The old canoe

[Rob Stevens]

I spotted this on the Ottertail forum and thought some of you would appreciate it.

THE OLD CANOE

My seams gape wide as I'm tossed aside to rot on the lonely shore,
And the leaves and mould like a shroud unfold, for the last of my days are o'er,
But I float in my dreams on northern streams that never again I'll see,
As I lie on the marge of the old portage with grief for company.
When the sunset gilds the timbered hills that guard Temagami,
And the moon beams play on far James Bay by the brink of the frozen sea,
In phantom guise my spirit flies as the dream blades dip and swing,
Where the waters flow from the long ago in the spell of the beckoning spring.
Do the cow-moose call on the Montreal when the first frost bites the air,
And the mists unfold from the red and gold that autumn ridges wear?
Do the white falls roar as they did of yore on the Lady Evelyn,
And the square-tail leap from the black pool deep where the pictured rocks begin?
Yes, the fur fleet sings on Timiscaming as the ashen paddles bend,
And the crews carouse at Rupert's House at the sullen winter's end,
But my days are done where the lean wolves run, I'll ripple no more their path,
Where the grey geese race 'cross the red moon's face from the white winds Arctic wrath.
Tho' the death-fraught way from the Saguenay to the storied Nipigon,
Once knew me well, now a crumbling shell I watch as the years roll on,
And in memory's haze I love the days forever gone from me,
As I lie on the marge of the old portage with grief for company.

George Marsh (circa 1890)

 

[beaver]

I spotted this on the Ottertail forum and thought some of you would appreciate it.

THE OLD CANOE

My seams gape wide as I'm tossed aside to rot on the lonely shore,
And the leaves and mould like a shroud unfold, for the last of my days are o'er,
But I float in my dreams on northern streams that never again I'll see,
As I lie on the marge of the old portage with grief for company.
When the sunset gilds the timbered hills that guard Temagami,
And the moon beams play on far James Bay by the brink of the frozen sea,
In phantom guise my spirit flies as the dream blades dip and swing,
Where the waters flow from the long ago in the spell of the beckoning spring.
Do the cow-moose call on the Montreal when the first frost bites the air,
And the mists unfold from the red and gold that autumn ridges wear?
Do the white falls roar as they did of yore on the Lady Evelyn,
And the square-tail leap from the black pool deep where the pictured rocks begin?
Yes, the fur fleet sings on Timiscaming as the ashen paddles bend,
And the crews carouse at Rupert's House at the sullen winter's end,
But my days are done where the lean wolves run, I'll ripple no more their path,
Where the grey geese race 'cross the red moon's face from the white winds Arctic wrath.
Tho' the death-fraught way from the Saguenay to the storied Nipigon,
Once knew me well, now a crumbling shell I watch as the years roll on,
And in memory's haze I love the days forever gone from me,
As I lie on the marge of the old portage with grief for company.

George Marsh (circa 1890)

That's a dandy poem!

Who'll take our places when we're gone?

 

[Roger Young]

Thanks for posting and sharing that great poem, Rob. It's wonderful. Has the same cadence and rhyming scheme as Robert Service used and, not surprisingly, would seem to date from about the same time period. A fun read!!