They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops
Where the oriole’s hammock-nest swings;
And at night-time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings.
Those who toil bravely are strongest;
The humble and poor become great;
And so from these brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman—
The noble and wise of the land—