CHORUS: O Mother, my mother, cruel mother country, How sweetly your siren-song sounds o'er the sea! If it weren't for your arms, an orphan I'd be, O mother, my mother, cruel mother country.
England is ruled by an African queen, Dark and esteemed on the throne. Or so we were told by the press-ganging team, Who promised us freedom and home. Finally, we'd return to the mother's bosom.
They promised us freedom, they promised us land, Magnificent treasures unknown. But worth so much more than these treasures in hand, Is the promise we'd see our true home And then lovingly be embraced at the mother's bosom.
I cling to your clay-cold hand, For you've left me no other to cling to, and I curl round your ice-cold heart, For I gave up all others for you.
CHORUS.
If England's black Queen is our own mother dear, How gladly we'll serve in her name And fight in her cruel wars in bloodshed and fear, As valiant bearers of pain, For soon shall we be returned to her happy Kingdom.
I haven't a penny, I haven't a leg, I've neither my freedom nor land. Through London's fair city I wander and beg, As I cling to my cruel mother's hand. All her promises were worth less than a grain of sand.
I cling to your clay-cold hand, For you've left me no other to cling to, and I curl round your ice-cold heart, For I gave up all others for you.
CHORUS.
All your promises were worth less than a grain of sand.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
