OUR FATHERLAND
WWHY pour the ruby wine,For glad carousal, brothers mine,In the sparkling glass that flashesIn your hand,When, mourning, sits in dust and ashesOur Fatherland?
WWHY pour the ruby wine,For glad carousal, brothers mine,In the sparkling glass that flashesIn your hand,When, mourning, sits in dust and ashesOur Fatherland?
WWHY pour the ruby wine,For glad carousal, brothers mine,In the sparkling glass that flashesIn your hand,When, mourning, sits in dust and ashesOur Fatherland?
W
WHY pour the ruby wine,For glad carousal, brothers mine,In the sparkling glass that flashesIn your hand,When, mourning, sits in dust and ashesOur Fatherland?
What means the joyous songOf the festive bridal throng?Oh! let music no more wakenThe echoes of our strand,For the bridegroom hath forsakenOur Fatherland!
What means the joyous songOf the festive bridal throng?Oh! let music no more wakenThe echoes of our strand,For the bridegroom hath forsakenOur Fatherland!
What means the joyous songOf the festive bridal throng?Oh! let music no more wakenThe echoes of our strand,For the bridegroom hath forsakenOur Fatherland!
What means the joyous songOf the festive bridal throng?Oh! let music no more wakenThe echoes of our strand,For the bridegroom hath forsakenOur Fatherland!
No more your masses falter,Trembling priests, before the altar.Can prayer avail the dead or dying?Oh! vain demand!Prostrate, trodden on the ground, is lyingOur Fatherland!
No more your masses falter,Trembling priests, before the altar.Can prayer avail the dead or dying?Oh! vain demand!Prostrate, trodden on the ground, is lyingOur Fatherland!
No more your masses falter,Trembling priests, before the altar.Can prayer avail the dead or dying?Oh! vain demand!Prostrate, trodden on the ground, is lyingOur Fatherland!
No more your masses falter,Trembling priests, before the altar.Can prayer avail the dead or dying?Oh! vain demand!Prostrate, trodden on the ground, is lyingOur Fatherland!
Ye princes, fling ye downYour blood-bought jewelled crown—Bear the circlet on your brow no more,Nor signet on your hand;For, shivering, stands before your doorOur Fatherland!
Ye princes, fling ye downYour blood-bought jewelled crown—Bear the circlet on your brow no more,Nor signet on your hand;For, shivering, stands before your doorOur Fatherland!
Ye princes, fling ye downYour blood-bought jewelled crown—Bear the circlet on your brow no more,Nor signet on your hand;For, shivering, stands before your doorOur Fatherland!
Ye princes, fling ye downYour blood-bought jewelled crown—Bear the circlet on your brow no more,Nor signet on your hand;For, shivering, stands before your doorOur Fatherland!
Woe to ye rich; in gloomHath toll'd your hour of doom—There, reck'ning up your gold, ye sit in stateIn palace grand,While Lazarus is dying at your gate,Our Fatherland!
Woe to ye rich; in gloomHath toll'd your hour of doom—There, reck'ning up your gold, ye sit in stateIn palace grand,While Lazarus is dying at your gate,Our Fatherland!
Woe to ye rich; in gloomHath toll'd your hour of doom—There, reck'ning up your gold, ye sit in stateIn palace grand,While Lazarus is dying at your gate,Our Fatherland!
Woe to ye rich; in gloomHath toll'd your hour of doom—There, reck'ning up your gold, ye sit in stateIn palace grand,While Lazarus is dying at your gate,Our Fatherland!
And woe to you, ye poor—Want and scorn ye must endure;Yet before ye many noble jewels shineIn the sand.Ah! they are patriots' tears—even mine—For Fatherland!
And woe to you, ye poor—Want and scorn ye must endure;Yet before ye many noble jewels shineIn the sand.Ah! they are patriots' tears—even mine—For Fatherland!
And woe to you, ye poor—Want and scorn ye must endure;Yet before ye many noble jewels shineIn the sand.Ah! they are patriots' tears—even mine—For Fatherland!
And woe to you, ye poor—Want and scorn ye must endure;Yet before ye many noble jewels shineIn the sand.Ah! they are patriots' tears—even mine—For Fatherland!
But the Poet's missionIs but prophetic vision;To him the daring heart is granted—Not the hand.He may cease—the death-song has been chantedFor Fatherland!
But the Poet's missionIs but prophetic vision;To him the daring heart is granted—Not the hand.He may cease—the death-song has been chantedFor Fatherland!
But the Poet's missionIs but prophetic vision;To him the daring heart is granted—Not the hand.He may cease—the death-song has been chantedFor Fatherland!
But the Poet's missionIs but prophetic vision;To him the daring heart is granted—Not the hand.He may cease—the death-song has been chantedFor Fatherland!