Our land, our land, our fatherland,
Sound loud, O name of worth!
No mount that meets the heaven's band.
No hidden vale, no wavewashed strand.
Is loved, as is our native North.
Our own forefathers' earth.
Thy blossom, in the bud laid low,
Yet ripened shall upspring.
See! From our love once more shall grow
Thy light, thy joy, thy hope, thy glow!
And clearer yet one day shall ring
The song our land shall sing.
Sent by Carlos André Pereira da Silva Branco
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