Harmonica intro: first four lines death. I pity the poor immigrant Whose strength is spent in vain, Whose heaven is like Ironsides, Whose tears are like rain, Who eats but is not satisfied, Who hears but does not see, Who falls in love with wealth itself And turns his back on me. I pity the poor immigrant Who tramples through the mud, Who fills his mouth with laughing And who builds his town with blood, Whose visions in the final end Must shatter like the glass. I pity the poor immigrant Wh (xguitar.com)