A son of Netherland art thou,
Unsoil’d by foreign chains?
Doth love of country light thy brow,
And circle through thy veins?
Then raise with us the anthem proud,
A glorious theme we sing;
Who would not swell the strain aloud
For native land and King!
And sweetly doth each thrilling tone
Of patriot pæans rise,
Like incense, wafted to the throne
Of Him who rules the skies:
Though first to those He lends His ear
Who strike a holier string;
The strain, well pleased, He next will hear
For native land and King.
Oh! with one voice, one heart extol
The lofty theme we sing!
Heaven rejects the worthless soul,
That loves not land nor King:
In his cold breast no hallowed fire,
No sweet emotions spring,
Who hears unmoved the prayer aspire
For native land and King.
Our bosoms burn with loyal heat
As loud our voices swell;
No other song, however sweet,
Could please us half so well:
What holy feelings on this day
Myriads together bring,
Commingling in the choral lay
For native land and King!
