From forty-ninth to pole it sits,
Empty cold with city bits.
Covered once with thick blue ice,
Now has summers green and nice.
No one sprouted out of ground,
Like a tree or grass is found.
No one ever owned the land,
Given not by pen or hand.
From the west, first migrants came,
Edge of ice found fish and game.
Colonies grew with wood and stone,
Hunting gathering skin and bone.
Sailing ships from east then bore
To land upon the eastern shore.
Migrants came with dreams of land,
With tools and iron will in hand.
Mackenzie saw each coast for real,
Macdonald tied it up with steel.
It became Canada
Albert Reeve, Gibsons
