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.