A People
Ye sing, but your joy is hollow.
Ye rather would dance in silk, forsooth,
Than solve your own riddle truly,
Ye might awake to the deeds of your youth
In the night when ye sorrow newly.
Ye rather would dance in silk, forsooth,
Than solve your own riddle truly,
Ye might awake to the deeds of your youth
In the night when ye sorrow newly.
Then on, shy daughter, in hardship bred,
Look up and let sloth forsake thee!
We love thee so that, if thou wert dead,
Our love could once more awake thee.
Though the bed be hard, though the midnight lowers,
We'll be true while the tempest rages,
Thou people, thou land, thou speech that is ours,
Thou voice of our souls to the ages!
Look up and let sloth forsake thee!
We love thee so that, if thou wert dead,
Our love could once more awake thee.
Though the bed be hard, though the midnight lowers,
We'll be true while the tempest rages,
Thou people, thou land, thou speech that is ours,
Thou voice of our souls to the ages!
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