Canadian Camping Song

A WHITE tent pitched by a glassy lake,
Well under a shady tree,
Or by rippling rills from the grand old hills,
Is the summer home for me.
I fear no blaze of the noontide rays,
For the woodland glades are mine,
The fragrant air, and that perfume rare,
The odour of forest pine.

A cooling plunge at the break of day,
A paddle, a row or sail ;
With always a fish for a midday dish,
And plenty of Adam's ale ;
With rod or gun, or in hammock swung,
We glide through the pleasant days ;
When darkness falls on our canvas walls,
We kindle the camp-fire's blaze.

From out the gloom sails the silv'ry moon,
O'er forests dark and still ;
Now far, now near, ever sad and clear,
Comes the plaint of whip-poor-will ;
With song and laugh, and with kindly chaff,
We startle the birds above ;
Then rest tired heads on our cedar beds,
And dream of the ones we love.