The fitful rustle of the sea-green leaves
Tells of the homeward tide, and free-blown air
Upturns thy gleaming leaf*ge like a share--
A silvery foam thy bosom, as it heaves!
O peasant tree, the regal Bay doth bare
Its throbbing breast to ebbs and floods--and grieves!
O slender fronds, pale as a moonbeam weaves,
Joy woke your strain that trembles to despair!
Willow of Normandy, say, do the birds
Of Motherland plain in thy sea-chant low,
Or voice of those who brought thee in the ships
To tidal vales of Acadie? Vain words!
Grief una**uaged makes moan that Gaspereau
Bore on its flood the fleet with iron lips!