Come, one and all, around me stand;
Come join in swelling chorus;
And praise our goodly native land,
Our father-land that bore us.

Old ocean bore from Mammon's marts,
The plant of freedom hither;
It blossoms yet, and glads our hearts,
And we'll not let it wither.

2

Where we now stand, our fathers stood;
Firm men were they, true hearted;
Say, lives there now a race so good,
Or have they all departed?

From zeal for freedom and for God,

No charms of wealth could win them; O'er ocean tost, these wilds they trod; They carried home within them.

3

They cared not to be here renowned, Cared not for fame or glory;

But persecution on them frowned,

And made them great in story. Then join in heart, and join in hand, To raise a swelling chorus; And praise our goodly native land Our father-land that bore us.

Oh see, the cunning frost has come,
Its magic art revealing;

With pictured tower, and hill, and dome,
Again the windows sealing.

It shuts from us the bluey sky,

The snowy fields and meadow, The dreary ice that glitters high, In moonlight and in shadow.

2

And, oh, it gives full many a dream
Of pleasant summer rambles;
The olden bridge, the streamlet gleam,
The ferns, the brakes, and brambles

The sedgy lake, the woody hill,

They live again before us; Again flows on the little rill,

And summer skies are o'er us.

3

Oh see, the cunning frost has come,
Its magic art revealing

With pictured tower, and hill, and dome,
Again the windows sealing.

It shuts from us the bluey sky,

The snowy fields and meadow, The dreary ice that glitters high, In moonlight and in shadow