The blue of heav'n, and bursting light of day,
Where breezes warm and mild, and breezes raw,
First o'er my boyhood's eager face did play,
As o'er the hills I stepp'd my joyful way.
Held by a loving hand, I went along
Thro' shelter'd wood, or by some shaded bay,
And ever, as I went, I sang a song,
With sylvan joy, amid a sylvan throng.

For birds and bees, and e'en the flowers, did sing
Their cheerful songs, with voices pure and sweet;
Their notes were silent, yet those notes did bring
A soothing balm, amid a calm retreat.
Protected from the sun's relentless heat.
Oh, wearied men, could ye but once divine
The healing pow'r of some lone country seat,
You would not strive to drown your care in wine,
Or vainly seek relief, in any lustful line.

But this is not a moralizing lay,
Of Canada I sing, and her alone,
Her varied progress, every passing day,
Her faults, for which, in time, she must atone,
By nature's law, in every clime and zone,
Then what are the peculiar, common claims,
Our country has with nations larger grown,
And the superior things she classes as her own.

First let us take her climate; who will not
Say she is favour'd there o'er other lands?