Song of Our Glorious Southland.
Reading edition
By Mrs. Mary Ware.
From the Southern Field and Fireside.
I.
Oh, sing of our glorious Southland, The pride of the golden sun! 'Tis the fairest land of flowers The eye e'er looked upon.
Sing of her orange and myrtle That glitter like gems above; Sing of her dark-eyed maidens As fair as a dream of love.
Sing of her flowing rivers-- How musical their sound! Sing of her dark green forests, The Indian hunting-ground.
Sing of the noble nation Fierce struggling to be free; Sing of the brave who barter Their lives for liberty!
II.
Weep for the maid and matron Who mourn their loved ones slain; Sigh for the light departed, Never to shine again:
'Tis the voice of Rachel weeping, That never will comfort know; 'Tis the wail of desolation, The breaking of hearts in woe!
III.
Ah! the blood of Abel crieth For vengeance from the sod! 'Tis a brother's hand that's lifted In the face of an angry God!
Oh! brother of the Northland, We plead from our father's grave; We strike for our homes and altars, He fought to build and save!
A smouldering fire is burning, The Southern heart is steeled-- Perhaps 'twill break in dying, But never will it yield.