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Transvaal, Transvaal, my dear land!
Today you are in flame!
A Boer is sitting by the tree
He's sad, he's old and lame.
What's wrong with you, my good old man?
And why are you so sad?
I'm sorry for my people slain
And for my fathers land.
I had ten sons before this strife
And three of them have died,
But seven others still alive
Continue bitter fight.
My oldest son - grey-haired old man
In action was he killed,
With no cross and no pray
They buried him in the field.
My youngest boy - thirteen years old
He said: “I’ll join you! Please!”
But I was firm: “I know you’re bold
But war is not for kids!”
He frowned and said:”I’ll go with you
Or else I’ll go alone!
I’m young and small, and that is true
But still my hand is strong!
Please, dad! You’ll never be ashamed
Of me – your “little boy”!
For our freedom and our land
I’ll fight and die with joy!”
I heard his word, I kissed his head
And took my boy with me,
And for the battlefield we left
For our right to be.
Through powder smoke he went ahead
He bravely fought and died
Black traitor shot him in the head
Like coward from behind.
Transvaal, Transvaal, my dear land!
Old Boer said once again
May us protect our God’s strong hand,
And other honest men.
