Please speak, Ancient Greybeard of ours;

please speak, Doubter turned to faith,

please speak, tell us the story again,

please speak, of the days of our fathers and milksacks.

What were things like in those days, please speak,

when they cooked with pots of clay, let's hear?

What were things like in those days, please speak,

when women wore calfskin petticoats, let's hear?

When you kept to the path, please speak,

said, “Show us the witch,” let's hear;

when you first saw the whites, please speak,

cleaving sea after sea, let's hear.

Let poets speak of the day of tears

for Africa's petticoat—please, Sir—

which restored the soul of the land

of every black nation under the sun.

Other nations grew stronger,

this home of ours stayed in the dark.

Truly, Africa's petticoat's dropped:

in Ngqika's house we were ready to quit.

Truly, Africa's petticoat's dropped!

The bible slips from our hands and slams shut;

in that world of white lords and masters

the bible speaks with forked tongue.

Let poets speak of the day of tears

for Africa's petticoat, please, Sir,

You, who created the blind by design,

shouldn't first have created us by design.

Hunting party hunting souls,

You set whites on ours and leave us panting.

You form one flock from diverse sheep,

form one flock from our diversity.

The trumpet sounded, calling us.

There, Africa's petticoat's dropped,

which was the blanket swathing us:

“You Great Blanket swathing us.”

The shooting star informed us:

spurn strange gods on pain of death.

It was a guide to guide us.

You, Guide, who guides us!

You are the You who dwells on high,

cast out the heathen gods,

You're the Great God of heaven,

passing in front of the white man's cannon.

You are the You, the Shield of Truth,

with you, Shield of Truth, we'll guard ourselves.

You are the You, Fort of Truth,

Truth strengthens us in your fort.