I've heard the stranger lightly speak
Of thee my native land ;
A gloom, he said, o'er-cast thy sky.
Rough billows beat thy strand—
But his was like the peterel's flight,.
Across the stormy sea,
He breath'd but once thy mountain breeze,
And then was far away.
Oh ! had he lingered on thy strand,
He must have loved thee—native land.

My native land—-upon thy hills,
There rest eternal snows ;
A crest of foam is on each sui'ge,
On thy bleak shore which flows.
There may be fairer lands I own,
There may be calmer seas ;
There may be fields where flowers fade not,
Where fragrance loads the breeze.
But all who linger on thy strand,
Must surely love thee—native land.