Words by E. M. Thompson. Music by J. A. Butterfield.

Our country, our country, oh, where may we find,
Amid all the proud relics of legend or story,
A holier charm for the patriot mind
Than that soul-stirring topic—our native land’s glory.
That land on whose standard the eagle’s proud pinions
Flutter lordly defiance to tyranny’s minions,
And whose soil all untarnished by sceptre or throne,
Is a home for the brave, and the free heart alone.

And we care not to honor the bleak shores of Maine,
With her ship-peopled strand in proud grandeur careering,
Nor the West, with her wide prairies waving in grain,
The gainers of plenty by name so endearing.
But the South is our home the land of bright flowers,
Where the softest of suns, and the gentlest of showers
Distill a sweet balm from the blossoming earth,
And make life a bright vision of pleasure and mirth.

Though dreams of the past cling around the heart still,
And a thousand proud memories will ever be cherished
Of Princeton and Monmouth and brave Bunker Hill
The spots where our country’s defenders have perished;
The union they bled for is now rudely severed,
The idols are broken we once fondly revered,
And discord has scattered its pestilent bane
From Florida’s reefs to the snow peaks of Maine.

But union still gladdens our own sunny home,
Whose bright blades and brave hearts will ever defend her,
And though wreck and disaster and ruin may come,
While the bright sun shines o’er them they never will surrender.
Let the foeman come on in his daring effrontery,
Let him trample the loved soil we call our dear country,
And for every fair flower that fades in his path,
A proud heart shall bleed ’neath the sword of our wrath.