The winter's cold, indeed, and summer's hot,
But in a robust health the native stands,
So keen to work with brain, or use his hands.
Where, let me ask, between the distant poles
Is there a clime so mod'rate in demands,
Where men are not compell'd to live like moles,
Nor drop with heat on burning, barren, sandy knolls.

A hardy, energetic, toilsome race,
Is raised within this favourable clime,
In physical and mental power apace
With those of any land, and any time,
Save in the golden age, that age of thought sublime;
But, what I mean is this: that her own men
Do act their parts, they reason or they rhyme
Within their bounds, with keen, far-reaching ken,
For those who late have left the axe to wield the pen.

Yes, left the axe, whose skilful, cleaving stroke
Hew'd out a home from 'mid the forest wild,
Where grew the maple and the lofty oak,
Where liv'd the dusky colour'd forest child,
So sternly fierce in war, in peace so mild;
Yes, here the settler met with Nature's force;
Quite unsubdued, she look'd around and smil'd,
And seem'd to view with scorn the white man's course
Of labour slow, but yet of wealth the only source.

But still the patient white man plodded on,
He swung his axe, and drove his horned team;