LIV THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF CANADA 



Oh, Canada, of bigness, beauty, strength. 

 Whom we thy wondering children know as ne'er before - 

 In exile's retrospect of glorious hours, 

 We love thee with a love we never felt till now , 

 A love not all our own, a heritage 

 From those who to thy shores no more return. 

 * Their love of thee, unconscious, pent. 



Which drove them forth, they knew not why 



And urged them on 



All glad for thee to die 



In this great love may we be consecrate 



And made a nation new. 



Strong as thy mountains, 



Generous as thy plains, ^ 



Pure as thy winters, 



And with depths unknown . 



As all thy forest lakes — 



Still pools of peace." 



And a lovely lament is the elegy "A Cry from the Canadian Hills" 

 by Lilian Leveridge of Carrying Place, Ontario, over her young 

 brother Frank, who died of wounds in France: 



"Laddie, little laddie, come with me over the hills. 

 Where blossom the white May lilies and the dogwood and daffodils; 

 For the spirit of spring is calling to our spirits that love to roam; 

 Over the hills of home, laddie, over the hills of home. 



Laddie, little laddie, here's hazel and meadow rue. 



And wreaths of the rare arbutus ablowing for me and you; 



And cherry and bilberry blossoms and hawthorn as white as foam; 



We'll carry them all to mother, laddie, over the hills of home; 



Brother, little brother, your childhood is passing by. 



And the dawn of a noble purpose I see in your thoughtful eye. 



Laddie, soldier laddie, a call comes over the sea, 



A call to the best and bravest in the land of liberty. 



To shatter the despot's power, to lift up the weak that fall; 



Whistle a song as you go, laddie, to answer your country's call. 



Brother, soldier brother, the spring has come back again; 

 But her voice from the windy hilltops is calling your name in vain; 

 For never shall we together, mid the birds and the blossoms roam, 

 Over the hills of home, brother, over the hills of home; 



Laddie, Laddie, Laddie! How dim is the sunshine grown; 



As Mother and I together speak softly in tender tone. 



And the lips that quiver and falter have ever a single theme, 



As we list for your dear lost whistle, laddie, over the hills of dream." 



