I.

Oh, sing of our glorious Southland, The pride of the golden sun! 'Tis the fairest land of flowers The eye e'er looked upon.

Sing of her orange and myrtle That glitter like gems above; Sing of her dark-eyed maidens As fair as a dream of love.

Sing of her flowing rivers-- How musical their sound! Sing of her dark green forests, The Indian hunting-ground.

Sing of the noble nation Fierce struggling to be free; Sing of the brave who barter Their lives for liberty!