The Ballad of Maria Simpson

The dashing Duke of Devonshire stood transfixed in his hall,
A book clutched in his hand, a dream flamed in his soul, 
        A book of the Columbia,
        A dream of the Columbia.
His garden puffed the glories of the distant Amazon,
The oases of Sahara and the hills of Babylon,
With echoes even of that place where Adam named the dawn,
    But none of the Columbia.
    “I must have the Columbia!
I will have the Columbia before the year is gone!”

        Maria!  Maria!
    The Duke's among his botanists, a-choosing of the brave,
    The Duke is in his garden, a-digging of your grave.
        Have a care, Maria!
    Don’t go near the valley where the raging waters flow!
    Don’t go near the river with its deadly undertow!
        Run, Maria!

The gardeners and botanists stand forth in serried ranks;
The Duke appoints his champions:  "Robert Wallace! Peter Banks!
    Go to the Columbia,
    Collect me the Columbia!
Go where young men rush to glory, killing beaver for their hair—
But hold you ever watchful of the hazards lurking there,
The allurements of the woman and the fury of the bear,
    Guarding the Columbia.
    The grail is the Columbia!
Win me the Columbia, and glory, or despair!”

        Maria!  Maria!
    Canoes on the horizon!  Hear the shouts of the brigade!
    The gallant’s face is hidden by the flashing paddle blade,
        But he comes, Maria!
    A young man!  A clean man! To your child's eyes he appears
    Like an angel ‘midst the drunken, dirty, simian voyageurs.
        Run to the landing, Maria!

One sight of Robert Wallace and Maria’s heart is gone;
One glimpse of her young innocence, and Robert’s heart is won—
    “I love you!”  (The Columbia...)
    “Marry me!”  (The Columbia!)
Though the elders of the company may wring their hands in fear
Of the wrath Sir George will visit on them when he comes to hear,
There is nothing, nothing they can do.  A priest is standing near,
    A vow for the Columbia,
    A kiss for the Columbia,
Hearts fly to the Columbia, a-chasing of the deer.

        Maria!  Maria!
    The bear saw Banks and Wallace and has left them well alone,
    But Robert, faced with your allurements, laid his weapons down.
        Do you know, Maria,
    As you spread the blankets out beneath the overturned canoe,
    As your hearts, pressed close together, beat as one instead of two,
        What will the harvest be, Maria?

Up the meandering Saskatchewan!  And now, the Athabasca!
Load the horses! Climb, girl, climb! Through the mountain passes!
    West to the Columbia!
    Up to the Columbia!
Though deadfalls snag the baggage, and the horses fight and spit,
Your legs are cut and bleeding, and you chafe raw where you sit,
Well before you’re driven crazy by the flies and heat and wet,
    There is the Columbia.
    Rest by the Columbia.
“The boat, she’s down the Columbia.  We’ll have to wait a bit.”

         Maria!  Maria!
    Dream among the crystal mountains of the life that lies ahead,
    Once you’ve shot the boiling river past the Rapids of the Dead.
        Dream, Maria, dream—
    How with Robert, hand in hand, you will linger, lark, and look
    All around the mossy forest, picking flowers for the Duke.
        Joy to Maria!

But soon the overloaded boat flies past the canyon wall
Towards the Rapids of the Dead.  Can you hear the thunder roll,
    The roar of the Columbia,
    The rage of the Columbia?
But the voyageurs are cunning; they know the river well,
And they guide you to a portage cut around the deadly swell.
“You an’ Robert, an’ the others, you can set an’ rest a spell
    While we portage the Columbia —
    Defy the Columbia —
Tune the guts of the Columbia to the dance of buy an’ sell!”

        Maria!  Maria!
    The worst is now behind you, and the chutes that lie ahead
    Are just the Little Rapids, not the Rapids of the Dead!
        Back in the boat, Maria!
    She may be overloaded, but she’s sturdy, tight, and true,
    So cuddle up to Robert while the helmsman takes her through:
        Here we go, Maria!

Down the twisting, tumbling tunnel!—but the boat begins to fill,
And the voyageurs are screaming at the people to be still,
    Cursing the Columbia,
    Hating the Columbia —
Until the crashing rapids wane, more quiet waters glide.
But Robert, he has had enough; he gathers up his bride,
And burdened with all innocence, he steps upon the side
    To swim from the Columbia.
    The boat flips.  (Oh, the Columbia!)
Both of them and Peter Banks were among the twelve who died.

         Maria!  Maria!
    Your joy flashed up so early and then slipped away so soon,
    An adult life compressed within one happy honeymoon.
        Goodbye, Maria.
    If we could find your body we would bury you on shore,
    But the restless rolling river hugs your bones for evermore.
            Rest in Peace, Maria,
            Rest in the Columbia.