Let others sing of Southern climes, of vine-clad hills and rosy bowers,
Where nature rings her sweetest chimes, mid verdant vales and fragrant flowers;
My humble lyre more proudly wakes to themes that woo a master's hand -
The dark-browed hills, the ruffled lakes, the homes and girls of Newfoundland.
What though upon her rugged coast the storm-lash'd billows madly foam?
They bear a race, our pride and boast, who love their sea-girt island home;
And though her hills, rock-ribb'd and bare, are seldom kissed by zephyrs bland,
They shelter homes where beauty rare adorn the girls of Newfoundland.
Within these homes dwell manly worth, and generous hearts and friendly hands,
And simple joys and guileless mirth, and children's merry prattling bands;
And spirits bold as ever dared old ocean's perils, wild and grand;
Her homes and girls they'll proudly guard - the hardy sons of Newfoundland.
Her daughters fair, with healthy cheeks and buoyant step, I see pass by;
Each tender glance the language speaks of love's own thrilling witchery;
Their gentle smiles and willing arts, what manly bosom can withstand?
Supreme they rule o'er willing hearts - the maids and wives of Newfoundland.
From iron-bound, stern Labrador, to fair Placentia's sunny wave,
To win a part of ocean's store, her sons the treacherous billows brave;
And when returned with hard-won spoil, what joy to clasp each loving hand,
Heaven's choicest blessing on them smile: the homes and girls of Newfoundland.