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MODERN BOHEMIAN POETRY
Let with a heavenly music sound, o'er half the world its mastery wield,
Queen of them all is in our eyes, and unto none the palm shall yield,
It is our will that it may to a glorious princess be turned—
Be thou the apple of our eye, be thou to us more dear than all—
And never thro' our failing care, upon it shall a shadow fall—
There has no compact e'er been made, that can impose a price to pay
Rather would we all surrender, than a jot should go astray
Nay, ne'er shall be with our consent surrendered to an overlord,
A foreign tongue.
Our native tongue.
And tho' it were a beggar-girl, and nothing but a maiden spurned—
Our native tongue.
Our native tongue.
Be thou the apple of our eye, be thou to us more dear than all—
Our native tongue.
Our native tongue.
There has no compact e'er been made, that can impose a price to pay
On our native tongue.
From our native tongue.
Nay, ne'er shall be with our consent surrendered to an overlord,
Our native tongue.
