Motherland's the country
Where I first raised my head,
Where I loved my parents,
Where every stone knows me,
Where I made my home,
Where I first knew God,
Where my ancestors lived,
And left their graves behind them,
Where I grew on bits of bread,
Where I learned to speak my language,
Where I have my friends and family,
Where I've laughed and where I've cried,
Where I dwell with mirth and hope,
Where I one day long to perish.

by Andon Zako Çajupi.

Dear Motherland Of France

DEDICATED TO THE MEN AND WOMEN OF FRANCE

Our Motherland, dear Motherland,
The source of beauty and of Art,
Who but thy children understand
The love which permeates each heart!
We see, through rainbow-tints of tears,
Thy glory of a thousand years.
O country of the Great and Free,
We live for thee, we live for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.


O Motherland, both blithe and brave,
What magic lies in thy name-France!
Yet can thy radiant mien be grave,
And stern thy ever-smiling glance.
And when thy sons and daughters know
That enemies would lay thee low
And dim thy fame on land and sea,
We fight for thee, we fight for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.


Dear Motherland of joy and mirth,
Dear Motherland of faith divine,
A thousand years the wondering earth
Has seen thy star in splendour shine.
Still shall it see that star of France
Its splendour and its light enhance.
Dear Motherland, when it need be
We die for thee, we die for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

Dear motherland of mine,
I love you as you are,
But if I saw you free,
I'd love you even more.

Weep, oh forests, plains and stones,
Weep, oh mountains under snows,
Poor Albania is abandoned,
Never will she see the light,
Veiled forever is the country
In a thick and sombre blight.

Darkness and misfortune on us,
Thunder, lightning all around us,
Do we live with hearts a-frozen,
Dwell in fear, deprived of joy,
None in song do raise their voices,
And the nightingales are grieving.

What disaster, desolation!
In their nests the birds take shelter,
Yet the people flee their own soil,
For a savage law does rule it,
Yes, Albania we yearn for you,
Refugees in states so foreign.

How can you endure such serfdom,
Oh, Albania, wretched country?
You've saved other nations while you
Bear this heavy yoke and burden.
Oh, Albanians, swear an oath that
You will now fight for your homeland.

Dear motherland of mine,
I love you as you are,
But if I saw you free,
I'd love you even more.

by Andon Zako Çajupi.

The Calling Motherland

On the lone height of some untrodden hill
The shadowy mother goes,
Calling, calling;
Grief hath her eyes, her cheek is wan and chill
As winter snows
On the far height of some untrodden hill.
The four strong winds take up her voice and fly
The circling world around,
Calling, calling;
The northern gale goes forth with sudden cry—
Tempestuous sound;
The four strong winds take up her voice and fly.
Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon
The west wet winds will roam,
Calling, calling;
Where southern breezes stir some far lagoon
The ships sail home,
Where the wan wave leaps lone beneath the moon.
Through the grey clouding of the silent night
Her wandering children rise,
Calling, calling;
Homeward they turn like birds of weary flight,
With longing eyes,
Through the grey clouding of the silent night.
I see them come on slow and wounded wing.
Where snows unmelting lie,
Calling, calling;
From the far south, where lives no ending spring,
Nor summers die,
I see them come on slow and wounded wing.
From the far heights upon the gypsies' road
They hear her distant voice,
Calling, calling;
Where the grey camel groans beneath his load
They hear, rejoice,
From the far heights upon the gypsies' road.
Once they went forth all full of hope and joy,
They would not heed her cry,
Calling, calling.
Their glad young hearts Time met to soon destroy;
They come to die;
Once they went forth all full of hope and joy.
She draws them home, and holds them to her heart,
Like children put to sleep;
Calling, calling,
On those far others who are still apart,
Who wandering weep;
She draws them home, and holds them to her heart.
She lays them down in their deep beds to rest,
With coverlet of green,
Calling, calling.
Do they not join in her enduring quest,
Her piteous keen,
Who lie so still in their cold graves to rest?
Across the world her voice comes crying still,
One exile's heart to break,
Calling, calling.
Ah! calling, too, from out their graves so chill.
The lone dead speak.
Across the world dear voices calling still.

by Dora Sigerson Shorter.