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Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn!*
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontré
Deux cavaliers très-bien montés.

And the refrain to every verse was,

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais jouer,
A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais danser.

I ventured to harmonize this air, and have published it. Without that charm which association gives to every little memorial of scenes or feelings that are past, the melody may perhaps be thought commowand trifling; but I remember when we have entered, at sun-set, upon one of those beautiful lakes, into which the St. Lawrence so grandly and so unexpectedly opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasure which the finest compositions of the first masters have never given me, and now, there is not a note of it which does not recall to my memory the dip of our oars in the St. Lawrence, the flight of our boat down the Rapids, and all those new and fanciful impres. sions to which my heart was alive during the whole of this very interesting voyage.

The above stanzas are supposed to be sung by those voyageurs, who go to the Grand Poriage by the Utawas River. For an account of this wonderful undertaking, see Sir Alexander Mackenzie's General History of the Fur Trade, prefixed to his Journal.

* " At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot the Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of the voyageurs.”

Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade.

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,
Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.

Blow, breezes, blow, &c.

Utáwas tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges pon.
Saint of this green Isle ! hear our prayer,
Grant us cool heavens and favouring air!

Blow, breezes, blow, &c.



First Voice.
Oh Lady fair, where art thou roaming ?
The Sun has sunk, the Night is coming.

Second Voice.
Stranger, I go o’er Moor and Mountain,
To tell my Beads at Agnes' Fountain.

First Voice.
And who is the Man with his white locks flowing ?
Oh Lady fair, where is he going ?

Third Voice.
A wand'ring Pilgrim weak I falter,
To tell my beads at Agnes' Altar.

Chill falls the rain, Night winds are blowing,
Dreary and dark's the way we're going.

First Voice.
Fair Lady! rest till morning blushes,
I'll strew for thee a bed of Rushes.

Second Voice.
Oh! Stranger when my beads I'm counting,
I'll bless thy name at Agnes? Fountain.

First Voice.
Thou, Pilgrim, turn and rest thy sorrow,
Thoul't go to Agnes’ Shrine to-morrow.

Third Voice.
Good Stranger ! when my Bead's I'm telling,
My Saint shall bless thy leafy dwelling.

Strew then, Oh! strew our bed of Rushes,
Here we shall rest 'till morning blushes.



Can I again that look recall,

Which once could make me die for thee? No, no, the eye that burns on all,

Shall never more be priz'd by me.

Can I again that form caress,

Or on that lip in joy recline ?

No, no--the lip that all may press,

Shall never more be press’d by mine.


Take back the sigh, thy lips of art

In passion's moment breath’d to me; Yet, no—it must not, will not part, 'Tis now the life-breath of my heart,

And has become too pure for thee!

Take back the kiss, that faithless sigh

With all the warmth of truth imprest,
Yet, no—the fatal kiss may lie,
Upon thy lip its sweets would die,

Or bloom to make a rival blest !

Take back the vows that, night and day,

My heart receiv'd, I thought, from thine; * Yet no—allow them still to stay, They might some other heart betray,

As sweetly as they've ruin'd mine.


Oh ! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,
Fanny dearest ! for thee I'd sigh,

And ev'ry smile on my cheek should turn

To tears, when thou art nigh.
But between love, and wine, and sleep,

So busy a life I live,
That even the time it would take to weep,

Is more than my heart can give. Then bid me not to despair and pine,

Fanny, dearest of all the dears ! The love, that's order'd to bathe in wine,

Would be sure to take cold in tears,

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,

Fanny dearest! thy image lies : But oh! the mirror would cease to shine,

If dimm'd too often with sighs. They lose the balf of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear, And ’tis but to see the truly bright,

That I keep my eye-beam clear. Then wait no longer till tears shall flow,

Fanny dearest! the hope is vain : If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,

I shall never attempt it with rain.


SWEET seducer, ever smiling!
Charming still, and still beguiling!
Oft I swore to love thee never,
Yet I love thee more than ever.

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