Classic Poem

Our land, our land, our native land,
Ring high, O word of cheer!
No hills by heaven's rim that stand,
No gentle dales or foaming strand,
Are loved more than our northland here,
The earth our sires held dear.

Our land is poor, or seems to be
To him who covets gold;
A stranger might not deign to see
The land we love so faithfully,
But gold to us its mountains bold,
Its wealth of moor and wold.

We love our brooks that gaily bound,
Our rushing rivers fleet,
The gloomy forest's mournful sound,
The summer glow, the nights profound,—
All, all that eye or ear can greet,
Or make our glad hearts beat.

'T was here of old our fathers fought
With brain, and sword, and plough;
In clear or cloudy days they wrought,
Whatever fate their fortune brought
The Finn-folk suffered—none knows how—
And won what we have now.

Oh, who could tell the fearful tale
Of what that folk withstood,
Their hunger in the wintry gale
When war ran red from dale to dale?—
Who reckon all the heroes' blood
And all their hardihood?

'T was here they shed that crimson tide,
Yea, here for us it flowed,
'T was here they thrilled with victor pride
'T was here in bitter grief they sighed,
The folk that bore our heavy load
Before our day had showed.

To us there is no fairer spot,
We suffer here no dearth;
However fate may cast our lot,
A land, a native land we've got.
What better could men ask on earth
To love and hold of worth?

And here before us lies that land,
Our eyes behold it here;
And we can raise our outstretched hand,
And gladly point to sea and strand
And say: “Behold it, far and near,
Our native land so dear!”

If we were borne to realms of light,
All golden in the blue,
And were our life a star-dance bright
Which neither sigh nor tear should blight,
To this poor land where first we grew
Our longing would be true.

O land of myriad lakes, thou land
Where song and truth may be,
Where life's rude ocean spares a strand,
Our fathers' land, our children's land,
Be not ashamed of poverty,
Be glad, secure, and free!

The flowers in their buds that grope
Shall burst their sheaths with spring;
So from our love to bloom shall ope
Thy gleam, thy glow, thy joy, thy hope,
And higher yet some day shall ring
The patriot-song we sing!