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O shall thy exiled son not bless
Those hills and dales of thine, where first
He roamed a careless child; where burst
Thy tropic splendour on his eye;
Where days were spent, whose mem'ries lie
Deep 'neath all afterthought and care,
Yet rise more buoyant than the air,
And float o'er all his days? O home
Of beauty rare, where I did roam
In childhood's golden days, my prayer
For thee soars through this northern air.

Land of "Good Hope," thy future lies
Bright 'fore my vision as thy skies!
O Africa! long lost in night,
Upon the horizon gleams the light
Of breaking dawn. Thy star of fame
Shall rise and brightly gleam; thy name
Shall blaze on hist'ry's later page;
Thy birth-time is the last great age;
Thy name has been slave of the world;
But when thy banner is unfurled,
Triumphant Liberty shall wave
That standard o'er foul slav'ry's grave,
And earth, decaying earth, shall see
Her proudest, fairest child in thee!

William Rodger Thomson.