A strong and fiery wind I ride,
Against my treaturous foolish pride. 

A thousand years have soon gone by,
The steeds our fathers rode did die. 

Left all alone, robbed of my cloth,
I ride the night dressed as a moth. 

Now envy has taken its place,
In stead of the fiends’ dark embrace. 

Grey horses riden by proud men,
No longer to be seen again. 

We rode the fields a thousand years,
What, did we leave aside our fears?

Mourn all heroes, from lands afar,
Last, but not least, the brave hussar !


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