Songs of Jamaica (1912)
My Native Land, My Home
DERE is no land dat can compare
Wid you where’er I roam;
In all de wul’ none like you fair,
My native land, my home.
Jamaica is de nigger’s place,
No mind whe’ some declare;
Although dem call we “no-land race,”
I know we home is here.
Though you may cas’[1] me from your breas’
An’ trample me to deat’,
My heart will trus’ you none de less,
My land I won’t feget.
An’ I hope none o’ your sons would
Refuse deir strengt’ to lend,
An’ drain de last drop o’ deir blood
Their country to defend.
Your fertile soil grow all o ‘t’ings[3]
To full de naygur’s wants,
‘Tis seamed wid neber-failing springs[4]
To give dew to de plants.[5]
You hab all t’ings fe mek life bles’,
But buccra ‘pail de whole
Wid gove’mint[6] an’ all de res’,
Fe worry naygur soul.
Still all dem little chupidness[7]
Caan’ tek away me lub;
De time when I’ll tu’n ‘gains’ you is
When you can’t give me grub.