For our poor, loving mothers’ hearts, who weep in bitterness,
For widows, tortured captives, orphans in deep distress,
And pray for thy dear self that thou may’st finally be free.
And when dark night enshrouds in gloom the silent cemetery,
When but the lonely dead are left watching by the sea,
Disturb not their repose, nor dispel the mystery,
Perchance then shalt thou hear cithern or psaltery
Well tuned, ’tis I, O my dear country, ’tis I singing to thee.
And when the memory of my grave has faded from the mind,
When my tomb bears nor cross nor stone to mark where I lie dead,