AT STE. THERESE by SUSAN FRANCES HARRISON

I

The quaint stiff metres of olden France!
Strange, to hear them in St. Thérèse,
Metres that speak of duel and dance,

Of gay parterre and of trim pleasance,
Of swords that flash and fringe that frays—
The quaint stiff metres of olden France!

In his sash and @3tuque@1 with his keen gay glance,
Hark to Maxime as he lustily brays
Metres that speak of duel and dance,

Measures that ring with old-world romance,
Ballads, rondels, and virelays,
The quaint stiff metres of olden France.

A troubadour with a whip for his lance,
In his rude calash his song betrays
Metres that speak of duel and dance.

Strange, is it not, by a happy chance
I should hear in the streets of Ste. Thérèse,
The quaint stiff metres of olden France,
Metres that speak of duel and dance?

II

The tall twin towers of the grim @3église@1
Loom up over the wharf and street,
Over the Lombardy poplar trees.

Whichever way one goes one sees
The @3séminaire,@1 and is sure to meet
The tall twin towers of the grim @3église,@1

And but for the keen Canadian breeze
Blowing the sharp Canadian sleet
Over the Lombardy popular trees

To me and Pierre, who says it will freeze
By night, I feel as if I must greet
The tall twin towers of the grim @3église@1

For an Old World church with Old World fees,
The Old World @3carillon@1 sounding sweet
Over the Lombardy poplar trees.

@3Vite donc,@1 my Pierre! For the time it flees;
Once more would I see from my snug low seat
The tall twin towers of the grim @3église@1
Over the Lombardy poplar trees.

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