Page:Bohemian poems, ancient and modern (Lyra czecho-slovanska).djvu/39



TELL me, Sun, thou gentle Sun, Why thou dost mourning go? And wherefore thou dost shine on us,
 * A people full of woe?

Where, where’s our prince, our army? He
 * To Otto’s court is gone;—

Who from the foe our land shall free
 * Thus orphan and alone?

In columns long the Germans march,
 * The Germans Saxons are,

Into our country from the hills,
 * That wave with woods afar.

‘Give, give, ye wretches, silver, gold,
 * And all that ye possess,

Or else ye shall in flames behold
 * Mansions and cottages’!’

B 2