They say they're here for a meeting,

Rubusana and Jabavu—

use peace to smoke out the bees for their honey—

we'd be happy to die while they're here.

“Are you well?” “Today we're the topic of talk.”

The bible is with us there in the crowds.

You see, my people, we're old:

the whites wolfed us down long ago.

Raise dust till you're dirty, dark African,

like Moses quitting Egypt,

remember the one who sits on high

whatever pain it might cause.

We're the topic of talk in every nation,

they preach to each other across the land.

The whites laid us flat on our backs,

whipped out the knife to flay us.

This land of Africa's ours,

but we sank in pools through our folly:

spread the news to Cloud Cuckooland.

I'll stop praising when Ba arrives.

We really are the topic of talk:

the Mutton Gluttons burn midnight oil.

They open mines that belch up lumps.

What beasts are these abusing the Xhosa?

This land of Africa's ours,

we frolicked and danced with our fathers.

Those who came by ship shouldn't fool themselves:

the Prince of Heaven's wide awake.

If whites have a fit they can drop down and die

wherever they are in this world: Ncincilili!

Our oppression's your product. “Agreed!”

You saw and you conquered. “Agreed!”

The simple truth is they came to oppress,

they came to blaspheme with their bibles,

and all of us in Ngqika's House

failed to suspect their armbands of iron.

This is no hearsay, we actually saw it.

What do the far-sighted make of all this?

Our country's benighted, our heroes fall,

in the land of our fathers lie rough mounds today.

They danced with their faith in the scriptures:

“Discard your striped woollen blankets.”

Today we resemble mutes.

In the land of our fathers the canons roar.

The day they arrived there was joy without measure.

We freely abandoned our majesty

on seeing the learning they brought,

I swear by Ndlambe and my father who sired me.

Mercy!!