls among. 
Speed us deftly, noiseless paddle: 
  In my shawl my bosom burns! 
Kanawaki—­“By the Rapid,”—­
  Thine own child to thee returns.

MONTREAL.

Reign on, majestic Ville Marie! 
  Spread wide thine ample robes of state;
  The heralds cry that thou art great,
And proud are thy young sons of thee. 
Mistress of half a continent,
  Thou risest from thy girlhood’s rest;
  We see thee conscious heave thy breast
And feel thy rank and thy descent.

Sprung of the saint and chevalier! 
  And with the Scarlet Tunic wed! 
  Mount Royal’s crown upon thy head,
And—­past thy footstool—­broad and clear
  St. Lawrence sweeping to the sea;
  Reign on, majestic Ville Marie!

ALL HAIL TO A NIGHT.

All hail to a night when the stars stand bright
  Like gold dust in the sky;
With a crisp track long, and an old time song,
  And the old time company.

Cho.—­All hail to a night when the Northern Light
          A welcome to us waves,
        Then the snowshoer goes o’er the ice and the snows,
          And the frosty tempest braves.

The snowshoer’s tent is the firmament;
  His breath the rush of the breeze. 
Earth’s loveliest sprite, the frost queen at night,
  Lures him silvery through the trees.

Yes, the snowshoer’s queen is winter serene,
  We meet her in the glade. 
Dark-blue-eyed, a fair, pale bride,
  In her jewelled veil arrayed.