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 !