And when my days are almost done,
And, faltering on, I've nearly run
Life's dreary sand;
Still, still my fainting breath shall be
Bestowed upon thy memory,
My soul shall wing its way to thee,
My Father-land!
MY NATIVE LAND.
BY THE REV. D. EVANS, B.D.
TRANSLATED BY MISS LYDIA JONES.
My soul is sad, my spirit fails,
And sickness in my heart prevails,
Whilst chill'd with grief, it mourns and wails
For my old Native Land.
Gold and wine have power to please,
And Summer's pure and gentle breeze,--
But ye are dearer far than these,
Hills of my Native Land.
Lovely to see the sun arise,
Breaking forth from eastern skies;
But oh! far lovelier in my eyes
Would be my Native Land.
As pants the hart for valley dew,
As bleats the lambkin for the ewe,
Thus I lament and long to view
My ancient Native Land.
What, what are delicacies, say,
And large possessions, what are they?
What the wide world and all its sway
Out of my Native Land?
O should I king of India be,
Might Europe to me bend the knee,
Such honours should be nought to me
Far from my Native Land.
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