From White Cliffs of Dallas:
While listening to one of these nightly gatherings one of the colonists, evidently troubled with thoughts of his far-away home, wrote the following song:
A literal translation follows, but due to the difference of the English wording the rhythm is greatly impaired.
Alas we departed a land
Where we are not forgiven
Where we demand in anger
That which love done can give.
Where go the poor swallows,
Their brothers it is said are over there
An air more lighter for their wings
A soil more fertile for our arms.
Not more by sweat, but more by want
We are the gay workers
The glory which guided our brothers
We'll make ourselves the conquerers.
We are the holy band
Of workers of the future
We go prepare a place
Where we must all unite.
Oh liberty is our guide
Fraternity is our sister
Live in peace, beneath your eyes
We bless the Creator.