Glories that round the casement run,
And pansies smiling at the sun,
And wild-wood blossoms fair and sweet,
Showed forth how thrift and beauty meet;
There was a space to plant and sow,
Fenced by the pines strong hands laid low.
By that lonely cottage stood,
With eyes fixed on the swollen flood,
A slight young girl with raven hair,
And face that was both sad and fair.
Oh, fair and lovely are the maids,
Nursed in Canadian forest shades;
The beauties of the older lands
Moulded anew by nature's hands,
Fired by the free Canadian soul,
Join to produce a matchless whole.
The roses of Britannia's Isle,
In rosy blush and rosy smile;
The light of true and tender eyes,
As blue and pure as summer skies;
Light-footed maids, as matchless fair
As grow by Scotia's heath fringed rills--
Sweet as the hawthorn scented air,
And true as the eternal hills.
We have the arch yet tender grace,
The power to charm of Erin's race;
The peachy cheek, the rosebud mouth,
Imported from the sunny south,
With the dark, melting, lustrous eye,
Silk lashes curtain languidly.
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