Theodore Harding Rand - The Willow at Grand-Pré lyrics

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!