An old man s dying wish

    When the croon of a rapid is heard on the breeze,

    With the scent of a pine-forest gloom,

    Or the edge of the sky is of steeple-top trees,

    Set in hazes of blueberry bloom,

    Or a song-sparrow sudden from quietness trills

    His delicate anthem to me,

    Then my heart hurries home to the Ottawa hills,

    Wherever I happen to be.

    When the veils of a shining lake vista unfold,

    Or the mist towers dim from a fall,

    Or a woodland is blazing in crimson and gold,

    Or a snow-shroud is covering all,