Gold and wine have power to please,
And Summer’s pure and gentle breeze,—
But ye are dearer far than these,
Hills of my Native Land.
Lovely to see the sun arise,
Breaking forth from eastern skies;
But oh! far lovelier in my eyes
Would be my Native Land.
As pants the hart for valley dew,
As bleats the lambkin for the ewe,
Thus I lament and long to view
My ancient Native Land.
What, what are delicacies, say,
And large possessions, what are they?
What the wide world and all its sway
Out of my Native Land?
O should I king of India be,
Might Europe to me bend the knee,
Such honours should be nought to me
Far from my Native Land.
In what delightful country strays
Each gentle friend of youthful days?
Where dwelleth all I love or praise?
O! in my Native Land.
Where are the fields and gardens fair
Where once I sported free as air,
Without despondency or care?
O! in my Native Land.
Where is each path and still retreat
Where I with song held converse sweet
With true poetic fire replete?
O! in my Native Land.
Where do the merry maidens move,
Who purely live and truly love—
Whose words do not deceitful prove?
O! in my Native Land.
And where on earth that friendly place,
Where each presents a brother’s face,
Where frowns or anger ne’er debase!
O! ’tis my Native Land.