I am a poor farmworker, but I live anyway.
Days come and go, while I work hard,
harrowing, sowing seeds and plowing, sweeping the barn floor, digging and carrying
walk behind my cattle, screaming, whistling and swearing.
I am a poor farmworker and I chew my tobacco
And when Saturday comes, I want to get drunk.
Then, when I get high-spirited, I want to tussle and fight
Sleep at a girl’s house, that’s what I’d like to do too, of course.
Then,Sunday comes and our priest wants me to go to church, but that is when I sleep the most.
Priests can sleep the whole day on Monday ,but a poor farmworker must start working again.
That’s how the week goes, every day and every year.
I walk with my scythe and I plow and sow seeds
I guide my cattle and pile hay
Harrow, work and slave and one day I shall die.
Stands there, poor farmworker, before Heaven’s gate
A little scared and sorry for the sins I committed.
One shall not drink, be with girls and fight.
The Lord, God in Heaven is quite disappointed, of course.
But then the Lord says: poor farmworker, come here,
I’ve seen your struggle and your persistent hard work,
Therefore, poor farmworker, you are welcome here.
Therefore, poor farmworker, you will be near me.
Oh, I, the poor farmworker stand so quiet before God
And then he dresses me with the whitest of all garments.
Now, says the Lord, your work is done.
Now, poor farmworker, you may rest.