Thine ever-faithful children born
Amidst thy mirthful knoll and lawn,
Rippling rivers, bubbling brook,
Known in tale and glee and book.
Made up of kith and kin alike,
Bridling horse or riding bike.
Be it by lake or under tree,
This people surely known to Thee.
Folk which temper from hewn rock,
Few have known more hardened stock,
Though brother-wars and streams of blood,
They fought gale and raging flood.
To whom owe we our yore so long?
Carved buildings and pretty song,
A stead of kings and noble lords,
Standing firm with swords and boards.
From glacial seas of Northern hearths,
To scorching plains and bloodied sparths.
Traditions range from meal and brick,
Tilling soil and healing sick.
Rich glories befall this folk,
Crafting metal, stone and yoke.
Humble start of pain and ill,
Overcome by might of will.
Where does it end, our precious land?
Warding foes from sea and sand.
Those granted gifts from bloodied mitts,
Forebears strengthened by their wits.
In many ways those heroes fell,
Sharpened axe or fired shell.
Unmatched fury in the soul,
Evelandish men with rage like coal.
Stand once again, O noble folk
Let not this foe thee string and choke.
Recall the glory of thy yore,
Richest lord or begging poor.
My Europa, ever-Queen,
Snowy peaks and hilltops green.
A thousand tongues which touch thine ears
Ripened over untold years.
So all tales come to be,
Yore’s unending symphony.
Taking in its last drawn breath,
No mighty cry... but silent death.
