16
Ye must give your gold and silver,
Give them all that ye possess;
But your huts, your cottage-dwellings
Their marauding hosts will burn:
Ah! they stole our gold and silver,
Burnt and ravaged all our dwellings,
Drove our hapless troops away,
And are marching now on Trosky.
Mourn not, mourn not, coward peasant!
Soon the grass will grow again,
Which the foeman's heel hath trodden,
Green upon Bohemia's plain.
From these plains bright flowers we'll gather.
Garlands for our heroes wreathe:
Look! the vernal seed is bursting,
Happy change will wait us soon.
Lo! our fate already changes—
Look! for Benesh Hermanów
Calls the people all to counsel:
They shall drive the Saxons off.
Now the stream of people rushes
Through the forest and the field,
