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Poem by Duncan Campbell Scott
March wind rough Clashed the trees, Flung the snow; Breaking stones, In the cold, Germans slow Toiled and toiled; Arrowy sun Glanced and sprang, One right blithe German sang: Songs of home, Fatherland: Syenite hard, Weary lot, Callous hand, All forgot: Hammers pound, Ringing round; Rise the heaps, To his voice, Bounds and leaps Toise on toise: Toil is long, But dear God Gives us song, At the end Gives us test, Toil is best.
Duncan Campbell Scott
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