I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The read more

I can't but say it is an awkward sight
To see one's native land receding through
The growing waters; it unmans one quite,
Especially when life is rather new.

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our read more

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
Are all with thee,--are all with thee!

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and read more

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land--Good Night!

Our country is that spot to which our heart is bound.
[Fr., La patrie est aux lieux ou l'ame read more

Our country is that spot to which our heart is bound.
[Fr., La patrie est aux lieux ou l'ame est enchainee.]

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my read more

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!

My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.

My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.

They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
read more

They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his majesty.

There ought to be system of manners in every nation which a
well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. read more

There ought to be system of manners in every nation which a
well-formed mind would be disposed to relish. To make us love
our country, our country ought to be lovely.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and read more

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill;
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing.
To wander along by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day star attracted his eyes' sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion
He sang the bold anthem of Erin-go-bragh.