So warmly we met, and so fondly we parted,
Should fond hopes e'er forsake thee,

Those ev'ning bells, those ev'ning bells,

They may rail at this life-from the time I began it,

MOORE'S

MELODIES.

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.*

Et remigem cantus hortatur.-Quintilian.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime,

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time.

*I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sang to us very frequently. The wind was so unfavourable, that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all these difficulties.

Our Voyageurs had good voices, and sung perfectly in tune together. The original words of the air, to which I adapted these stanzas, appeared to be a long incoherent story, of which I could understand but little, from the barbarous pronunciation of the Canadians. It begins

B

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 common and 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, 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 Portage 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 soon.
Saint of this green Isle ! hear our prayer,
Grant us cool heavens and favouring air!
Blow, breezes, blow, &c.

OH, LADY FAIR.

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.

Trio.

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.

Trio.

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

CAN I AGAIN THAT LOOK RECALL.

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?