Here's to the land of the rock and the pine, 

 Here's to the land of the raft and the river, 



Here's to the land where the sunbeams shine, 



And the night that is bright with the north-light's quiver! 



Here's to the land with its blanket of snow — 

 To the hero and hunter the welcomest pillow; 



Here's to the land where the storm-winds blow 



Three days ere the mountains can talk to the billow! 



Here's to the land of the axe and the plow, 



Here's to the hearties that give them their glory, — 



With stroke upon stroke and with blow upon blow 

 The might of the forest has passed into story! 



Here's to her hills of the moose and the deer. 

 Here's to her forests, her fields and her flowers. 



Here's to her homes of unchangeable cheer, 



And the maid 'neath the shade of her own native bowers! 



Here's to the buckwheats that smoke on her board. 

 Here's to the maple that sweetens their story, 



Here's to the scythe that we swing like a sword. 

 And here's to the fields where we gather our glory! 



— William Wye Smith. '"'" 



