GLAD to thee I sing, my country,
In my veins thy blood doth bound,
Ever mine thy sorrows deeming,
Of thy fleeted glories dreaming,
Which like spirits hover round.
Oft methinketh, will thy glory,
O my country! bloom again?
Or to death condemn’d for ever,
Is it doom’d to blossom never,
Like the grass the scythe has ta’en?
O I hope for times of splendour,
Times when all a change shall have;
Hark! I hear the loud bells ringing,
Ev’rywhere the glad news flinging,
Slawa’s glories leave the grave!
After me to thee another,
O my country! songs shall sing;
Then shall from the soil of sadness
Roses grow, whence scents of gladness
Forth for the whole world shall spring.