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Gladly does the Serb become a soldier
which gathers laurel wreaths.
Combat is his dear amusement
which is greater when crushing the devil.
Because gunpowder
he does not fear.
Because gunpowder
he does not fear.
To battle, his mother
and bride follow him.
Father sits and wishes
that he defeats the devil.
Forward goes the Serb armed,
while the wreath flutters on his hat.
The Serb son sings and cheers,
the enemy trembles before him.
The gun fires and the cannons roar
and armed heroes cheer:
"Come, Serbs, come to arms,
come where the pride of the fatherland gathers."
The rancorous devil treads
upon the threshold of our home.
The rancorous devil treads
upon the threshold of our home.
On the field of battle,
where the heroes slaughter one another,
pick the flowers of glory
which will never wither.
While our right hand swings,
the enemy will use up his weapons.
When the holy king demands it,
the knightly Serb will come.
When the holy king demands it,
the knightly Serb will come.