Shy bird of the silver arrows of song,
That cleave our Northern air so clear,
Thy notes prolong, prolong,
I listen, I hear —
" I — love — dear — Canada,
Canada, Canada, "

O plumes of the pointed dusky fir,
Screen of a swelling patriot heart,
The copse is all astir
And echoes thy part! ...

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes
As the noise of the day dies down;
And silence strings her lutes,
The Whitethroat to crown. . . .

O bird of the silver arrows of song,
Shy poet of Canada dear,
Thy notes prolong, prolong,
We listen, we hear —
" I — love — dear — Canada,
Canada, Canada. "