My Native land: M. A. Cossou
Oh I care not that others rave over fair lands afar,
Where silvern lakes and placid streams mirror the evening star;
I care not though their wealth be great, their scenery be grand,
For none so fair as can compare with my own native land.
Their sylvan vales and rippling brooks may charm me when I roam,
But what of that? No brooks and vales can steal my love of home;
Where I in childhood used to play, and where the old folks rest
Must be to me, where’re I be, the dearest and the best.
And though I rove o’er hill and dale and brave old Neptune’s foam,
O’er crags and rocks and mossy dells, I still will turn me home;
For when at length I come to die, I want no gilded tomb,
Just let me rest within thy breast, where thy sweet flowers bloom,
Where thy sweet flowers bloom.
