Amos Henry Chandler (1837–1880)

DREARY, dreary,

Fundy’s mists are sweeping

Up the stricken vale of Westmoreland;

Weary, weary,

Is my heart, and weeping,

While the cold waves dash upon the strand.

Fillèd, fillèd,

Is the land with sorrow,

In loud wailing roars the angry sea;

Stillèd, stillèd,

Will they be to-morrow,

Summer notes, and murmurs on the lea.

Coldly, coldly,

Blent with autumn mists, lie

Eve’s dark shadows upon the hills away;

Boldly, boldly,

Like a giant sentry,

Chapeau Dieu keeps vigil o’er the bay.

Lay me, lay me,

While the world is waking,

Down to dream on what was gone before;

Pray ye, pray ye,

Lest my heart be breaking,

God, to bring her to my side once more.