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| Allan Line, immigrants arriving in Montreal, around 1910 |
I pity the poor immigrantWho wishes he would've stayed homeWho uses all his power to do evilBut in the end is always left so aloneThat man whom with his fingers cheatsAnd who lies with every breathWho passionately hates his lifeAnd likewise, fears his death
I pity the poor immigrantWhose strength is spent in vainWhose heaven is like ironsidesWhose tears are like rainWho eats but is not satisfiedWho hears but does not seeWho falls in love with wealth itselfAnd turns his back on me
I pity the poor immigrantWho tramples through the mudWho fills his mouth with laughingAnd who builds his town with bloodWhose visions in the final endMust shatter like the glassI pity the poor immigrantWhen his gladness comes to pass
