1 In pleasant lands have fallen the lines
That bound our goodly heritage,
And safe beneath our sheltering vines
Our youth is blest, and soothed our age.

2 What thanks, O God, to Thee are due,
That Thou didst plant our fathers here,
And watch and guard them as they grew,
A vineyard to the planter dear!

3 The toils they bore our ease have wrought;
They sowed in tears, in joy we reap;
The birthright they so dearly bought
We’ll guard, till we with them shall sleep.

4 Thy kindness to our fathers shown,
In weal and woe, through all the past,
Their grateful sons, O God, shall own,
While here their name and race shall last.