Canoeing

1. The Old Canoe - George Marsh
2. Rivers of Canada - Bliss Carman
3. Night Hymns on Lake Nipigon - Duncan Campbell Scott
4. The Canoe Speaks - Robert Louis Stevenson
5. The Old Canoe - Emily Rebecca Page
6. The Song My Paddle Sings - Emily Pauline Johnson
7. The Voyageur - William Henry Drummond

The Old Canoe - George Marsh

My seams gape wide as I’m tossed aside
to rot on the lonely shore,
And the leaves and mould like a shroud unfold,
for the last of my days are o’er,

But I float in my dreams on northern streams
that never again I’ll see,
As I lie on the marge of the old portage
with grief for company.

When the sunset gilds the timbered hills
that guard Temagami,
And the moon beams play on far James Bay
by the brink of the frozen sea,

In phantom guise my spirit flies
as the dream blades dip and swing,
Where the waters flow from the long ago
in the spell of the beckoning spring.

Do the cow-moose call on the Montreal
when the first frost bites the air,
And the mists unfold from the red and gold
that autumn ridges wear?

Do the white falls roar as they did of yore
on the Lady Evelyn,
And the square-tail leap from the black pool deep
where the pictured rocks begin?

Yes, the fur fleet sings on Temiscaming
as the ashen paddles bend,
And the crews carouse at Rupert’s House
at the sullen winter’s end,

But my days are done where the lean wolves run,
I’ll ripple no more their path,
Where the grey geese race ‘cross the red moon’s face
from the white winds Artic wrath.

Tho’ the death-fraught way from the Saguenay
to the storied Nipigon,
Once knew me well, now a crumbling shell
I watch as the years roll on,

And in memory’s haze I love the days
forever gone from me,
As I lie on the marge of the old portage
with grief for company.

Rivers of Canada - Bliss Carman

O all the little rivers that run to Hudson’s Bay,
They call me and call me to follow them away.

Missinaibi, Abitibi, Little Current–where they run
Dancing and sparkling I see them in the sun.

I hear the brawling rapid, the thunder of the fall,
And when I think upon them I cannot stay at all.

At the far end of the carry, where the wilderness begins,
Set me down with my canoe-load – and forgiveness of my sins.

O all the mighty rivers beneath the Polar Star,
They call me and call me to follow them afar.

Peace and Athabasca and Coppermine and Slave,
And Yukon and Mackenzie – the highroads of the brave.

Saskatchewan, Assiniboine, the Bow and the Qu’Appelle,
And many a prairie river whose name is like a spell.

They rumor through the twilight at the edge of the unknown,
“There’s a message waiting for you, and a kingdom all your own.

“The wilderness shall feed you, her gleam shall be your guide.
Come out from desolations, our path of hope is wide.”

O all the headlong rivers that hurry to the West,
They call me and lure me with the joy of their unrest.

Columbia and Fraser and Bear and Kootenay,
I love their fearless reaches where winds untarnished play –

The rush of glacial water across the pebbly bar
To polished pools of azure where the hidden boulders are.

Just there, with heaven smiling, any morning I would be,
Where all the silver rivers go racing to the sea.

O well-remembered rivers that sing of long ago,
Ajourneying through summer or dreaming under snow.

Among their meadow islands through placid days they glide,
And where the peaceful orchards are diked against the tide.

Tobique and Madawaska and shining Gaspereaux,
St. Croix and Nashwaak and St. John whose haunts I used to know.

And all the pleasant rivers that seek the Fundy foam,
They call me and call me to follow them home.

Night Hymns on Lake Nipigon - Duncan Campbell Scott

Here in the midnight, where the dark mainland and island
Shadows mingle in shadow deeper, profounder,
Sing we the hymns of the churches, while the dead water
Whispers before us.

Thunder is travelling slow on the path of the lightning;
One after one the stars and the beaming planets
Look serene in the lake from the edge of the storm-cloud,
Then have they vanished.

While our canoe, that floats dumb in the bursting thunder,
Gathers her voice in the quiet and thrills and whispers,
Presses her prow in the star-gleam, and all her ripple
Lapses in blackness.

Sing we the sacred ancient hymns of the churches,
Chanted first in old-world nooks of the desert,
While in the wild, pellucid Nipigon reaches
Hunted the savage.

Now have the ages met in the Northern midnight,
And on the lonely, loon-haunted Nipigon reaches
Rises the hymn of triumph and courage and comfort,
Adeste Fideles.

Tones that were fashioned when the faith brooded in darkness,
Joined with sonorous vowels in the noble Latin,
Now are married with the long-drawn Ojibwa,
Uncouth and mournful.

Soft with the silver drip of the regular paddles
Falling in rhythm, timed with the liquid, plangent
Sounds from the blades where the whirlpools break and are carried
Down into darkness;

Each long cadence, flying like a dove from her shelter
Deep in the shadow, wheels for a throbbing moment,
Poises in utterance, returning in circles of silver
To nest in the silence.

All wild nature stirs with the infinite, tender
Plaint of a bygone age whose soul is eternal,
Bound in the lonely phrases that thrill and falter
Back into quiet.

Back they falter as the deep storm overtakes them,
Whelms them in splendid hollows of booming thunder,
Wraps them in rain, that, sweeping, breaks and onrushes
Ringing like cymbals.

The Canoe Speaks - Robert Louis Stevenson

On the great streams the ships may go
About men’s business to and fro.
But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep
On crystal waters ankle-deep:

I, whose diminutive design,
Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine,
Is fashioned on so frail a mould,
A hand may launch, a hand withhold:

I, rather, with the leaping trout
Wind, among lilies, in and out;
I, the unnamed, inviolate,
Green, rustic rivers, navigate;

My dripping paddle scarcely shakes
The berry in the bramble-brakes;
Still forth on my green way I wend
Beside the cottage garden-end;

And by the nested angler fare,
And take the lovers unaware.
By willow wood and water-wheel
Speedily fleets my touching keel;

By all retired and shady spots
Where prosper dim forget-me-nots;
By meadows where at afternoon
The growing maidens troop in June

To loose their girdles on the grass.
Ah! speedier than before the glass
The backward toilet goes; and swift
As swallows quiver, robe and shift,

And the rough country stockings lie
Around each young divinity
When, following the recondite brook,
Sudden upon this scene I look.

The Old Canoe - Emily Rebecca Page

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep …
Where the ragged pine in its lonely pride
Leans gloomily over the murky tide;
Where the reeds and rushes are tall and rank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank …
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,
Lays at its moorings the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like the sea-bird’s wings that the storm hath lopped,
And crossed o’er the railing, one o’er one,
Like folded hands when the work is done;
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery screen,
And the solemn owl, with his dull “too-hoo”,
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave,
Rots slowly away in its living grave;
And the green moss creeps o’er its full decay,
Hiding the mouldering dust away,
Like the hand that plants o’er the tomb a flower,
Or the ivy that mantles the fallen tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o’er the stern of the old canoe.

The currentless waters are dead and still …
But the light winds play with the boat at will;
And lazily in and out again
It floats the length of its rusty chain,
Like the weary march of the hands of time
That meet and part at the noontide chime;
And the shore is kissed at each turn anew
By the dripping bow of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time, with a careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand,
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick …
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies thick,
And laughed as I leaned o’er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.

But now, as I lean o’er the crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things;
But I love to think of the hours that flew
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray threw,
Ere the blossoms waved or the green moss grew
O’er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.

And light with unfamiliar face
On chaste Diana’s bathing-place,
Loud ring the hills about and all
The shallows are abandoned.

The Song My Paddle Sings - Emily Pauline Johnson

West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O wind of the west, we wait for you!
Blow, blow!
I have wooed you so,
But never a favor you bestow.
You rock your cradle the hills between,
But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail and unship the mast:
I wooed you long, but my wooing’s past;
My paddle will lull you into rest:
O drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep!
By your mountains steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep,
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed,
My paddle is plying its way ahead,
Dip, dip,
When the waters flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow:
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!
And far to forward the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore;
Dash, dash,
With a mighty crash,
They seethe and boil and bound and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, reel,
On your trembling keel,
But never a fear my craft will feel.

We’ve raced the rapids; we’re far ahead:
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby
Swings, swings,
Its emerald wings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

The Voyageur - William Henry Drummond

Dere’s somet’ing stirrin’ ma blood tonight,
On de night of de young new year,
Wile de camp is warm an’ de fire is bright,
An’ de bottle is close at han’–
Out on de reever de nort’ win’ blow,
Down on de valley is pile de snow,
But w’at do we care so long we know
We’re safe on de log cabane?

Drink to de healt’ of your wife an’ girl,
Anoder wan for your frien’,
Den geev’ me a chance, for on all de worl’
I’ve not many frien’ to spare–
I’m born, w’ere de mountain scrape de sky,
An’ bone of ma fader an’ moder lie,
So I fill de glass an’ I raise it high
An’ drink to de Voyageur.

For dis is de night of de jour de l’an,
W’en de man of de Grand Nor’ Wes’
T’ink of hees home on de St. Laurent,
An’ frien’ he may never see–
Gone he is now, an’ de beeg canoe
No more you’ll see wit’ de red-shirt crew,
But long as he leev’ he was alway true,
So we’ll drink to hees memory.

Ax’ heem de nort’ win’ w’at he see
Of de Voyageur long ago,
An’ he’ll say to you w’at he say to me,
So lissen hees story well–
“I see de track of hees botte sau-vage
On many a hill an’ long portage
Far far away from hees own vill-age
An’ soun’ of de parish bell–

“I never can play on de Hudson Bay
Or mountain dat lie between
But I meet heem singin’ hees lonely way
De happies’ man I know–
I cool hees face as he’s sleepin’ dere
Under de star of de Red Rivière,
An’ off on de home of de great w’ite bear,
I’m seein’ hees dog traineau.

“De woman an’ chil’ren’s runnin’ out
On de wigwam of de Cree–
De leetle papoose dey laugh an’ shout
W’en de soun’ of hees voice dey hear–
De oldes’ warrior of de Sioux
Kill hese’f dancin’ de w’ole night t’roo,
An de Blackfoot girl remember too
De ole tam Voyageur.

“De blaze of hees camp on de snow I see,
An’ I lissen hees ‘En Roulant’
On de lan’ w’ere de reindeer travel free,
Ringin’ out strong an’ clear–
Offen de grey wolf sit before
De light is come from hees open door,
An’ caribou foller along de shore
De song of de Voyageur.

“If he only kip goin’, de red ceinture,
I’d see it upon de Pole
Some mornin’ I’m startin’ upon de tour
For blowin’ de worl’ aroun’–
But w’erever he sail an’ w’erever he ride,
De trail is long an’ de trail is wide,
An’ city an’ town on ev’ry side
Can tell of hees campin’ groun’.”

So dat’s ‘de reason I drink to-night
To de man of de Grand Nor’ Wes’,
For hees heart was young, an’ hees heart was light
So long as he’s leevin’ dere–
I’m proud of de sam’ blood in my vein
I’m a son of de Nort’ Win’ wance again–
So we’ll fill her up till de bottle’s drain
An’ drink to de Voyageur.