Oh mother of a mighty race,
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!
The elder dames thy haughty peers,
Admire and hate thy blooming years.
With words of shame, 
And taunts of scorn they join thy name.
For on thy cheeks the glow is spread,
That tints thy morning hills with red;
Thy stepthe wild deer's rustling feet,
Within thy woods are not more fleet;
Thy hopeful eye,
Is bright as thin own sunny sky.
Ay let them railthose haughty ones,
While safe thou dwell with thy sons.
They do not know how loved thou art,
How many a fond and fearless heart,
Would rise to throw,
Its life between thee and the foe.
They know not in their hate and pride,
What virtues with thy children bide;
How true how good thy graceful maids,
Make bright like flowers the valley-shades;
What generous men.
