My Country
I love my country’s vine-clad hills,
Her thousand bright and gushing rills,
Her sunshine and her storms;
Her rough and rugged rocks that rear
Their hoary heads high in the air,
In wild fantastic forms.
I love her rivers deep and wide,
Those mighty streams that seaward glide,
To seek the ocean’s breast;
Her smiling fields, her pleasant vales,
Her shady dells, her flowery dales—
Abodes of peaceful rest.
I love her forests, dark and lone,
For there the wild-bird’s merry tone
I hear from morn till night;
And lovelier flowers are there, I ween,
Than e’er in Eastern lands were seen
In varied colors bright.
Her forests and her valleys fair,
Her flowers that scent the morning air,
All have their charms for me;
But more I love my country’s name,
Those words that echo deathless fame—
The Land of Liberty.
The Four MacNICOLS.