TO me, whose paddle-blade has cleft The wave where great St. Lawrence flows -- To me, whose ears have heard the scream Of eagle, high above the snows, Where Fraser darts among the hills -- What is this tiny stream to me? And what the little melody My soul with rapture fills, Like some old half-forgotten croon? A cradle song of long ago -- A mother's song so sweet and low -- Hush! It is the Doon! |