I love those who labor I sing of the farmers
and weavers and fishermen and
miners as well.
Now all you who hear me I pray you
draw near me before you grow
weary I'll sing of myself. I
was brought up in
and plenty until I was 20.
A joy to myself as but children can be.
A joy to my father,
a joy to my mother.
The pain of my country
was nothing to me.
My school days being over
I became a rover to
Russia and
China,
to
France and to
Spain.
I lived at my leisure,
I lived but for pleasure and so none the wiser
to
England I came.
I thought it no danger to follow
a stranger,
but with time changing
a friend he became.
For the joys of a lover can equal no other,
forever anew,
and yet always the same.
Good fortune attending,
we don't lack a living.
Our children a blessing,
our joy to renew.
But to live amid plenty can only torment
me when the wealth
of the country belongs to the few.
I join with the angry, I join with the hungry.
For long years of anguish,
the price will be paid.
To hate and to anger, I am not a stranger,
I welcome the danger.
and yet I'm afraid.
For I fear the fate of the rebels and
fighters who ransom
the future with torture and pain.
As the trial comes near if I find I can dare it
with joy I will share it,
no longer afraid.
For I've learned to be angry,
I've learned to be lonely.
I've learned to be many,
I've learned to be one.
I've earned all my friends,
even foes will commend me.
I stand with the many, I am not alone.
In the presence of fighters, I
find a new peace.
In the company of workers,
replenish myself.
Of miners and weavers,
of rebels and dreamers.
When I sing of my brothers, I sing of myself.