Herr, I had the news last night: my warring band ordered home,

By ship to some Germanic port and thence to Prussia by road;

I've marched my Hessians all aboard, the arms are stowed below,

Now let another take my sabre: command me not to go.

I've served in Britain's colonies a decade, nigh; I've seen Cedar saplings grow tall.

I have no other home than this, nor any life at all.

Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near,

That calls me to my native land: I feel that land is here.

Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done,

Here where my dearest dead are laid: My beloved grenadiers cut down by General Washington.

Here where time, custom, grief and toil; age, memory, service love,

Have rooted me in American soil. Ah, how can I remove?

For me, this land, that sea these airs, those folk and fields suffice.

What golden German pomp can match our changeful New England skies,

Black with December snows unshed, or pearled with August haze,

The clanging arch of steel-gray March, or June's long-lighted days?

You'll follow a defeated fleet to the Rhine's weary embrace,

Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps across your face;

Gray Prussia will see your shame, but let me linger on,

Here, where our stiff-necked Birch-Bark trees confront the Western Sun.

You'll take that old Bismarckian road through shore-descending pines,

Where, white as any Bald Eagle's scalp, the North Sea's swells still shine.

You'll go where martial medals are won, but will you e'er forget,

The sight of waterfowl while on a hunt, or the rattlesnake in the wet?

Herr, I come to you in tears: The Hessians ordered home!

I've served in America nigh ten years; in Prussia, what should I do?

Here is my heart, my soul, mind, the only life I know;

I cannot leave it all behind: command me not to go!