To thee in that dear land;
What I sing now,
Winds shall wing now,
Till it reach that far-off strand.
When high the waves are rearing,
And wild the storm's careering,
Then think I but on thee;
Who dost change not,
Who dost range not,
And no storms can trouble me!
All the songs I yet may sing thee,
Other, nearer winds shall wing thee,
Soon the port will lie in view;
These I'll sing thee,
These I'll bring thee,