I love those who labor I sing of the farmers
and weavers and fishermen and
Now all you who hear me I pray you
draw near me before you grow
weary I'll sing of myself. I
and plenty until I was 20.
A joy to myself as but children can be.
My school days being over
I lived but for pleasure and so none the wiser
I thought it no danger to follow
For the joys of a lover can equal no other,
But to live amid plenty can only torment
of the country belongs to the few.
I join with the angry, I join with the hungry.
For long years of anguish,
To hate and to anger, I am not a stranger,
For I fear the fate of the rebels and
the future with torture and pain.
As the trial comes near if I find I can dare it
with joy I will share it,
For I've learned to be angry,
I've learned to be lonely.
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
In the company of workers,
When I sing of my brothers, I sing of myself.