My Land.

I.

She is a rich and rare land;
Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land--
This native land of mine.


II.

No men than her's are braver--
Her women's hearts ne'er waver;
I'd freely die to save her,
And think my lot divine.


III.

She's not a dull or cold land;
No! she's a warm and bold land;
Oh! she's a true and old land--
This native land of mine.


IV.

Could beauty ever guard her,
And virtue still reward her,
No foe would cross her border--
No friend within it pine!


V.

Oh! she's a fresh and fair land;
Oh! she's a true and rare land;
Yes! she's a rare and fair land--
This native land of mine.

Thomas Osborne Davis

Thomas Osborne Davis was an Irish writer, poet, and politician who is best known as the chief organizer of the Young Ireland movement. He was born on October 14, 1814, in Mallow, County Cork, Ireland, and played a significant role in promoting Irish nationalism. Davis was a prolific writer who contributed greatly to Irish literature and national identity. He passed away at a young age of 30 due to scarlet fever on September 16, 1845.

Thomas Osborne Davis

A Nation Once Again.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

Oh! The Marriage.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

Celts And Saxons.[1]

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

A Song For The Irish Militia.

Thomas Osborne Davis, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Land, Ho!

I know tis but a loom of land,
Yet is it land, and so I will rejoice,
I know I cannot hear His voice
Upon the shore, nor see Him stand;
Yet is it land, ho! land.

The land! the land! the lovely land!
Far off, dost say? Far off, ah, blessèd home!
Farewell! farewell! thou salt sea-foam!
Ah, keel upon the silver sand,
Land, ho! land.

You cannot see the land, my land,
You cannot see, and yet the land is there,
My land, my land, through murky air,
I did not say twas close at hand,
But, land, ho! land.

Dost hear the bells of my sweet land,
Dost hear the kine, dost hear the merry birds?
No voice, tis true, no spoken words,
No tongue that thou mayst understand,
Yet is it land, ho! land.

Its clad in purple mist, my land...

Thomas Edward Brown

She Is Far From The Land.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
    And lovers are round her, sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
    For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
    Every note which he loved awaking;--
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
    How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
    They were all that to life had entwined him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
    Nor long will his love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
    When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
    From her own loved island of sorrow.

Thomas Moore

My Native Land

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Walter Scott

My Father-Land

Where is the minstrel's Father-land?
Where the sparks of noble spirits flew,
Where flowery wreaths for beauty grew,
Where strong hearts glowed so glad and true
For all things sacred, good and grand:
There was my Father-land.

How named the minstrel's Father-land?
O'er slaughtered son 'neath tyrants' yokes,
She weepeth now and foreign strokes;
They called her once the Land of Oaks
Land of the Free the German Land:
Thus was called my Father-land.
Why weeps the minstrel's Father-land?
Because while tyrant's tempest hailed
The people's chosen princes quailed,
And all their sacred pledges failed;
Because she could no ear command,
Alas must weep my Father-land.

Whom calls the minstrel's Father-land?
She calls on heaven with wild alarm
...

Hanford Lennox Gordon

The Emigrant's Address To America.

All hail to thee, noble and generous Land!
    With thy prairies boundless and wide,
Thy mountains that tower like sentinels grand,
    Thy lakes and thy rivers of pride!

Thy forests that hide in their dim haunted shades
    New flowers of loveliness rare -
Thy fairy like dells and thy bright golden glades,
    Thy warm skies as Italy's fair.

Here Plenty has lovingly smiled on the soil,
    And 'neath her sweet, merciful reign
The brave and long suff'ring children of toil
    Need labor no longer in vain.

I ask of thee shelter from lawless harm,
    Food - raiment - and promise thee now,
In return, the toil of a stalwart arm,
    And the sweat of an honest brow.

But think not, I pray, that this heart is bereft
    Of fond recollect...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Nationality.

I.

A Nation's voice, a nation's voice--
It is a solemn thing!
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice--
'Tis stronger than a king.
'Tis like the light of many stars,
The sound of many waves,
Which brightly look through prison bars,
And sweetly sound in caves.
Yet is it noblest, godliest known,
When righteous triumph swells its tone.


II.

A nation's flag, a nation's flag--
If wickedly unrolled,
May foes in adverse battle drag
Its every fold from fold.
But in the cause of Liberty,
Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;
Guard it till Death or Victory--
Look you, you guard it well!
No saint or king has tomb so proud
As he whose flag becomes his shroud.


III.

A nation's right, a nation's right--
God...

Thomas Osborne Davis