A People
The frost that chills is of the dawn.
Your pilots slumber, O my people,
And each one of your chieftains, too,
Dwelleth apart and doeth naught.
Your pilots slumber, O my people,
And each one of your chieftains, too,
Dwelleth apart and doeth naught.
II.
Sweden.
Oh Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, native land,
The home and haven of our longing!
The cow-bells ring where armies used to stand,
Whose deeds are story, but with hand in hand
To swear the ancient troth again thy sons are thronging.
Sweden.
Oh Sweden, Sweden, Sweden, native land,
The home and haven of our longing!
The cow-bells ring where armies used to stand,
Whose deeds are story, but with hand in hand
To swear the ancient troth again thy sons are thronging.
Fall, winter snow! And sigh, thou wood's deep breast!
Burn, all ye stars, from summer heavens peeping!
Sweden, mother, be our strife, our rest,
Thou land wherein our sons shall build their nest,
Beneath whose church-yard stones our noble sires are sleeping.
Burn, all ye stars, from summer heavens peeping!
Sweden, mother, be our strife, our rest,
Thou land wherein our sons shall build their nest,
Beneath whose church-yard stones our noble sires are sleeping.
III.
Fellow-Citizens.
As sure as we have a fatherland
We are heirs to it one with another,
By common right in an equal band,
The rich and his needy brother.
Fellow-Citizens.
As sure as we have a fatherland
We are heirs to it one with another,
By common right in an equal band,
The rich and his needy brother.
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