Here freedom dwells without a fear—
Coy to the world, she loves the wild;
Whoever brings a fetter here,
To chain the desert's fiery child.
What though the Frank may name with scorn,
Our barren clime, our realm of sand,
There were our thousand fathers born—
Oh, who would scorn his father's land?
It is not sands that form a waste,
Nor laughing fields a happy clime;