The Song My Paddle Sings
Matthew Emery

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featuring the Woodstock Fanshawe Singers


WEST wind, blow from your prairie nest,

Blow from the mountains, blow from the west.

The sail is idle, the sailor too;

O wind of the west, we wait for you!

Blow, blow!

I have wooed you so,

But never a favor you bestow.

You rock your cradle the hills between,

But scorn to notice my white lateen.


Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!

The reckless waves you must plunge into.

Reel, reel,

On your trembling keel,

But never a fear my craft will feel.

 

We’ve raced the rapids; we ’re far ahead:

The river slips through its silent bed.

Sway, sway,

As the bubbles spray

And fall in tinkling tunes away.


And up on the hills against the sky,

A fir tree rocking its lullaby

Swings, swings,

Its emerald wings,

Swelling the song that my paddle sings.


poem by E. Pauline Johnson

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