Few of us have the blood of kings, few are of courtly birth,
But few are vagabonds or rogues of doubtful name and worth;
And all have one credential that entitles us to brag—­
That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

We’ve yet to make our money, we’ve yet to make our fame,
But we have gold and glory in our clean colonial name;
And every man’s a millionaire if only he can brag
That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.

No title and no coronet is half so proudly worn
As that which we inherited as men Canadian born. 
We count no man so noble as the one who makes the brag
That he was born in Canada beneath the British flag.

The Dutch may have their Holland, the Spaniard have his Spain,
The Yankee to the south of us must south of us remain;
For not a man dare lift a hand against the men who brag
That they were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

WHERE LEAPS THE STE. MARIE

I

What dream you in the night-time
  When you whisper to the moon? 
What say you in the morning? 
  What do you sing at noon? 
When I hear your voice uplifting,
Like a breeze through branches sifting,
And your ripples softly drifting
  To the August airs a-tune.

II

Lend me your happy laughter,
  Ste. Marie, as you leap;
Your peace that follows after
  Where through the isles you creep. 
Give to me your splendid dashing,
Give your sparkles and your splashing,
Your uphurling waves down crashing,
  Then, your aftermath of sleep.

HARVEST TIME

Pillowed and hushed on the silent plain,
Wrapped in her mantle of golden grain,

Wearied of pleasuring weeks away,
Summer is lying asleep to-day,—­

Where winds come sweet from the wild-rose briers
And the smoke of the far-off prairie fires;

Yellow her hair as the goldenrod,
And brown her cheeks as the prairie sod;

Purple her eyes as the mists that dream
At the edge of some laggard sun-drowned stream;

But over their depths the lashes sweep,
For Summer is lying to-day asleep.

The north wind kisses her rosy mouth,
His rival frowns in the far-off south,

And comes caressing her sunburnt cheek,
And Summer awakes for one short week,—­

Awakes and gathers her wealth of grain,
Then sleeps and dreams for a year again.

LADY LORGNETTE

I