  A glorious land is the “Dear Old Land,” Our fathers’ island home; Tho’ its moorlands are cold when the snow lies deep, And the mists round the sides of its mountains creep, And the waves are white when the March winds sweep, As they dash on its cliffs in foam. ’Tis changed since the days when the Druid old Was seen in the forest glades; When the wolf was tracked to his mountain den, And the wild boar roused in the gloomy glen, And the chase was a sport to test the men That ranged through the leafy shades. Where the victim bled on the altar stone, Or died in a fiery grave;— Where wild woods sheltered the outlaw’s band,— Where the salt marsh mingled sea and land, Proud mansions rise, or cities stand, Or golden harvests wave. A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,” And it dates from the days gone by; When Right with Might the strife began, And Freedom’s voice with the Fire-cross ran, And the wakened Serf rose up,—a Man, To conquer his rights, or DIE! There were hardy souls in the “Dear Old Land,” In the stern dark days of yore, When the arm could do what the heart could dare, And the threats of a tyrant were “empty air,” And they made him tremble in his lair, As they roused themselves in power. A story of fame has the “Dear Old Land,” And it is not ended yet. Wherever the sea’s wild waves have curled Her fleets proudly sail with flag unfurled, And many a lesson they’ve taught the world, Which the world will not forget. And tell me the land, o’er the earth’s broad face, Where her “braves” have not been found, From East to West, with the glorious sun, The sound of their drums when the day is done, From realm to realm goes rolling on Unceasing the wide world round! . . . . . . . . . . But the warrior’s fame has stains of blood, And it raises the widow’s wail; Look we then on the glories whose milder rays Will bring no tears to the eyes that gaze; Whose trophies of triumph, whose songs of praise The tenderest heart may hail. There are spirits of might in the “Dear Old Land,” That have seized on a giant grim, And the burdens which man and beast had borne With sweat of brow, and frame hard worn From morn till night, and from night till morn, They have boldly laid on him. He raises the load from the deep dark mine, He speeds the loom amain; He wields the ponderous hammer’s force, Gives the ship ’gainst wind and tide free course, And snorts in the breath of the iron horse That nor weariness feels, nor pain. ’Tis glorious to ride at his headlong pace ’Mongst the crags of the forest glen, To skim o’er the moorlands bleak and wide, As he plays with the work—in giant pride— Of twice ten thousand men. There are spirits of power in the “Dear Old Land,” Who can bid the lightning speed From North to South, from East to West,— A courier swift that asks no rest, But instant writes command or quest Where the “ends of the world” may read. There are spirits of light in the “Dear Old Land,” Who rejoice when “the Truth makes free;” Who shout when a nation wakes in might, And seizes its long denied birth-right, And prisoned souls burst forth to light;— O, glorious sight to see! There are spirits of love in the “Dear Old Land,” Who weep for their kindred’s wrongs; And who work as they weep, in patient power, Through the livelong day,—through the midnight hour While rescued victims blessings shower From wondering, grateful tongues. Then hail! all hail! thou “Dear Old Land,” Where our fathers’ ashes lie; There are sunbeams bright on this far off shore, There are starlit skies when the day is o’er,— And we never shall tread thy greensward more, But we’ll love thee,—TILL WE DIE! Rev. H. H. Dugmore. |
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