Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

OUR NATIVE SONG by ELIZA COOK

First Line: OUR NATIVE SONG! OUR NATIVE SONG!
Last Line: TO HEAR ITS OWN, ITS NATIVE SONG.
Subject(s): SINGING & SINGERS; SONGS;
Our Native Song,- our Native Song!
Our native song! our native song!
Oh, where is he who loves it not?
Oh! where is he who loves it not?
The spell it holds is deep and strong,
The spell it holds is deep and strong,
Where'er we go, whate'er our lot.
Where'er we go, whate'er our lot.
Let other music greet our ear
Let other music greet our ear
With thrilling fire or dulcet tone;
With thrilling fire or dulcet tone;
We speak to praise, we pause to hear,
We speak to praise, we pause to hear,
But yet-oh yet-'tis not our own!
But yet -- oh! yet -- 'tis not our own!
The anthem chant, the ballad wild,
The anthem chant, the ballad wild,
The notes that we remember long-
The notes that we remember long --
The theme we sung with lisping tongue-
The theme we sung with lisping tongue --
'Tis this we love- our Native Song!
'Tis this we love -- our native song!
The one who bears the felon's brand,

With moody brow and darkened name;
The one who bears the felon's brand,
Thrust meanly from his father-land,
With moody brow and darkened name,
To languish out a life of shame;
Thrust meanly from his father-land,
Oh, let him hear some simple strain-
To languish out a life of shame!
Some lay his mother taught her boy-
Oh! let him hear some simple strain --
He'll feel the charm, and dream again
Some lay his mother taught her boy --
Of home, of innocence, and joy.
He'll feel the charm, and dream again
The sigh will burst, the drops will start,
Of home, of innocence, and joy!
And all of virtue, buried long-
The sigh will burst, the drops will start,
The best, the purest in his heart,-
And all of virtue, buried long --
Is wakened by his Native Song!
The best, the purest in his heart,
Self-exiled from our place of birth,
Is wakened by his native song.
To climes more fragrant, bright and gay;

The memory of our own fair earth
Self-exiled from our place of birth,
May chance awhile to fade away:
To climes more fragrant, bright, and gay,
But should some minstrel echo fall,
The memory of our own fair earth
Of chords that breathe Old England's fame;
May chance awhile to fade away:
Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn,
But should some minstrel echo fall,
True to the land we love and claim.
Of chords that breathe Old England's fame,
The high-the low-in weal or woe,
Our souls will burn, our spirits yearn,
Be sure there's something coldly wrong
True to the land we love and claim.
About the heart that does not glow
The high! the low! in weal or wo,
To hear its own, its Native Song.
Be sure there's something coldly wrong

About the heart that does not glow

To hear its own, its native song.



Home: PoetryExplorer.net