Thou youthful grass, why look'st so green?
Soon dyed in blood of mine I ween,
With damask rose thou'lt vie.
The goblet here! with sword in hand
I pledge thee first, my Fatherland,
Oh! blessed for thee to die!

Again our mailed hands raise the cup:
Freedom, to thee we drink it up.
Low may that coward lie
Who fails to pledge, with heart and hand,
The freedom of our glorious Land—
Her Freedom, ere we die!

Our wives—but, ah! the glass is clear,
The cannon thunders—grasp the spear,
We'll pledge them in a sigh.
Now, on the Foe like thunder crash!
We'll scathe them as a lightning flash,
And conquer, though we die!