The pride of ancient lumbermen,
By slabs and sawdust undefiled.
The joy of nature's dusky child,
Who's matchless, perfect bark canoe
Oft o'er its crystal bosom flew--
Not bridged all o'er like shaking bogs
By endless booms of dirty logs,
Which to the thrifty and the wise
Are doubtless marks of enterprise,
And evidences too of health,
Of pocket and commercial wealth,
Yet sadly, sometimes out of place,
And serious blots on Nature's face.
What would big Indian "Clouthier" say--
The red-skinn'd Samson could he stray
From the happy hunting ground away--
Could he behold the stream to-day--
The great Kah-nah-jo, where the God
Of the Algonquins used to nod
In dreamy slumber 'mid the smoke
Which from the mighty cataract broke,
Hemm'd in by sawmills, booms and piers--
The features of a thousand years
Of beauty ruthlessly defaced--
The landmarks of the past displaced,
And little left to tell the story
Of Ottawa's departed glory;
But water running where it ran
When the red deer chase began.
'Twould startle even Philemon Wright