Away up on the River aux Lievres,
That is foaming and surging always,
And from rock to rock leaping through rapids,
Which are curtained by showers of spray;

That is eddying, whirling and chasing
All the white swells that break on the shore;
And then dashing and thundering onward,
With the sound of a cataract's roar.

And up here is the Buckingham village,
Which is built on these waters of strife,
It was here that the minister Babin,
Stood and preached of the Gospel of Life,

Of the message of love and of mercy,
The glad tidings of freedom and peace,
Of help for the hopeless and helpless,
For all weary ones rest and relief.

Was his message all noise like the rapids?
Was it empty and light as the foam?
Ah me! what thought the desolate inmate
Of the still upper room of his home?

One too many, one sad and unwelcome,
That reclined in his invalid's chair,
With her pale, busy fingers still knitting
Yarn mingled with sorrow and care.