Wandering through the tangled brakes,
Where the treacherous Indians hide,
Launching upon crystal lakes,
Stemming Uttawa's dark tide;
Still my sight,
Pursues his flight
Through the desert, far and wide.

With the sunlight in his face,
I behold him as he plants
At Cape Diamond's rugged base,
In the glorious name of France,
Yon fair town
That still looks down
On the river's broad expanse.

I behold him as he hurls
Proud defiance at the foe,
And the fleur-de-lys unfurls
High o'er Admiral Kirkt below,
Till he slips,
With all his ships,
Down the river, sad and slow.

And I see him lying dead,
On that dreary Christmas day,
While the priests about his bed
Weeping kneel, and softly pray,
As the bell