The Native Born.

There's a thing we love to think of when the summer days are long,
And the summer winds are blowing, and the summer sun is strong,
When the orchards and the meadows throw their fragrance on the air,
When the grain-fields flaunt their riches, and the glow is everywhere.
        Something sings it all the day,
            Canada, fair Canada,
    And the pride thrills through and through us,
            'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

There's a thing we love to think of when the frost and ice and snow
Hold high carnival together, and the biting north winds blow.
There's a thing we love to think of through the bitter winter hours,
For it stirs a warmth within us - 'tis this fair young land of ours.
        Something sings it all the day,
            Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
            'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Ours with all her youth and promise, ours with all her strength
        and might,
Ours with all her mighty waters and her forests deep as night.
Other lands may far outshine her, boast more charms than she can claim,
But this young land is our own land, and we love her very name.
        Something sings it all the day,
            Canada, fair Canada,
    And the pride thrills through and through us,
            'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Let the man born in old England love the dear old land the most,
For what spot a man is born in, of that spot he's fain to boast;
Let the Scot look back toward Scotland with a longing in his eyes,
And the exile from old Erin think her green shores paradise,
        Native born are we, are we,
            Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
            'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Well we love that sea-girt island, and we strive to understand
All the greatness, all the grandeur, of the glorious Mother Land;
And we cheer her to the skies, cheer her till the echoes start,
For the old land holds our homage, but the new land holds our heart!
        Native born are we, are we,
            Canada, fair Canada!
    And the pride thrills through and through us,
            'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Jean Blewett

Jean Blewett was a Canadian author, journalist, and poet. Born in Scotia, Ontario, she became well-known for her poetry and was awarded the part of lyrical poet at the World’s Fair in Chicago, 1893. Her notable works were often published in literary magazines. Besides poetry, Blewett also wrote stories and worked as a journalist, gaining considerable respect in both fields. She passed away in Chatham, Ontario, in 1934. Her legacy remains a significant part of Canadian literary history.

Jean Blewett

God's Warmth Is She.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

O Radiance Of Life's Morning.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

Dawn.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

The King's Gift.

Jean Blewett, Simple Poetry

English

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Canadian-Born.

    Although I'm not unduly proud,
        Inordinately vain,
    But humble, as will be allowed,
        And modest in the main;
    I must confess to pride of birth,
        And all detractors warn
    To let alone one land on earth:
        I am Canadian-born.

    In one respect I fill the bill
        As well as any man
    Between Vancouver and Brazil,
        Morocco and Japan.
    From Hobart Town to Hammerfest,
        From Greenland to the Horn,
    My native land is much the best:
        I am Canadian-born.

    The Greeks beside their Hellespont
        Thought all but they were scum;
    The Latins loved the classic vaunt,
        "Civis Romanus sum."
    I'm not so impudent as they
        To hold the world in ...

W. M. MacKeracher

Canada, My Land.

    There may be more enchanting climes
        Within a southern zone;
    There may be eastern Edens deckt
        With charms to thee unknown;
    But thou art fairest unto me,
        Because thou art mine own,
            Canada, my land.

    More spacious plains and loftier heights
        In other realms may be,
    And mightier streams than those which bear
        Thy waters to the sea;
    But thou, great handiwork of God,
        Art grandest unto me,
            Canada, my land.

    More glorious records may adorn
        The annals of the past
    Than those which tell the rise and growth
        Of thy dominion vast;
    But I am proudest of the land
        In which my lot is cast,
            Canada, my land.

W. M. MacKeracher

Canadian Born

We first saw light in Canada, the land beloved of God;
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 entitles 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 title and no coronet is half so proudly worn
As that which we inherited as men Canadian born.
We...

Emily Pauline Johnson

Canada

Dear Canada, our native land,
Our love for thee grows day by day;
Our fathers left the olden strand,
O'er sea and rapids made their way,
And by their energy and skill
They laid thy firm foundation deep,
And sowed the seed o'er vale and hill
Which we, their sons, are called to reap.

The wilderness blooms as the rose;
The old-time hardships are unknown;
And wealth in streams of commerce flows
From sea to sea--a nation grown--
Still youthful, but with thews of steel
To throttle foes that may arise;
Yet loving touch sore hearts to heal,
And lift us nearer to the skies.

We cannot boast as blue a sky
As smiles o'er many an Alpine plain,
Nor are our mountain peaks as high
As theirs, yet we have other gain;
Our hills are rich in yellow ...

Joseph Horatio Chant

Canada Our Home, 1883.

The following response to Canada our home was given at a banquet of the Caledonian Society, Ingersoll:

In responding to the sentiment Canada our home perhaps it would be appropriate to point out the prominent and distinguishing characteristics between the land of our nativity and the land of our adoption. In this Canada of ours we have no bonny blooming heath, no banks and braes covered o'er with daisies and gowans, no fragrant hedges showering down white spray in the May time, no whin and broom prodigal in their gaiety of yellow flowers, no hills nor glens where fairies gambol in pleasant and harmless sport, no grand ruins of ancient cathedrals and castles, no feathered songsters like the mavis and blackbird.

        Full oft we did enraptured hark
        To heavenly song of the skylark.

But Canada ...

James McIntyre

Know'st Thou The Land?

    Know'st thou the land where the pious and bold
    Beared Christianity's emblem of old,
    And civilization's beneficent reign
    Extended o'er anarchy's savage domain?
    The land of the dauntless explorers who prest
    Upstream, through the wilderness, into the West?
    Know'st thou the land of the soldier and knight,
    The land of adventure and toil and delight?
                Know'st thou the land?
                Know'st thou the land?
    'Tis the land of my home, my beloved native land.

    Know'st thou the land where the Briton and Gaul,
    In courage and prowess supreme over all,
    Contending for lordship and vying for place,
    Collided and locked in a mighty embrace
    So bravely that fame has awarded the palm
    Of deathless...

W. M. MacKeracher