It once was called the Lord’s own country,
Where all His children dwelt in peace.
The mountains rose, the rivers sang,
And fields were bright with grain and fruits.
The winding roads across the land
Would carry us in gentle comfort.
The air was clean, a dream of comfort;
A blessing on a golden country.
The foreigners who loved our land
Found harmony and shared our peace.
With every branch weighed down by fruits,
The children ate their fill and sang.
The happy workers toiled and sang;
Their simple lives were full of comfort.
The mango and the berry fruits
Grew sweet within our fertile country.
All faiths and creeds could live in peace,
With many temples on the land.
Though people crowded on the land,
They lived in harmony and sang;
They loved and danced in perfect peace.
And since they found such daily comfort,
They thrived within God’s own country,
Amidst the vegetables and fruits.
We picked the sweet and ripened fruits
That grew across our emerald land.
We loved to live in such a country
Where gold and heavy paddy sang:
“We grow to bring you strength and comfort.”
The harvest was a time of peace.
But evil shadows broke the peace,
And rotted every ripened fruit.
They stole away our quiet comfort
And occupied the dying land.
The devil’s cruel disciples sang
To bring destruction to the country.
The peace was lost; they took the country.
The land was burned; there were no fruits.
Few souls remained who sang of comfort.
