| |
| MY own land! My own land! Where Freedom finds her throne-land, | |
| Fair thou art, and rare thou art to every true-born son. | |
| Though no gold ore veins thee, though no grape-juice stains thee, | |
| We’ve harvest fields, and quartered shields, well kept and nobly won. | |
| And we have pleasant tales to tell, | 5 |
| And spots in many a native dell, | |
| Which we may prize and love as well | |
| As Troubadour his story. | |
| The lilting troll and roundelay | |
| Will never, never pass away, | 10 |
| That welcomed in the herald day | |
| Of Summer’s rosy glory. | |
| And goodly sight of mirth and might, | |
| In blood that gained us Cressy’s fight, | |
| Was hearts and eyes, all warm and bright | 15 |
| About the high and gay pole; | |
| When flower-bedight, ’mid leaves and light, | |
| Shouts echoed it—as it reared upright— | |
| Of—“Hurrah for merry England, and the raising of the Maypole!” | |
| When the good old times had carol rhymes, | 20 |
| With morris games and village chimes; | |
| When clown and priest shared cup and feast, | |
| And the greatest jostled with the least | |
| At the “raising of the Maypole.” | |
| |
| My brave land! my brave land! oh! may’st thou be my grave-land; | 25 |
| For firm and fond will be the bond that ties my breast to thee. | |
| When Summer’s beams are glowing, when Autumn’s gusts are blowing, | |
| When Winter’s clouds are snowing, thou art still right dear to me. | |
| But yet methinks I love thee best | |
| When bees are nursed on white-thorn breast, | 30 |
| When Spring-tide pours in—sweet and blest— | |
| And Mirth and Hope come dancing! | |
| When music from the feathered throng, | |
| Breaks forth in merry marriage-song, | |
| And mountain streamlets dash along, | 35 |
| Like molten diamonds glancing! | |
| Oh! pleasant ’tis to scan the page, | |
| Rich with the theme of bygone age; | |
| When motley fool and learned sage | |
| Brought garlands for the gay pole; | 40 |
| When laugh and shout came ringing out, | |
| From courtly knight and peasant lout, | |
| In, “Hurrah for merry England, and the raising of the Maypole!” | |
| When the good old times had carol rhymes, | |
| With morris games and village chimes; | 45 |
| When clown and priest shared cup and feast, | |
| And the greatest jostled with the least, | |
| At the “raising of the Maypole!” | |
| |
