A wail went o'er broad Canada,
When it was known a vile outlaw
Had at midnight's awful hour,
With ruffian hand blown up the tower.
‘ Neath which had slept the gallant Brock
Who bravely fell on Queenston's rock,
But graceful column soon shall rise,
Its beauteous shaft will kiss the skies.
For from Queenston's woody height
You may behold a pleasing sight,
The grim old veterans of the war,
Militiamen with many a scar.
Indian braves from each nation,
Grouped to pay their last ovation,
Round the remains of General Brock,
Who led them oft in battle's shock.
Old heroes now again do rally,
Feebly they move along the valley,
Not as they rushed in days of yore
When torrent like they onward bore.
And swept away the foeman's ranks
O'er Niagara's rugged banks,
So indignant was their grief
On losing of their warrior chief.
Now with triumphant funeral car,
Adorned with implements of war,
The sad procession slow ascends,
As round the hill its way it wends.
Marching to mournful, solemn note,
While grand old flags around it float,
And now may peace be never broken
‘ Mong lands where Saxon tongue is spoken.
“For peace hath victories by far
More glorious than horrid war,”
England doth Longfellow revere,
And America loves Shakespeare.