A son of the soil am I, I furrow the field,
then plough it and sow it and wait for what it will yield.
The soft rain and the sun in the sky is all that I ask,
for I,
for I am the son of the soil.
No craving for honour and glory or riches have I,
enough to be found in the hedges and ditches,
say I.
Not in vain do I suffer and toil,
for men are fed on the
fruits of the soil,
when I have ploughed my last furrow.
So plant me deep for my last long sleep
in the earth that I love and know,
for I come from the earth and back to the earth,
this son of the soil must go.
