The Canadian Boat-Song is an anonymously written poem or song which first appeared on record in the early 19th century. The question of its authorship has generated a considerable amount of literature.[1] It is not to be confused with the noted like-named early 19th century song by Thomas Moore (d. 1852).[2]
The poem/song first appeared on record in September 1829, in the Noctes Ambrosianae column of Blackwood's Magazine. It was described as being translated into English from Gaelic, and to have originated amongst the Canadian-born oarsmen working on the Saint Lawrence River—a large waterway which connects the Great Lakes to the Atlantic Ocean.[3][4] Gaelic scholars have dismissed the claim that the poem/song was derived from Gaelic.[1]
The poem/song was said to have been sent from Upper Canada to a certain "Christopher North", who is considered to have been John Wilson (d. 1854). The authorship of the poem/song is uncertain and several people have been proposed: William Dunlop (d. 1848), John Galt (d. 1839), John Gibson Lockhart (d. 1854), David Macbeth Moir (d. 1851), Walter Scott (d. 1832), and Wilson.[3][4][1] The strongest arguments point to Moir; the weakest to Scott.[1]
Listen to me, as when ye heard our father
Sing long ago, the song of other shores —
Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
All your deep voices, as ye pull your oars:
CHORUS
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
From the lone shieling of the misty island
Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas —
Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
And we in dreams behold the Hebrides:
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,
Where 'tween the dark hills creeps the small clear stream,
In arms around the patriarch banner rally,
Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam:
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
When the bold kindred, in the time long-vanish'd,
Conquer'd the soil and fortified the keep, —
No seer foretold the children would be banish'd,
That a degenerate Lord might boast his sheep:
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.
Come foreign rage — let Discord burst in slaughter!
O then for clansman true, and stern claymore —
The hearts that would have given their blood like water,
Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar:
Fair these broad meads — these hoary woods are grand;
But we are exiles from our fathers' land.[4]