The nimtree drops its dead,

And soon is old with age.

And man too drops his head,

When weak and old in age.

So Pa, our Pa, is gone,

The place we cannot tell.

But yet his work is done,

The work he did so well.

We laid him down to rest,

And mourned his silent death,

In earth we made a nest,

But left out all his wealth.

We can say Mo with pride,

And he deserves that praise.

To fire the youth he tried,

From bondage us to raise.

Oh Damirifa, Grant,

An image we shall make.

The highest place to plant,

To be our Freedom gate.

The 6th of March we know,

You never saw on earth,

But heard it said we know,

Before your painful death.

So while you rest in peace,

The chain of years may slip,

Never effort cease,

And not again to sleep.