Flint and Feather: Collected Verse Part 10

CANADIAN BORN

(The following poems are from the author's second book, "Canadian Born," first published in 1903.)

CANADIAN BORN

We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of G.o.d; We are the pulse of Canada, its marrow and its blood: And we, the men of Canada, can face the world and brag That we were born in Canada beneath the British flag.

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 ent.i.tles 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 t.i.tle and no coronet is half so proudly worn As that which we inherited as men Canadian born.

We count no man so n.o.ble 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

Lady Lorgnette, of the lifted lash, The curling lip and the dainty nose, The sh.e.l.l-like ear where the jewels flash, The arching brow and the languid pose, The rare old lace and the subtle scents, The slender foot and the fingers frail,-- I may act till the world grows wild and tense, But never a flush on your features pale.

The footlights glimmer between us two,-- You in the box and I on the boards,-- I am only an actor, Madame, to you, A mimic king 'mid his mimic lords, For you are the belle of the smartest set, Lady Lorgnette.

II

Little Babette, with your eyes of jet, Your midnight hair and your piquant chin, Your lips whose odours of violet Drive men to madness and saints to sin,-- I see you over the footlights' glare Down in the pit 'mid the common mob,-- Your throat is burning, and brown, and bare, You lean, and listen, and pulse, and throb; The viols are dreaming between us two, And my gilded crown is no make-believe, I am more than an actor, dear, to you, For you called me your king but yester eve, And your heart is my golden coronet, Little Babette.

LOW TIDE AT ST. ANDREWS

(NEW BRUNSWICK)

The long red flats stretch open to the sky, Breathing their moisture on the August air.

The seaweeds cling with flesh-like fingers where The rocks give shelter that the sands deny; And wrapped in all her summer harmonies St. Andrews sleeps beside her sleeping seas.

The far-off sh.o.r.es swim blue and indistinct, Like half-lost memories of some old dream.

The listless waves that catch each sunny gleam Are idling up the waterways land-linked, And, yellowing along the harbour's breast, The light is leaping sh.o.r.eward from the west.

And naked-footed children, tripping down, Light with young laughter, daily come at eve To gather dulse and sea clams and then heave Their loads, returning laden to the town, Leaving a strange grey silence when they go,-- The silence of the sands when tides are low.

BEYOND THE BLUE

I

Speak of you, sir? You bet he did. Ben Fields was far too sound To go back on a fellow just because he weren't around.

Why, sir, he thought a lot of you, and only three months back Says he, "The Squire will some time come a-snuffing out our track And give us the surprise." And so I got to thinking then That any day you might drop down on Rove, and me, and Ben.