A Request
Beyond the boundaries of all our mighty inland lakes,
Beyond the old Red River shore, where Manitoba breaks
Into the far and fair North-west its limitless extent,
Last year with cannon, shot, and shell the British soldier went.
Full many a city flocked to bid her gallant boys good-bye,
Cheer after cheer went ringing out, and flags were flaunted high;
And well indeed those warriors fought, and surely well they bled,
And surely well some sleep to-day within their silent bed.
Perhaps a soldier's medals are of greater honour when
He wins them at the cost of his own fellow-countrymen—
'Tis not my place to question if their laurel wreath still thrives,
If its fragrance is of Indian blood, its glory Indian lives.
I only know some heart still waits with pulse that beats and burns
For footsteps of the boy who left but nevermore returns,
Another heart still dwells beyond thy banks, Saskatchewan—
O Indian mother, list'ning for the coming of your son
Who left his home a year ago to fight the Volunteers,
To meet his death from British guns, his death-song British cheers.
For you I speak to-day, and ask some noble, faithful hands,
To send another band of men to meet you in your lands.
Not as last year these gallant hearts as dogs of war will go,
No swords within their hands, no cause to bring the after-glow
Of blush to Canada's fair cheek, for none can say as then:
‘She treats her Indian wards as foes.’ No! These are different men,
Their strength is not in rank and file, no martial host they lead,
Their mission is the cross of Christ, their arms the Christian creed.
Instead of helmet round their head, a halo shines afar,
'Twill light your prairie pathway up more than the flash of war.
Seek not to find upon this band a coat of crimson glow—
God grant their hands will spotless be as their own robes of snow,
O men who go on missions to the North-west Indian lands,
The thorns may pierce your foreheads and the cross may bruise your hands,
For though the goal seems far away, reward seems vague and dim—
If ye Christianise the least of them, ‘Ye do it unto Him,’
And, perhaps, beyond the river brink the waves of death have laved,
The jewels in your crown will be the Indian souls you've saved.
Beyond the old Red River shore, where Manitoba breaks
Into the far and fair North-west its limitless extent,
Last year with cannon, shot, and shell the British soldier went.
Full many a city flocked to bid her gallant boys good-bye,
Cheer after cheer went ringing out, and flags were flaunted high;
And well indeed those warriors fought, and surely well they bled,
And surely well some sleep to-day within their silent bed.
Perhaps a soldier's medals are of greater honour when
He wins them at the cost of his own fellow-countrymen—
'Tis not my place to question if their laurel wreath still thrives,
If its fragrance is of Indian blood, its glory Indian lives.
I only know some heart still waits with pulse that beats and burns
For footsteps of the boy who left but nevermore returns,
Another heart still dwells beyond thy banks, Saskatchewan—
O Indian mother, list'ning for the coming of your son
Who left his home a year ago to fight the Volunteers,
To meet his death from British guns, his death-song British cheers.
For you I speak to-day, and ask some noble, faithful hands,
To send another band of men to meet you in your lands.
Not as last year these gallant hearts as dogs of war will go,
No swords within their hands, no cause to bring the after-glow
Of blush to Canada's fair cheek, for none can say as then:
‘She treats her Indian wards as foes.’ No! These are different men,
Their strength is not in rank and file, no martial host they lead,
Their mission is the cross of Christ, their arms the Christian creed.
Instead of helmet round their head, a halo shines afar,
'Twill light your prairie pathway up more than the flash of war.
Seek not to find upon this band a coat of crimson glow—
God grant their hands will spotless be as their own robes of snow,
O men who go on missions to the North-west Indian lands,
The thorns may pierce your foreheads and the cross may bruise your hands,
For though the goal seems far away, reward seems vague and dim—
If ye Christianise the least of them, ‘Ye do it unto Him,’
And, perhaps, beyond the river brink the waves of death have laved,
The jewels in your crown will be the Indian souls you've saved.
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