| Tú alfagra land mítt, mín dýrasta ogn!
á vetri so randhvítt, á sumri við logn,
tú tekur meg at tær so tætt í tín favn.
Tit oyggjar so mætar, Guð signi tað navn,
sum menn tykkum góvu, tá teir tykkum sóu.
Ja, Guð signi Føroyar, mítt land!
Hin roðin, sum skínur á sumri í líð,
hin ódnin, sum týnir mangt lív vetrartíð,
og myrkrið, sum fjalir mær bjartasta mál,
og ljósið, sum spælir mær sigur í sál:
alt streingir, ið tóna, sum vága og vóna,
at eg verji Føroyar, mítt land.
Eg nígi tí niður í bøn til tín, Guð:
Hin heilagi friður mær falli í lut!
Lat sál mína tváa sær í tíni dýrd!
So torir hon vága - av Gudi væl skírd -
at bera tað merkið, sum eyðkennir verkið,
ið varðveitir Føroyar, mítt land! | My land, oh most beauteous, possession most dear,
Thou drawest me to thee, embracing me near;
becalmed in the summer, in winter snow covered,
magnificent islands, by God named beloved.
The name which men gave thee when they thee discovered,
Oh, God bless thee, Faroes my land.
Bright gleam, which in summer makes hill-tops so fair;
rough gale, which in winter drives men to despair;
oh life taking storm, oh conquest of soul,
all making sweet music uniting the whole.
Each hoping and trusting, inspiring us all,
To guard thee, O Faroes my land.
And therefore, I kneel down, to Thee God, in prayer,
may peaceful my lot be, and do thou me spare,
my soul cleansed; in glory; I ask Thee to bless,
when I raise my banner and venture the stress.
The sign of my task, be it lifted on high,
To guard thee, O Faroes my land. |
