With alien hearts to frame our laws
   And cheat us as of old,
In vain our soil is rich, in vain
   'Tis seamed with virgin gold:
But the present only yields us nought,
   The future only lours
Till we dare to be a people
   In this Southern Land of Ours.

What would pygmean statesmen but Our new-world prospects blast, By chaining native enterprise To Europe's pauper past, With all its misery for the mass, And fraud-upholden powers; But we'll yet have men, - like Cromwell, In this Southern Land of Ours.
And lo, the unploughed future, boys, May yet be all our own, If hearts that love their Native Land Determine this alone: To sow its years with crops of truth, And border these with flowers, Till we have a birth of heroes In this Southern Land of Ours.

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