Zion's King hath called thee-go!
'Tis His sovereign pleasure,
Honour on thee to bestow,
And charge of gospel treasure.
He who winneth souls is wise;
High thy glorious calling!
Leading pilgrims to the skies-
Fear nor toil appalling.
Leave thy home by Clyde's fair strand,
O'er the Atlantic billow
Seek in far Canadian land
Stranger's home and pillow.
Spread the knowledge of the cross,
Tell redemption's story;
Counting all things else but loss
For the crown of glory.
Deem not thou canst leave behind
Drink-that dragon cruel;
Thou the burning fiend wilt find
'Midst abundant fuel.
Then, as now, the demon face-
Thine is strength and daring;
Give the monster ceaseless chase,
Strike with hand unsparing.
Dear the fruitful vine that clings
To thy faithful bosom;
Dear the olive plants she brings
Round thy board to blossom;
Dear the sacred filial tie,
Love and duty blending;
Dear the clasp, the tear, the sigh-
Warm farewells attending.
But a dearer, holier love,
Ever heavenward turning,
Makes thy heart's strong pulses move,
Sets thy spirit burning.
'Love of Christ, and love of souls,'
Be thy motto ever;
Then between, though ocean rolls,
Homes, not hearts, we sever!