Yonder two jackdaws wake,
Crouched in the lowland:
Must I by Danube's brake
Bleed, or in Poland?
What matters where? —
Ere they my soul shall take,
I'll fight, a cavalier.

Yonder two ravens curst
Scream o'er the clover:
Am I to be the first
Whom they shall cover?
What's that to me? —
Forth, in their thousands, burst
Austria's cavalry.

Yonder two crows on high
Flit in the sunset:
When shall the Reaper ply
Scythe at the onset?
Welcome his blade, —
If but our banners fly
Over Belgrade!