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| THE SOUTH-LAND boasts its teeming cane, | |
| The prairied West its heavy grain, | |
| And sunset’s radiant gates unfold | |
| On rising marts and sands of gold! | |
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| Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State | 5 |
| Is scant of soil, of limits strait; | |
| Her yellow sands are sands alone, | |
| Her only mines are ice and stone! | |
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| From autumn frost to April rain, | |
| Too long her winter woods complain; | 10 |
| From budding flower to falling leaf, | |
| Her summer time is all too brief. | |
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| Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, | |
| And wintry hills, the school-house stands, | |
| And what her rugged soil denies, | 15 |
| The harvest of the mind supplies. | |
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| The riches of the Commonwealth | |
| Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; | |
| And more to her than gold or grain, | |
| The cunning hand and cultured brain. | 20 |
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| For well she keeps her ancient stock, | |
| The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock; | |
| And still maintains, with milder laws, | |
| And clearer light, the Good Old Cause! | |
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| Nor heeds the sceptic’s puny hands, | 25 |
| While near her school the church-spire stands; | |
| Nor fears the blinded bigot’s rule, | |
| While near her church-spire stands the school. | |
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