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.    

You give me life an’ nourishment, 
       No udder land I know;
My lub I neber can repent,
      For all to you I owe.

E’en ef you mek me beggar die,
      I’ll trust you all de same,
An’ none de less on you reply,
      Nor saddle you wid blame.

Though you may cas’ me from your breas’
       An’ trample me to deat’,
My heart will trus’ you none de less,
       My land I won’t fidget.

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.

You draw de t’ousan’ from deir shore,
         An’ all ‘long keep dem please’;
De invalid come here fe cure,
         You heal all deir disease.

Your fertile soil grow all o’ t’ings
         To full naygur’s wants,
‘Tis seamed wid neber-failings springs
         To give dem to de plants

You hab all t’ings fe mek life bles’,
          But buccra ‘poil de whole
Wid gove’mint an’ all de res’,
          Fe worry naygur soul.

Still dem little chupidness
          Caan’ tek away me lub;
De time when I’ll tu’n ‘gains’ you is
           When you can’t give me grub.

From Songs of Jamaica (Aston W. Gardner & Co., 1912) by Claude McKay. This poem is in the public domain.