In dreams of the night I hear the call Of wild duck scudding across the lake,
In dreams I see the old convent wall, Where Ottawa's waters surge and break.
But Hercule awakes me ere the sun Has painted the eastern skies with gold.
Hercule! true knight of the rod and gun As ever lived in the days of old."Arise! tho' the moon hangs high above, The sun will soon usher in the day,
And the southerly wind that sportsmen love is blowing across St.
Louis Bay."The wind is moaning among the trees, Along the shore where the shadows lie,
And faintly borne on the fresh'ning breeze From yonder point comes the loon's wild cry.
Like diamonds flashing athwart the tide The dancing moonbeams quiver and glow,
As out on the deep we swiftly glide To our distant Mecca,
Ile Perrot.
Ile Perrot far to the southward lies, Pointe Claire on the lee we leave behind,
And eager we gaze with longing eyes, For faintest sign of the deadly "blind".
Past the point where Ottawa's current flows- A league from St.
Lawrence golden sands-Out in the bay where the wild grass grows We mark the spot where our ambush stands.
We enter it just as crimson flush Of morn illumines the hills with light,
And patiently wait the first mad rush Of pinions soaring in airy flight.
A rustle of wings from over there, Where all night long on watery
The flocks have slept - and the morning air Rings with the messenger of lead.
Many a pilgrim from far away Many a stranger from distant seas,
Is dying to-day on St.
Louis Bay, To requiem sung by the southern breeze.
And thus till the sound of the vesper bell Comes stealing o'er Ottawa's dusky stream,
And the ancient light-house we know so well Lights up the tide with its friendly gleam.
Then up with the anchor and ply the oar, For homeward again our course must bear,
Farewell to the "blind" by Ile Perrot's shore, And welcome the harbor of old Pointe Claire!
