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OUR NATIVE SONG, by                     Poet's Biography
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,
The one who bears the felon's brand,
With moody brow and darkened name;
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,
And all of virtue, buried long --
The best, the purest in his heart,-
The best, the purest in his heart,
Is wakened by his Native Song!
Is wakened by his native song.
Self-exiled from our place of birth,

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

About the heart that does not glow

To hear its own, its native song.





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