Tonnerre, for his grandfather who fought with Riel in 1885) The Métis they met from the whole prairie To keep their lands, to keep them free, They gathered there in the valley Qu’Appelle Alongside their leader, Louis Riel. They took their rifles into their hands, They fought to keep their fathers’ lands And one of them who gathered there Was a Métis boy called Jules Tonnerre. He is not more than eighteen years; He will not listen to his fears. His heart is true, his heart is strong; He knows the land where his people belong. Macdonald, he sits in Ottawa, Drinking down his whiskey raw, Sends out west ten thousand men, Swears the Métis will not rise again. The young Anglais from Ontario, Out to the west they swiftly go; They don’t know what they’re fighting for, But they’ve got the cannon, so it must be war. It was near Batoche, in Saskatchewan, The Métis bullets were nearly gone; “If I was a wolf, I’d seek my lair, But a man must try,” said Jules Tonnerre.
