Classic Poem

The children of our Fatherland
Are roaming far and wide,
Along Ontario's lonely strand,
By wild Waihato's side.

O'er Southern Afric's burning sod,
Thro' icebound Labrador,
They wander in the face of God,
But hear His voice no more.

Their souls for want of all things good
Within them faint and die,
Across the hills, across the flood
They cry a bitter cry.

We've knelt with you beside the shrine,
We've spoken the same vow,
The same sweet Mother set the sign
Upon our infant brow.

For us no more the pastoral strain,
No more the anthem swells,
And we should scarcely know again
The sound of Sunday bells.

The words of pardon reach us not,
No Heavenly food we taste,
And Christians with the heathen's lot,
We wander through the waste.

O hear us calling south and north,
By hill, and stream, and rock,
Send ye the faithful shepherd forth
To fold his Master's flock.

And let the Church that first did bless
The Mother of our youth,
Go with us through the wilderness
And hold the lamp of truth.

And let her words so sweet and strong
In the old measure flow,
Lest we forget the cradle song
That lull'd us long ago;

Lest in the time that's far away,
Estranged in heart and word,
Your children to our children say,
“Ye serve not the same Lord.

“High temples thro' your land are piled,
God's Presence dwells with you,
Build us an altar in the wild
That we may serve Him too.”

Bear on, bear on life's gushing wave
To heathen souls athirst,
To all whom Jesus died to save,
But feed the children first.