Awake! awake, Ojibways! To dream in peace no more, For there comes a bold invader From eastward by the shore. Rowing in swift, strong bateaux, With strokes both strong and long, To the cadence of fearless voices In a gay boatman’s song, Come full two hundred singers, In boats, a score or more, Far o’er the laughing waters, Skirting the eastern shore. Who are they, these fearless strangers, Armed with sword and lance, With arquebuse and musketoon? They are fiery sons of France, Exploring the boundless forests, Locating rivers and seas; Ignoring the red man’s title, Coming his rights to seize. Ha! they spy the eastern outlet That leads to the lagoon, Far across the teeming marshlands, The domain of teal and loon. They enter with eager spirits This strange tract to explore; And halting not, they discover Point Pelee’s western shore. A causeway of cedar and hillock, From lagoon to lake they trace; And their bateaux quickly transport By way of the Carrying Place. And they gaze on the expansion, And cheerily launch away, And disappear in the distance, Across wide Pigeon Bay. The Ojibways in amazement Saw this strange concourse pass by; A foreboding premonition Whispered of danger nigh. Mitwaos in council assembled His chiefs and warriors brave; Many scores of fiery stalwarts, Of countenance stern and brave. And calmly they deliberated, Counselling for peace or war; Should they allow these daring strangers Their sacred rights to mar? After the chiefs had spoken Of the pending dangers nigh, It was finally decided The strangers might pass by In peace, and unmolested, If they did not interfere With the vast teeming hunting grounds Of the nation, far and near. When three moons had waxed and waned, The voyageurs, returning, came From over the western waters, Lit by the sunset’s flame. And they drew up at the Narrows, The Carrying Place again, A “cut” in the cedar hillocks Aglow with autumn’s flame. De Orville, their gallant leader, And Pontgravé and Le Jeune, Knew their followers were weary, And made decision soon To bivouac near the marshlands For a day of needed rest, And to replenish their commissariat With fish and game the best. The camp-fires were all alighted At the eve’s afterglow, And the pines and cedars quivered, And the waves made murmur low. The scene was worthy a Rembrandt, So rich the light and shade, And the starry vault above them, And the winds that whisper made.