Kanawâki — “By the Rapid,” — Low the sunset midst thee lies; And from the wild Reservation Evening's breeze begins to rise.
Faint the Kônoronkwa chorus Drifts across the current strong; Spirit-like the parish steeple Stands thy ancient walls among.
Kanawâki — “By the Rapid,” — How the sun amidst thee burns! Village of the Praying Nation, Thy dark child to thee returns.
All day through the pale-face city, Silent, selling beaded wares, I have wandered with my basket, Lone, excepting for their stares!
They are white men; we are Indians; What a gulf their stares proclaim! They are mounting; we are dying; All our heritage they claim.
We are dying, dwindling, dying, Strait and smaller grows our bound; They are mounting up to heaven And are pressing all around.
Thou art ours,— little remnant, Ours through countless thousand years — Part of the old Indian world, Thy breath from far the Indian cheers.
Back to thee, O Kanawâki! Let the rapids dash between Indian homes and white men's manners — Kanawâki and Lachine!
O my dear!— O Knife-and-Arrows! Thou art bronzed, thy limbs are lithe; How I laugh as through the crosse-game, Slipst thou like red elder withe.
Thou art none of these pale-faces! When with thee I'll happy feel, For thou art the Mohawk warrior From thy scalp-lock to thy heel.
Sweet the Kônoronkwa chorus Floats across the current strong; Clear behold the parish steeple Rise the ancient walls among.
Speed us deftly, noiseless paddle: In my shawl my bosom burns! Kanawâki — “By the Rapid,” — Thine own child to thee returns.
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