My land is a red land With clay hills all aglow, And roads like streaks of giants' blood Where my folk come and go. Every man for his land Where his own harvest grows; But my land is a red land, And the red land breeds the rose. Few are rich in my land, Some may call us poor, Yet never stands a little home But beauty's at the door. Every man for his land And what his own land shows; But my land is a red land And the red land breeds the rose. My land is a scarred land, Flood and storm cut deep, But who would choose a smooth land That's never learned to weep? Every man for his land With his own weal and woes; But my land is a red land And the red land breeds the rose. Passions flame in my land, Words are hotly said, But none waits here to tell his love Until his love is dead. Every man for his land And what his own heart knows But my land is a red land And the red land breeds the rose. |