My song is of the sturdy North
Whose hills are brown with heather,
Where countless flow’rs in spring peep forth
In spite of wind and weather.

The tufted larch is tipped with red
Where late the sun caressed her,
But now she bows her stately head
Before the keen Norwester.

Here fitful gleams the waves display
That thunder on the shingle,
There lake and torrent far away
In liquid music mingle.

Give me the misty mountain land
By ghosts of heros haunted,
With one I love at my right hand,
To face the world undaunted.