And O! where dwells that dearest one
My first affections fix’d upon,
Dying with grief that I am gone?
O! in my Native Land.
Where do they food to strangers give?
Where kindly, liberally relieve?
Where unsophisticated live?
O! in my Native Land.
Where are the guileless rites retain’d,
And customs of our sires maintain’d?
Where has the ancient Welsh remain’d?
O! in my Native Land.
Where is the harp of sweetest string?
Where are songs read in bardic ring?
Genius and inspiration sing
Within my Native Land.
Once Zion’s sons their harps unstrung,
On Babylonian willows hung,
And mute their songs—with sorrow wrung,
They mourn’d their Native Land.
Captives, the Babylonians cry,
Awake Judæan melody,—
There is no music they reply,
Out of our Native Land.
And thus when I in misery
Beseech my muse to visit me,
She echo’s—there’s no hope for thee
Out of thy Native Land.
A bard how dull in Indian groves,
Distant from the land he loves!
The muse to melody ne’er moves
Far from her Native Land.
Day and night I ceaseless groan
Among these foreigners, alone;
Yet not for fame or gold I moan,
But for my Native Land.
Oft to the rocky heights I haste,
And gaze intent, while tears flow fast,
Over old ocean’s troubled waste,
Towards my Native Land.