| |
| WE track the herds o’er the prairies wide, | |
| Through the length of the summer day; | |
| And guide the canoe on the rapid’s tide, | |
| Where the waters flash in the ray; | |
| Where the silvery scales of the salmon glance | 5 |
| On the bosom of the pool; | |
| And we rest our wearied limbs at eve, | |
| In the shade of the pine-trees cool, | |
| Let others toil for golden store; | |
| For riches little we care; | 10 |
| Oh, the happiest life | |
| In this world of strife | |
| Is that of a Voyageur. | |
| |
| When the red sun sinks in the golden west, | |
| At evening when he goes | 15 |
| With ministering hosts of the golden clouds, | |
| To seek the night’s repose— | |
| We pitch our tents on the soft green sward, | |
| And we light our evening fire, | |
| And we mingle strains of our Northern land | 20 |
| With the notes of the forest choir. | |
| Time flies along, with jest and song, | |
| For our merry men are there; | |
| Oh, there ’s not a life | |
| In this world of strife | 25 |
| Like that of a Voyageur. | |
| |
| Oh, sweet and soft are our couches made | |
| With the broad green summer leaves, | |
| And the curtains spread above the head | |
| Are those which Nature weaves. | 30 |
| The tall oak and the spreading elm | |
| Are twined in a tangled screen,— | |
| Surpassing far all the magic skill | |
| Of the sculptor’s art e’er seen. | |
| We shun the noise of the busy world, | 35 |
| For there ’s crime and misery there; | |
| And the happiest life | |
| In this world of strife | |
| Is that of a Voyageur. | |
| |
