My own Native Land
I’ve roved over mountain, I’ve cross’d over flood;
I’ve traversed the wave-rolling sand;
Though the fields were as green, and the moon shone as bright,
Yet it was not my own native land.
No, no, no, no, no, no. No, no, no, no, no, no,
Though the fields were as green, and the moon shone as bright,
Yet it was not my own native land.
The right hand of friendship how oft I have grasp’d
And bright eyes have smiled and looked bland,
Yet happier far were the hours that I pass’d
In the West—in my own native land.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,
Yet happier far were the hours that I pass’d
In the West—in my own native land.
Then hail, dear Columbia, the land that we love,
Where flourishes Liberty’s tree;
The birth-place of Freedom, our own native home,
’Tis the land, ’tis the land of the free!
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,
The birth-place of Freedom, our own native home,
’Tis the land, ’tis the land of the free!
Root Hog or Die.
I’ll tell you of a story that happened long ago,
When the English came to America, I s’pose you all do know,
They couldn’t whip the Yankees, I’ll tell you the reason why,
Uncle Sam made ’em sing, Root Hog or Die.