The song was printed in Carlshamn in 1868, at a time when emigration from Sweden was beginning to take on truly significant proportions.
It hurts my heart to leave that country,
Which the fathers have cultivated with effort.
However, I must seek a saving shore,
Where I get to keep my crop,
Where I am not forced to carry my food
To bailiff and sheriff, to priest and soldier,
Like in Sweden.
My heart aches to look at that lime.
That whizzed over my cottage.
However, I must go with the wind of heaven,
Then here it will no longer do;
Ty other work should pay off,
Than poverty and bitterness, envy and resentment,
Like in Sweden.
It hurts my heart to walk out of that house,
As myself with my father I carved.
How often in the evening its friendly light
Against the tired thrall has shimmered!
Now my father lies in the deepest mire;
A handful of them I want to hide as gold,
Far from Sweden.
It hurts my heart to sell my horse,
Who sadly his head now tilts.
Next me, it's understandable, he probably did most of the fighting...
God knows in whose hands he ends!
We both enough in the push have got to go;
Now the blue waves will carry me
Weep not, my lady, weep not, little ones!
What will we do, that we may be equal?
Well true, that against unknown destinies we go,
However, they can never be worse!
For your sake only, and that is my consolation,
I'm getting divorced now, but with bleeding breasts,
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