Wolfe's Pack

Today I finished with one of the projects that I was worrying about. It was for my Canada Before Confederation class, and we had to do something creative to commemorate a conflict in Pre-Confederation Canada. Most people did post boards or small dioramas. Of course, I decided to write a poem, and now that I've presented it, I'll share it here:

Wolfe’s Pack

Like mice we scuttled along the watery roadways of the black river,

With night as our cloak and ignorance our shield.

The French Hawks saw, but remained blind,

And in moments we became the predators.

Upon the banks we paced,

Like a hungry fox waiting for its food to rest.

We hungered for vengeance, for action, for the blood of the French.

Win and we gained power, glory and honor.

Lose and we get skinned like common animals.

Silent as the hunting wolf,

We scaled the cliffs after our noble leader.

A pack of angry dogs, we clambered over the edge

To face our death with reckless courage.

Fire in our hands, flames in our eyes,

Our blood boiling from the heat of our anger.

The guns boomed to the sound of our beating hearts,

Reminding us we are alive, we are fighting.

Britons do not hesitate, do not look back.

We are no animals to flee at the touch of Death’s cold hand.

And touched by Death we were.

Our noble Wolfe pack leader fought and fell.

His last battle with the Reaper lost.

Dozens of men joined him that day,

In their last journey to their final resting place.

This poem is written from the perspective of a British soldier while fighting on the Plains of Abraham.

And as per usual, I claim copyright over this poem.