"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave
Await alike the inevitable hour --
The paths of glory lead but to the grave."
Thus great Wolfe sighed,
While on muffled oar,
We darkling crossed St. Lawrence's whispering tide
For the foeman's unguarded shore.

Then, one by one, far up the fearful steep
We toiled and toiled through all the live long night;
Till on the Frenchmen startled out of sleep
Enraged Montcalm
Bade his host advance --
And on the frowning heights of Abraham
Closed the champions of England and France.

Oh, fierce we fought until a fatal ball
Found Wolfe's brave bosom through the battle smoke.
Then charged the Scots with fiery slogan call
And backward reeled the French and broke.
"See! Sir, they run!"
"Who?" he faintly cried.
"The French." "Now God be praised, our arms have won!"
And contented he turned and died.