We love to sing of tiny stream,
Through the lowland meadows running,
To us it is a pleasing theme,
Tracing it from first beginning.
'Tis strange how far a brook will roam,
Moving onwards in its motion,
And not content till it reaches home,
Two thousand miles to distant ocean.
In county York springs a small brook,
A few miles north of Ontario,
But it doth take a wondrous crook,
It northward many miles doth flow.
Brook's progress south is stopped by ridge,
Doth debar its southern course,
So a long journey it don't grudge,
But slowly on its way doth force.
And it discharges at its mouth
Into the pure clear lake Simcoe,
It still flows north for to get south,
As onward still its course doth go.
Rejoicing along its way,
Hundreds of miles it doth flow west,
Blended in the Georgian Bay,
For a moment it doth not rest.
Mingling with Huron and St. Clair,
Erie and Niagara river,
Even at the Falls it don't despair,
But it cheerful flows forever.
One thousand miles round an ox bow,
It hath flowed back near its first start,
To waters of Ontario,
Where ridge at first kept it apart.
From south of ridge two rivers flow,
Both the Don and the Humber,
Embracing city of Toronto,
Hath attractions without number.
The fame will spread far and wide,
First of Don and then of Humber,
Improved rivers like to the Clyde,
With wharves for coal, wood, iron and lumber.