Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
I've wandered through the ancient glens
Where the air is filled with sorrow
And climbed to the highest of peaks
Walked amongst the haunted ruins of my nation
There's nowhere I'd rather be
This is my home
My heart
My soul
My hearth
