A sigh for the countryside, green in the morn,
Of the endless abundance of wheat and of corn.
Memory hopes for a glimpse of the fields,
Where the old Carolina our sustenance yields.

Think of the mountains, the Blue Ridges east,
And the Rockies far west, where the old earth is creased.
Let the cool wooded hillsides give you place to hide.
In the dry cavern’s shelter, take comfort inside.

While the memories linger, remember them oft.
They will pale. They will die. The acute becomes soft.
As the years separated lay waste to the past,
And we quietly hope that our foes we outlast.

Those imposters and thieves who have stolen our nation
And chased us away into expatriation!
We live and remember, and look to the day
When we take back our homeland and drive them away.

In the meantime we wait in the fjords of our friends,
And in Peter’s great city we wait for the end
Of the tyrannous rule that extends State to State.
In the land not our own we will mourn our sad fate.