Our Land Tis the land that our stalwart fore-sires trode, Where the brave and heroic-souled— Implanted our freedom with their best blood, In the martyr-days of old. The huts of the lowly gave Liberty birth, Their hearts were her cradle glorious, And wherever her footprints lettered the earth, Great spirits up-sprang victorious,— In our rare old land, our dear old land! With its memories bright and brave, And sing O! for the hour its sons shall band. To free it of Tyrant and Slave. Alfred was of us, and Shakspeare's thought Bekings us, all crowns above! And Freedom's dear faith, a fierce splendour caught From our grand old Milton's love! And we should be marching on gallantly— With their stride from glory to glory, For the Right, in our might striking valiantly, On the track of the famous in story— For our rare old land! our dear old land! With its memories bright and brave, And sing O! for the hour its sons shall band To free it of Tyrant and Slave. On Naseby-field of the fight sublime, Our old Red Rose doth blow! Ah, God! that the soul of our earlier time, Might marshal us conqueringly now! On, into the Future's fair clime the world sweeps, And the time trumpets true men to freedom: At the heart of the helots the mounting god leaps, But O, for the man that shall lead them— For our rare old land! our dear old land! With its memories bright and brave, And sing O! for the hour its sons shall band, To free it of Tyrant and Slave. What do we lack, that the red, red Wrong, Should starve us 'mid heaps of gold? We have brains as broad; we have arms as strong; We have hearts as great and bold. Will a thousand more years' meek suffering school Our lives to a sterner bravery? No! down and down with their robber rule, And trample at once your slavery— For our rare old land! our dear old land! With its memories bright and brave, And sing, O, for the hour its sons shall band, To free it of Tyrant and Slave. |
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