I am left stranded here in this strange land;
The longing tries my endurance.
Come (hither O ma!) for these strangers, wouldn't let me.
Wherever I see one travelling, home comes to my mind;
Whenever I sigh with yearning, ma comes to my mind;
my daughter sayes she, my eye sayes she,
cry not my little lamb sayes she.
My poor ma who, more sarrowful than I;
far from your thoughts, my sarrows never are.
Not a caring person is here nor a loving soul;
These strangers are; not (like) you ma.
None enquires of my sarrows nor;
is there one, that is looking out me for.
Whenever I sigh with yearning, ma come to my help.
(thinking of her soothes my grief)