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My country, 'tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty, Of thee I sing: Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, From every mountainside Let freedom ring. My native country, thee, Land of the noble free, Thy name I love; I love thy rocks and rills, Thy woods and templed hills. My heart with rapture thrills Like that above. Let music swell the breeze And ring from all the trees Sweet freedom’s song; Let mortal tongues awake; Let all that breathe partake; Let rocks their silence break, The sound prolong. Our fathers' God, to thee, Author of liberty, To thee I sing; Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light; Protect us by thy might, Great God, our King!

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Sep 11, 2025

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About Wilfrid John Joseph Sheed

Wilfrid John Joseph Sheed

Wilfrid John Joseph Sheed

Wilfrid John Joseph Sheed (born December 27, 1930) is an English-born American novelist and essayist. He was born in London to Francis "Frank" Sheed and Mary "Maisie" Ward, prominent Catholic publishers (Sheed & Ward) in Britain and America in the mid-20th century. He spent his childhood in both England and the United States before attending Oxford University. His first novel, A Middle Class Education (1961), was based on his experiences at Oxford. His biography Frank and Maisie was about his parents' literary establishment and intellectual world. He has written satirical novels about journalism and in recent years memoirs. He recently published a remarkable book about American music called The House that George Built with a little help from Irving, Cole and a Crew of about Fifty. About this book Garrison Keillor said: 'Golden Age of American Song has been saluted and high-faluted in books and wept over repeatedly, but “The House That George Built” is a big rich stew of an homage that makes you want to listen to Gershwin and Berlin and Porter and Arlen all over again. Wilfrid Sheed’s jazzy prose is a joy to read. It goes catapulting along, digressing like mad, never pedantic, a little frantic, which is just right: the jazz song, like all true art, is a flight from depression, indifference, the cold blank stare, the earnest clammy touch. Sheed lopes along through decades of pop, bowing to Berlin (whose lyrics seem “not so much brilliant as inevitable”) and upholding some neglected masters (Richard Whiting and Harry Warren), throwing some cold water (Richard Rodgers had a “fatal taste for comfort music”), naming classics — Kern’s “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” and of course “Stardust” and “Here’s That Rainy Day” and Ellington’s “Prelude to a Kiss” (“I would instantly vote this the most beautiful song ever written, except for this one problem of the words ... grandiose piffle”)<ref>By GARRISON KEILLOR Published: July 22, 2007, http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/22/books/review/Keillor-t.html?ref=books

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