The home of his childhood in Northern Bay,
He quit it for pleasure much more than for pay;
On the ice-fields he ventured
most youthful and brave,
Whereon he sought death
but his life could not save.
That cold night in March
he lay miles from the shore,
From friends that were watching
to see him once more;
But alas, human aid may be looked for in vain,
For life was too sweet on the ice to remain.
At dawn Easter Saturday,
ah! happy they would be,
If in the Bay of Conception
a sail they could see;
But no sound from the ocean
could bid them rejoice,
Or lead them to think he was safe on the ice.
With courage undaunted he set out anew,
To reach Cape St Francis, the object in view;
When three of his comrades -
whose number was four -
Lay on their cold beds not to walk with no more.
He and the other set out for the Cape,
How hard it must dwell on that poor feller's fate!
He found himself weak as he got near the shore,
And he said to the other, "I cannot walk more."
He said to the other, "Go on for the light.
Tell them at the house to come for me tonight!"
This man reached the lighthouse,
which being quite nigh,
But little he thought he left Willy to die.
Oh, rugged Cape St Francis! re-echoed the voice
From him who for aid called loud on the ice;
He expected assistance but none did receive,
And he died near the shore
where the lost might be saved.
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