No spot I own on all the earth
whereon to lay my head;
I have no right by law or might to earn my
daily bread.
I'm pauper made for want of trade; my right
of land is sold;
Not for a mess of pottage, but for silver and
for gold,
By our patriotic office-rogues, who every wrong
uphold.
CHORUS.
O Land Robber! the land that
should be mine.
That lovely land, that
fertile land, by legal fraud is thine.
Who gave the rogues a right to sell the land
where all should live?
What proof have we in heav'en or earth 'twas
theirs to sell or give?
Until they make their title clear, should we
uphold their cause;
Nor strive for right with mind and might, and
make some better laws;
And in the cause of Truth and Right march on
and never pause!
CHORUS.
O Land Robber! the land
that should be mine.
That lovely land, that
fertile land, by legal fraud is thine.
Shall force and fraud forever reign o'er all
the sons of men?
We've tried the sword with poor reward, then
try the tongue and pen;
Yes! think and act, rely on fact, learn well
to know the right,
And do it, too, with action true, sustained
by mind and might.
And thus restore to each and all, the land;
'tis their by right.
CHORUS.
O Land Robber! the land
that should be mine.
That lovely land, that
fertile land, by legal fraud is thine.
|