Hungry and naked and without a home am I.
My shoulders, you have charged them with loads,
And you spit at me, and you have beaten me,
And I have been to you a dog.
Wandering landowner, brought by the wind,
If you have an understanding with Hell
That we shall be gods to you, beat us more;
We will endure loads, so we will endure want,
Bridle of horses, yoke of cattle:
But we want land.

A piece of corn left from yesterday,
If you see it in our home, you take it away.
Away you take our boys to the war,
And our girls, you take them too.
You curse our dearest and our holiest things—
No pity have you, nor faith!
Hungry, our children are dying on the road;
And we submit our pity for them—
Our lives would not be such dreadful things
If we had land.

You have put seed of wheat in the field,
But we have buried here our forefathers and fathers,
Mothers, sisters, and brothers.
Away, you heretics!
Our land is dear and holy to us,
Because it is our cradle and our grave.
With hot blood always we have defended it,
And all the waters that moistened it,
Are but the tears we have shed.
We want land.


We have no strength and we can't go on
To live always a life of beggary
And of tortures put upon us
By the bosses brought by winds—
Oh, beware, you God Almighty,
That we ask not for land but for blood!
When the time shall come when we can endure no more,
When hunger shall arouse us all, beware of us!
Even were you all Christs, beware!
Even in your graves!