Theodore Harding Rand (1835–1900)

SHY bird of the silver arrows of song,

That cleave our Northern air so clear,

Thy notes prolong, prolong,

I listen, I hear:

‘I—love—dear—Canada,

Canada, Canada.’

O plumes of the pointed dusky fir,

Screen of a swelling patriot heart,

The copse is all astir,

And echoes thy part!…

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes

As the noise of the day dies down;

And silence strings her lutes,

The Whitethroat to crown….

O bird of the silver arrows of song,

Shy poet of Canada dear,

Thy notes prolong, prolong,

We listen, we hear:

‘I—love—dear—Canada,

Canada, Canada.’