To Canada

Canada, Canada, is not thy face most fair?
Is there a land men know fairer than thee?
Where is heaven half so vast? Where blows a lovelier air?
What are thy sons doing here o'er the sea?

Have they forgot thy great hills and thy crystal clear
Streams and deep woods and rich fields that they come?
Are not their women loved? Are not their children dear?
Why do they march at the roll of the drum?

Chill are the Belgian dunes, clammy the night wind's breath,
Always the livid mists from the meres creep;
Who takes the roads of France marches alongside death —
Are thy sons weary to try the last sleep?

Ah, but thou knowest well, Canada, Canada,
Sweet's every inch of thee, dear's every call;
Came but a cry from thee, every man's heart would stir . . .
Only thine honour is dearest of all . . .

And they have sworn, thy sons, when thou art mightier yet,
No man shall point at thee, none shall dare say,
"When, in the war of worlds, Cruelty and Justice met.
Men of the maple hung back from the fray."

So where the bugles call, there where the thin lines reel,
Far from the land where their homes and hearts be,
Stalwart and terrible, into the hail of steel,
Canada, lo, they are marching for thee!