There's nothing for your comfort
in the place where I was born
Someone's got the roses
'cause my people got the thorns;
My people are the poor ones,
their country made of stones
Their wealth is in persistence,
in stories and in bones
and one green hill, one green hill
one far green hill we carry everywhere
The tide must have a turning,
the wind must have a change
Children go to cities
where the stars look strange
And memory's a winding path,
shining in the rain
To places where we parted
and we shall not meet again
on one green hill, one green hill
one far green hill we carry everywhere
And somewhere in the story,
it came as no surprise
One time, for all time, the rain got in my eyes...
It might he tears of laughter,
it might be tears of rage
You hate it and you love it
and it rattles at your cage
My people are survivors, living in the cracks
Whatever bad luck hands them,
they keep on coming back
to one green hill, one green hill
one far green hill we carry everywhere