Of course there ought to be an international verse, but I'm afraid I can't compete with the one in my model:—
"Look round: the Frenchman loves its blaze,
The sturdy German chants its praise;
In Moscow's vaults its hymns are sung;
Chicago swells the surging throng."
This is the best I can do:—
From Russia's snows to Afric's sun
The race of spatriots is one;
One faith unites their alien blood—
"There's nothing to be said for mud."