A Canadian Boat Song.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.^[1]


        et remigem cantus hortatur.
        QUINTILIAN.


Faintly as tolls the evening chime
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.
Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.^[2]
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

    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, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

    Utawas' tide! this trembling moon
Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

The Sale Of Loves.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Ill Omens.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Oh, Call It By Some Better Name.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

The Triumphs Of Farce.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

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The Steerman's Song,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE

28TH APRIL.^[1]


When freshly blows the northern gale,
    And under courses snug we fly;
Or when light breezes swell the sail,
    And royals proudly sweep the sky;
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still
    I stand, and, as my watchful eye
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill,
    I think of her I love, and cry,
        Port, my boy! port.

When calms delay, or breezes blow
    Right from the point we wish to steer;
When by the wind close-hauled we go.
    And strive in vain the port to near;
I think 'tis thus the fates defer
    My bliss with one that's far away,
And while remembrance springs to her,
    I watch the sails and sighing say,
        Thus, my boy! thus.

...

Thomas Moore

Autumn Days

In dreams of the night I hear the call
Of wild duck scudding across the lake,
In dreams I see the old convent wall,
Where Ottawa's waters surge and break.

But Hercule awakes me ere the sun
Has painted the eastern skies with gold.
Hercule! true knight of the rod and gun
As ever lived in the days of old.

"Arise! tho' the moon hangs high above,
The sun will soon usher in the day,
And the southerly wind that sportsmen love
is blowing across St. Louis Bay."

The wind is moaning among the trees,
Along the shore where the shadows lie,
And faintly borne on the fresh'ning breeze
From yonder point comes the loon's wild cry.

Like diamonds flashing athwart the tide
The dancing moonbeams quiver and glow,
As out on the deep we swiftly glide<...

William Henry Drummond

The Indian Boat.

        'Twas midnight dark,
        The seaman's bark,
Swift o'er the waters bore him,
        When, thro' the night,
        He spied a light
Shoot o'er the wave before him.
"A sail! a sail!" he cries;
    "She comes from the Indian shore
"And to-night shall be our prize,
    "With her freight of golden ore;
        "Sail on! sail on!"
        When morning shone
He saw the gold still clearer;
        But, though so fast
        The waves he past
That boat seemed never the nearer.

        Bright daylight came,
        And still the same
Rich bark before him floated;
        While on the prize
        His wishful eyes
Like any young lover's doted:
"More sail! more sail!" he cries,
    While the waves overtop the mast;

Thomas Moore

To The Boston Frigate, On Leaving Halifax For England,[1] October, 1804.

With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail
The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail,
For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee,
To the flourishing isle of the brave and the free,
And that chill Nova-Scotia's unpromising strand
Is the last I shall tread of American land.
Well--peace to the land! may her sons know, at length,
That in high-minded honor lies liberty's strength,
That though man be as free as the fetterless wind,
As the wantonest air that the north can unbind,
Yet, if health do not temper and sweeten the blast,
If no harvest of mind ever sprung where it past,
Then unblest is such freedom, and baleful its might,--
Free only to ruin, and strong but to blight!

Farewell to the few I have left with regret:
May they sometimes recall, wha...

Thomas Moore

Song Of Innisfail.

They came from a land beyond the sea,
    And now o'er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
    From the sunny land of Spain.
"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
    Our destined home or grave?"^[1]
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
    They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines
    A sparkle of radiant green,
As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines,
    Whose light thro' the wave was seen.
"'Tis Innisfail^[2]--'tis Innisfail!"
    Rings o'er the echoing sea;
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail
    That home of the brave and free.

Then turned they unto the Eastern wave,
    Where now their Day-God's eye
A look of such sunny-omen gave
    As lig...

Thomas Moore

The Ships Of St. John

Smile, you inland hills and rivers!
Flush, you mountains in the dawn!
But my roving heart is seaward
With the ships of gray St. John.

Fair the land lies, full of August,
Meadow island, shingly bar,
Open barns and breezy twilight,
Peace and the mild evening star.

Gently now this gentlest country
The old habitude takes on,
But my wintry heart is outbound
With the great ships of St. John.

Once in your wide arms you held me,
Till the man-child was a man,
Canada, great nurse and mother
Of the young sea-roving clan.

Always your bright face above me
Through the dreams of boyhood shone;
Now far alien countries call me
With the ships of gray St. John.

Swing, you tides, up out of Fundy!
Blow, you white fogs, in from...

Bliss Carman