Mother of Bosnia, A - Part 1
Three sons she has of Servian mold
As balsam for her widow's grief,
While in her Danka all behold
A treasure precious past belief.
Oh, lovely Danka! happy she,
More fortunate than all beside,
To be the pride of brothers three,
Themselves of Bosnia the pride!
In her they glory; she inspires
To freedom's never-ending fight,
And in their hearts burn patriot fires,
As stars upon the Turkish night.
And often at the mother's door
Tears mingle with the words that bless:
" O gods of battle! guard my four —
My falcons and my falconess. "
As balsam for her widow's grief,
While in her Danka all behold
A treasure precious past belief.
Oh, lovely Danka! happy she,
More fortunate than all beside,
To be the pride of brothers three,
Themselves of Bosnia the pride!
In her they glory; she inspires
To freedom's never-ending fight,
And in their hearts burn patriot fires,
As stars upon the Turkish night.
And often at the mother's door
Tears mingle with the words that bless:
" O gods of battle! guard my four —
My falcons and my falconess. "
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