O talk not to me of my country's delights,
It's fountains, its gardens, and vine covered hills:
The tale which in others to gladness excites,
Mine eyes with the tears of vain agony fills.
Methinks through the scenes where such pleasures reside,
Scenes thousands like you gaily hasten to see,
The shades of my lost slaughtered kindred now glide
And stained with their blood is each pathway to me.

And shall I return to the land of my birth
To tread on that spot where my parents were slain,
Where ruffians their groans deemed a subject of mirth
And I for their lives should have pleaded in vain.
No! while in my mem'ry those parents yet live
That land of abhorrence I never will see,
Though blest with each charm partial Nature can give.
A charnel house ever 'twould seem unto me.a

Say, what renders precious one's lvoed native shore
But friendship's fond smiles and affection's firm ties?
Then France as my country to me is no more;
There, cold in the grave, all I valued now lies,
And England, kind England my country thou art,
The exile finds friendship and comfort in thee,
While France, though of Europe the gay crowded mart,
Alas! seems a dungeon, a desert to me.