O' to be heard by the minstrel sea,
Run away to the cliffs, blithesome and free;
With crackling red maple leaves under my feet,
I'll steal to the shore, in hopes we should meet.
And there will rush winds of a tidal storm
'Neath the towering mountain's windswept forms,
And atop Mont St-Alban, I'll whisper my name
For the glowry of the dawn, its short-lived fame.
To be distant from home on a sigmoidal road,